Rebel Angels

"Gemma, you didn't," Elizabeth says, wide-eyed.

"I wasn't the only one," I say, glaring at Felicity and Ann.

Felicity is undisturbed. "I'm sure you'll become friends in time. Oh, here she is now. Miss McCleethy! Miss McCleethy!"

"Good afternoon, ladies. I see we are ready." Miss McCleethy strides across the lawn like the Queen herself, giving us clipped instructions on the proper technique for holding the bow. The girls clamor for her attention, begging to be shown correct form. And when she gives a demonstration, her arrow finding the center of the target straightaway, everyone applauds as if she has shown the path to heaven itself.

Arrows are given out to the first group of girls.

"Miss McCleethy," Martha calls out, worried. "Are we to use real arrows, then?"

She holds the arrow's sharp metal tip away from her as if it were a loaded pistol.

"Yes, shouldn't we use rubber-tipped ones?" Elizabeth asks.

"Nonsense. You will be perfectly fine with these, so long as you don't aim at each other. Now, who is first?"

Elizabeth steps up to the line that has been chalked in the dead grass. Miss McCleethy coaxes her into position, guiding her elbow back. Elizabeth's arrow falls with a thud, but Miss McCleethy has her practice again and again, and on the fourth try, she manages to graze the bottom of the target.

"That's progress. Keep trying. Who is next?"

The girls jockey to be second. I confess that I also want Miss McCleethy to like me. I vow to do my very best, to win her over and erase last night's unfortunate encounter. As Miss McCleethy makes her way down the line, moving from girl to girl, I silently practice my approach.

This is very exciting, Miss McCleethy, for I've long wanted to be an archer. How clever you are, Miss McCleethy, to have thought of this. I do so like your suit, Miss McCleethy. It is the epitome of taste.

"Miss Doyle? Are you with us?" Miss McCleethy is standing beside me.

"Yes, thank you,' I say. Nervously, I take my bow and arrow in hand and take my stand at the line. The bow is much heavier than I anticipated. It pulls me forward into a hunch.

"Your form needs work, Miss Doyle. Stand tall. Don't slouch. There. Arm back. Come now, you can pull harder than that."

I strain to draw the string back till I'm forced to let it go with a grunt. The arrow does not sail so much as it whimpers in the air before lodging itself straight in the ground. "You must aim higher, Miss Doyle," she says."Retrieve!"

My arrow is covered in muddy snow. Arrows puncture the ground everywhere--except for Felicity's. Hers manage to strike some portion of the target most of the time.

"Got it," I say, stating the obvious with a smile that is not returned. Use your charm, Gemma. Ask her something. "Where do you come from, Miss McCleethy? You're not English," I say, attempting a conversation.

"I am a citizen of the world, I suppose. Bring it up like so."

I struggle to raise my arrow into position. It will not cooperate."I am from Bombay."

"Bombay is very hot. I could scarcely breathe while there."

"You've been to Bombay?"

"Yes, briefly, to visit friends. Here, keep your elbow close to your side."

"Perhaps we have friends in common," I say, hoping for a way into Miss McCleethy's good graces. "Do you know the Fairchilds--"

"Hush, Miss Doyle. Enough talk. Concentrate on your mark."

"Yes, Miss McCleethy," I say. I let go. The arrow skitters across the soggy grass.

"Ah, you had it, but then you hesitated. You must strike without hesitation. See the target, the objective, and nothing else."

"I do see the target," I say impatiently."I simply can't hit it."

"Are you going to walk away wounded and prideful or are you going to practice until you can accomplish your task?"

Cecily beams to see me upbraided. I raise the bow again. "I am not wounded," I mutter under my breath.

Miss McCleethy puts her hands over mine. "Very good. Now, concentrate, Miss Doyle. Listen to nothing but yourself, your own breathing. See the center until you cannot see it at all. Until you and the center are joined and there is no center." My breath comes out in cold puffs. I'm trying to think only of the target, but my mind will not be quiet. When was she in India? Whom did she visit? Did she love it as I do? And why doesn't she like me? I stare at the center of the target until it's blurry.

See the objective and nothing else.

Do not hesitate.