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I was the first Guinevere to arrive at the convent, the only Guinevere that summer when my mother left me there. Almost thirteen then, I shared my name with Saint Guinevere, who, at my very age, was martyred for her faith. Beheaded by a vengeful suitor after resisting his advances, she miraculously rose from the dead. She lived on as a nun for many years after, her head apparently functioning just fine. I could understand how she must have suffered—to have her head severed from her body, but then be forced to go on living. That's how I felt when my mother left me. But I wasn't as wise as Saint Guinevere, and I wasn't a saint. They called me Vere. I was a sensitive young girl, a girl who still had faith. I prayed often, as I'd been taught to do. I prayed for someone to come rescue me.
And eight months later, during Morning Roll, my prayers were answered. Sister Fran stood at the head of the Bunk Room, yelling out names like insults, and when she hollered "Guinevere," her voice rising as she spoke that last syllable, another voice joined mine in response. "Here," we both said in harmonious unison, like the opening chord of a song. Our eyes locked. There stood Ginny, arms akimbo, her skirt twisted on her skinny waist, pleats askew.
Ginny resembled a bird only in that she was a delicate creature, as prone to unpredictability as the spring that ushered her in. "Blessed are those servants whom the master finds tidy," Sister Fran would say, motioning for Ginny to tuck in her shirt or tame the wild red hair that framed her face like a lion's mane. After learning about stigmata wounds during Morning Instruction, she'd sit mesmerized by her palms, tracing her thin fingers along invisible sores. Ginny liked to think of herself as an artist—not so much a person who created art as a person who was misunderstood. When she felt things, she felt them deeply.
Winnie—we called her Win—arrived another eight months later, near Christmastime, when the hallways were strung with pine rope and holly. When Sister Fran called out roll and hollered "Guinevere," sternly this time, as though we were in trouble, three clear voices answered back. "Here," we said, a triumvirate chorus. We scanned the room and located the owner of the smoky alto that had joined us. We found olive-skinned Win, her arms folded in front of her, her skirt low on her hips, her bold, broad smile revealing a slight gap between her front teeth. At breakfast, we motioned her toward our table, and she skeptically slurped her Cream of Wheat as we explained the extraordinary coincidence of our trinity.
To pass the hours during Rec Time that winter, Win practiced braiding our hair, which we grew down past our shoulders. We were allowed to wash our hair only once a week, so braiding helped it appear less greasy. Despite her dexterity, Win had knotty knuckles, big hands that when balled into fists made an impression on the other girls who, if they were afraid of us, were afraid of her the most. Sometimes the younger girls pressed their backs against the wall as we passed them in the hallway, so The Guineveres could walk side by side.
Gwen was the last of us to arrive, late one fall, after the Sisters brought out our sweaters that smelled of must and mothballs. The night before, we had witnessed the new girl changing into her nightgown without even pretending to turn her back to the Bunk Room. Her eyes were glassy, a startling blue, and as she undressed, neatly folding her uniform, we noticed a heart-shaped birthmark right above the bone of her hip. In the morning, she leaned despondently against her bunk, her long blond hair appearing smooth, even after a night of sleep. Sister Fran rattled off the roll, pausing as she neared our name, her beady eyes scrutinizing her clipboard. "Guinevere," she finally said. We rose to our tiptoes as though lifted by the spirit. "Here," we sang in our most gleeful voices, and when we recognized Gwen had joined our song, we tried to contain our excitement but could not. "Here," we answered as dozens of other girls swiveled in their skirts, looking on in disbelief. "Here! Here!"
Excerpted from The Guineveres by Sarah Domet. Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Domet. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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