The Throne

by Beth Goobie

  “Document it!” exclaimed Dean. “As in, right on your jeans, beside each stain. The black stain happened at 8:35, right?”

  Eagerly she dug through her pencil case, pulled out a marker-pen, and held it up. “Beside each gum-wad stain, we write the time and date,” she explained rapidly. “So the buggers know we’re tracking them, and not giving in just because you’ve stopped wearing a rain hat. You keep wearing the same jeans every day, so the stains only happen to one pair, and the list of dates gets longer and longer—if they don’t give up when they see you’re not giving up, that is.”

  Face alight, she waited as Meredith worked it through. “Okay?” she asked encouragingly.

  “Yeah,” said Meredith, nodding slowly. “Yeah—it could work. If I wear the same jeans every day, the stains won’t matter so much.”

  “Great!” said Dean, uncapping her pen. “Bend over, sweetheart.”

  “God—I hope no one walks in right about now,” muttered Meredith, trying not to cringe as Dean’s pen tip dug industriously into the seat of her jeans. “And write neatly, Deanie. I don’t want anyone mixing up what you’re writing with a bull’s eye and an arrow.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Dean said musingly, then placed a firm hand on Meredith’s shoulder and pushed her back into position. “Just kidding. Come on!”

  “Smarty Pants, the eighth dwarf,” muttered Meredith.

  “There,” said Dean in a satisfied tone. “8:35 am, September 17, and 12:40 pm, September 17. Right?”

  “Right,” said Meredith, straightening, then turning to observe her newly documented butt in the mirror. There, in backwards capital letters, she saw the two dates clearly parading across her posterior. “I feel like Watergate,” she said, feeling slightly awed. “Or WikiLeaks. A crime in progress. Something profound.”

  “The profoundest butt in the universe,” affirmed Dean.

  “Thanks, Smarty,” said Meredith.

  “You’re welcome, WikiButt,” grinned Dean.

  The willow tree swayed languorously, its long tendrils a late September amber. Stretched out beneath it and drinking in the rich scents of autumn, the Feet were putting in their obligatory five minutes of silence before beginning to speak. Funny, Meredith thought idly, how different I feel during this time from any other. Body splayed, her mind easing out of its usual busy pace, she could feel her breathing slow and deepen until it seemed almost to be rising out of the ground beneath her back. To either side, she sensed Reb and Dean going through the same process. It’s a gift, she thought suddenly. This time—it’s a gift they give me, and I give them.

  “Is five minutes up?” asked Reb, her voice plaintive.

  “Close enough,” said Dean.

  “Okay,” sighed Reb. “There’s something I want to tell you guys about. Except I don’t really know how to talk about it.”

  “What’s it about?” asked Meredith.

  Reb hesitated. “Barry,” she said finally. “At least, I think it’s about him.”

  “Mr. X’s and O’s?” Meredith said teasingly. “Your new fave game, which you play only with Barry before class—”

  “Not anymore,” said Reb, cutting her off.

  “How come?” asked Dean. “I thought you really liked him. He didn’t ...?” Her voice faltered and she fell silent, leaving her sentence incomplete.

  “Insult my boobs?” Reb finished for her. “No, he didn’t do anything like that—not even once. He’s actually quite a decent guy, at least that way.”

  “What was it, then?” asked Meredith. Turning her head, she angled it to bring Reb’s profile into view. Gaze fixed on the willow’s golden canopy, Reb’s expression was troubled.

  “You,” she said softly, unaware of Meredith’s scrutiny.

  “Me?” asked Meredith, startled.

  “Yeah,” said Reb. “It’s happened a couple of times, actually. He just up and said things about you, out of the blue.”

  Something heated shifted in Meredith’s throat. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Things that weren’t true,” said Reb. “Not even remotely. Believe me, I told him he was wrong the first time he said anything. I thought that’d be the end of it—I mean, he knows I’ve known you for years. But then, there he was the next day—saying something different.”

  “Like ... what?” Meredith asked again. “Specifics, Rebbie.”

  “Well ...” Reb’s reluctance was obvious. “He said you weren’t a good friend for me. You’re arrogant and shallow. You use people and don’t care about your friends. You’re a social climber.”

  Warmth flared in Meredith’s cheeks. “Where’m I climbing to?” she asked gruffly.

  “That is bull!” exploded Dean to her left. “You told him that, didn’t you, Reb?”

  “You bet I did!” asserted Reb. “I know Meredith Polk. Next to my parents, Mere—you love me more than anyone.”

  “Hey!” interjected Dean.

  “You too, Deanie,” added Reb. “Of course. I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” said Dean, mollified, and the three lay a moment, contemplating Reb’s revelation.

  “Maybe he’s right,” Meredith said finally, her voice tentative.

  “What’re you talking about?” exclaimed Dean, pushing herself up onto an elbow and staring at her. “Of course he’s not right!”

  “Well, not everything that he said,” said Meredith. “I’m not shallow—at least, I don’t think I am. And I don’t think I use my friends.”

  “Not these two friends,” affirmed Reb.

  “But ...” said Meredith, hesitating. “When I think about how I’ve been this year ... First, I went after the throne in home form. That was kind of arrogant.”

  “How was it arrogant?” demanded Dean. Still braced on one elbow, she sent her dark gaze boring into Meredith.

  “I just wanted it,” said Meredith, “so I went after it. I didn’t think about anyone else—that I might be taking it from someone else who wanted it, too. Well, actually, I did think about someone else wanting it—I made damn sure I was there really early the first day so I could snag it first.

  “And ...” Again she hesitated. “Well, once I got the throne, I basically dumped the kids I hung around with in home form last year—Kirstin and Sina. Not that I don’t say hi to them in the halls, but I hardly ever talk to them in home form anymore. I never even think about them, really—except when I look down on the backs of their heads in the front row. That’s kind of arrogant, isn’t it?”

  Dean and Reb were silent, mulling over her words. Then, with a dramatic sigh, Dean slumped back onto the ground. “I don’t think it’s arrogant,” she said determinedly. “Maybe it’s not thinking about things enough ... kind of careless. But arrogant is believing that you’re better than other people—a superior race. Like, Asians rule—that kind of thing.”

  “We know you, Mere,” added Reb. “If you were arrogant, we’d know. And if we knew, we’d be honest enough to tell you. That’s what friends are for—right?”

  Meredith blinked back unexpected tears. “Okay,” she hedged. “But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten about—my genes.”

  “Jeans?” asked Dean, confused. “Your WikiButt ones?”

  “No—my Polk genes,” said Meredith. “It’s in my blood. Remember Ancestor Great Hand? And then there were my Polk grandparents, who were out-and-out snobs—BMW addicts. And ...”

  Briefly, she hesitated. Though it had taken place four days previous, she hadn’t told her friends about her aunt’s recent disclosure, or the framed wedding picture still lying face down on her night table. “Well, there’s my dad,” she said slowly, and told them the entire story. “He grew up rich, spoiled, and arrogant,” she finished off. “He paid for it in the end, but y’see what I mean—that’s the way the Polks are. And I’m a Polk. I’ve got their genes. So, chances are I got the arrogance gene. And maybe ...” Pausing, Meredith breathed deeply. “Well, maybe that’s why I went after the throne.”

&nbs
p; Silence followed her last statement, Dean’s and Reb’s brains in overdrive, working their way through this latest data. Then another emphatic sigh sounded to her left, and Dean let loose.

  “First off,” she announced, “if I was in your home form, I would’ve done the same thing, and I’m not a Polk. If I’m not a Polk, I can’t have the Polk-arrogance gene. Maybe I have a Matsumoto-arrogance gene, and Rebbie has a Looby one—”

  “I have the Looby-booby gene,” broke in Reb.

  “Right,” said Dean. “Obviously, I missed out on that one. Anyway, I don’t think this has anything at all to do with genes. I think it has to do with wanting something. You wanted to have fun, Mere. Is that arrogant? Is it arrogant to want to have fun?”

  “No,” Meredith said uncertainly.

  “Of course not!” asserted Reb. “Fun is good, not bad. Unless, of course, you want someone else’s fun, or someone else wants yours.”

  “And Seymour can’t have your fun, Mere—no matter how much he wants it!” snapped Dean. “He lost the throne and he’s just going to have to sit in a corner, sucking his thumb, until he gets over it.”

  “End of story,” Reb said softly, “if we were the only ones telling it. I wish we were. The thing that bugs me the most about this whole thing is why Barry kept on making comments about you, Mere. Even after I basically told him to shut up.”

  “Seymour?” demanded Dean.

  “I think so,” sighed Reb. “When Mere pointed out how Barry was chewing gum that first time he talked to me in class—well, I didn’t want to think there was a connection. But now I think there probably is. Lord of the Underworld and all that.”

  “Lord of Bull Shit,” sniffed Dean. “I bet he doesn’t think it’s arrogant when he wants something.”

  For a moment, the three lay silently, watching the drift and sway of willow leaves. Then, gently, a hand touched Meredith’s right arm.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you, Mere,” said Reb, her voice concerned. “But I thought I should tell you. What’re you thinking?”

  Meredith lay, her eyes following a breeze through the tree above her. Confusion burned in her, and sadness—as brilliantly as September leaves against a perfectly blue sky.

  “I’m thinking it’s so beautiful,” she said finally. “This tree, Grade 10, the whole world. Why does it all have to get so fucked up?”

  chapter 14

  The next morning, Meredith arrived at her locker by 8:20, intending to hit the library before classes and get in some research on a history assignment. This early in the day, the halls were relatively empty and, as she closed her locker and headed along the corridor, few students could be seen. Around the corner and a ways down the next hall, even the music classroom stood silent. No Concert Band practices Wednesday mornings, Meredith recalled as she approached. What does Woolger do with all that peace and quiet?

  Quickening her pace, she strode toward the classroom, noting that the door, now several meters ahead, stood ajar. Casually, thinking nothing of it, she glanced in as she passed, then came to an abrupt halt. Quietly, she stepped backward and pressed herself to the wall. Hyper-alert, she waited, but hearing no sound from the room, slid forward and peered around the doorframe. Inside the classroom, nothing had changed since her previous glance, the room’s sole occupant giving no sign of having noticed her presence. Seated behind the drums on the third riser, Seymour Molyneux was regarding the rows of empty chairs before him, his eyes hooded and body motionless, except for the steady chewing of his jaw.

  Heart thudding, Meredith considered her options; then, with a deep breath, she walked into the room. Three steps in was all she took, and those three felt monumental—far more so than her original action two weeks earlier when she had first taken a seat behind the drums. As soon as she entered the room, Seymour fixed on her—his gaze intent, but not particularly surprised. Without speaking, they sized each other up, Seymour continuing his placid chewing while Meredith’s heart went into overdrive, body-slamming her with repeated thuds.

  “You’re here early,” she said finally, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  One eyebrow raised, Seymour observed her without speaking.

  “Just visiting?” she asked, to break the silence. “Or are you planning some kind of coup?”

  At once she realized that she had put herself at a disadvantage by speaking again without first having received a reply, but to her relief, this time Seymour answered.

  “It’s your throne,” he said, his voice languorous, unruffled.

  “It’s not a throne!” snapped Meredith.

  “It is,” he said calmly. “And you’re a queen.”

  “I am not a queen!” burst out Meredith.

  In response, Seymour sat simply eyeing her.

  “Why is this such a big deal to you?” demanded Meredith, taking a step forward. “I mean—sticking gum on my bum, getting your friends involved. It’s just a place to sit, you know.”

  A silent shrug was Seymour’s only comeback. Stunned, Meredith gaped at him. That’s it? she thought, anger rearing through her. You sic half the school on me, and cover me with gum wads and who knows what kinds of germs—and all you have to say about it is a shrug?

  “How long d’you plan to keep this up?” she demanded, crossing her arms to contain their shaking. “The entire fucking year?”

  Her obvious anger had some effect. Unhurriedly, almost philosophically, Seymour straightened in his seat, as if pulling himself together for an important communication. “Meredith,” he said quietly, gazing somewhere past her left ear. “Meredith Polk.”

  For the briefest of seconds, Meredith got the sense this wasn’t the first time Seymour had mused the syllables of her name aloud; as much time as she had spent pondering his behavior, he had probably invested twice as much into trying to predict hers. Any pride she might have taken from this realization was, however, fleeting—her entire awareness having focused in on what the Mol was about to say next.

  “I have a suggestion to make,” he said, watching his fingers slowly steeple themselves. “You and I will switch places. It’ll only be for one year, and next year—after I’ve graduated—you can go back to sitting here behind the drums. That way you can keep your thumb in the pie, and you’ll still be sitting close to Gene, for whom you’re developing such an obvious attraction.”

  Instant heat flooded Meredith and Seymour smiled, acknowledging his direct hit. Well! thought Meredith, furious at having betrayed herself so easily. Maybe she couldn’t help flushing, but she wasn’t going to give him more than that. “What pie?” she asked, throwing all the contempt she could muster into her tone.

  Again Seymour shrugged. “The power pie,” he said simply. “Those who want to rule get their thumbs in.”

  “I don’t want to rule!” exclaimed Meredith.

  “You went straight for the power seat,” commented Seymour.

  “So what?” expostulated Meredith. “No one was in the room except me; I got here first; the seat was empty. Why shouldn’t I sit behind the drums if I want to?”

  Seymour gave another tiny smile and Meredith felt it—the way her blustering self-defense, her need to explain, had caused some invisible balance in the room to shift toward him. “Power is all appetite,” he informed her coolly. “It sees, it wants, it takes. It’s a universal law, and it works the same for you as the rest of us. And here’s another universal law, Meredith Polk—the most basic law of chemistry, physics, and human dynamics: the law of action and reaction. Any time you act, someone else reacts. Only so many thumbs can fit into the same pie.”

  “And this particular pie takes only one thumb?” Meredith shot back.

  Seymour raised an eyebrow, but didn’t deign to speak. Eyes narrowed, Meredith raked her gaze over him. The longer the two of them spoke, the more she felt her awe of the Mol diminish, and the less off-balance she felt. “What about the rest?” she asked, glancing at the front row where she had sat last year. “The ones who don’t get their thumbs in?” />
  “They go hungry,” said Seymour. “But they don’t concern us. What concerns us, Meredith, is your hunger and my hunger. As far as that goes,” he added, patting the back of the chair where he usually sat, “sitting in this seat here, you won’t go hungry. You’ll get your share of the pie—less than what you’re getting now, granted, but enough. Because when you sit here, it’ll be a sign to everyone that the situation has changed and you’re now with me. They’ll know we’ve talked, we’ve come to an agreement, and I’ve taken you on as one of my friends. I have a lot of friends, Meredith. Any one of my friends is friends with all my other friends. I think, in the end, you’ll find it pleasanter to be one of my friends’ friends ...” He hesitated, then said simply, “Than not.”

  Dumbfounded, Meredith gaped at him. “You’re psychotic!” she exploded. “Deranged! You talk like you think you run the entire school.”

  “Not the entire school,” Seymour said impassively. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Oh!” snapped Meredith. “And what is?”

  For a moment, Seymour remained silent. Then he said, “You’ll find out. Either way. Think about it. Do you really want to spend the rest of the year covering your ass? You’ll have other chances, you know. It’s really just a matter of timing—success usually is. All you have to do is lower your sights for nine more months—the rest of your Grade 10 year—and then the power will be yours. All yours, Meredith Polk—for whatever you want to do with it.”

  Leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world, Seymour got to his feet, stepped down off the third riser, and sauntered toward Meredith. Instinctively, her heart racing, she stepped backward, but the only sign Seymour gave of noticing was several rapid-fire clicks with his mouth. Then he was passing her and ambling through the open doorway, leaving her alone in the empty room.

  She sat, eyes staring but seeing nothing, in one of the library’s back study carrels until five to nine, then got to her feet and headed for the exit. Coming through the doors, she hit it—the swollen mass of students streaming both ways along the hall. How many of them does Seymour control? she wondered as she watched the throng pass. What percentage of the Polkton Collegiate student body was friends with Seymour Molyneux ... or more importantly, wanted to be—five? Ten? Twenty-five? Even two percent could make her life miserable—was making it miserable, she corrected herself.