The Throne

by Beth Goobie

  chapter 19

  That evening, Meredith’s aunt drove her to police headquarters, where she gave a second interview in which she described everything that had happened with Seymour to date.

  The officer taking her report nodded when Meredith told her about Ronnie’s one-hundred-dollar comment. “I’m familiar with Ms. Olesin’s statement,” she said. “As you may know, she has admitted to the assault. She has also made frequent references to a male student, who was supposed to be paying her one hundred dollars for the attack on you. She couldn’t name him though. Blond hair, tall, Grade 11 or 12—that’s all she can say about him.”

  “What if she had a school yearbook?” asked Meredith. “Maybe she could identify him from that.”

  “I’ll drop off your copy sometime in the next couple of days,” interjected Aunt Sancy. Then she drove Meredith home and informed her that she would be spending the rest of the week resting in the apartment. “I’m not open to discussion on this,” she said flatly. “The last thing you need right now is to be sitting behind that Boggs criminal in home form while the police are investigating him. Friday, I’ll drive you to Dr. Boisot’s for another checkup. If he says you’ve recovered enough, I’ll consider Monday. Maybe. If you don’t pester me about it.”

  And so, cell phone glued to one ear, Meredith endured another four days of enforced rest. From the frequent calls that she received from Dean and Reb, she learned that neither Ronnie nor Lana had been spotted on school property since the previous Friday; rumor had it they were currently residing at the youth detention center. Seymour, on the other hand, was everywhere to be seen, quietly surfing Polkton Collegiate’s undercurrents as he always had. Or perhaps not. Friday lunch hour, Meredith answered her cell to discover Reb on the other end, handing off to someone who turned out to be Gene.

  “Meredith!” he said so enthusiastically her phone gave off static. “How are you?”

  “Okay,” she replied, embarrassed to find herself flushing in the middle of an empty apartment. “I saw my doctor this morning, and he said I can come back on Monday.”

  “Great!” said Gene. “There’s something you should probably know first, though. Seymour was on pins and needles this morning. Definitely on edge. We’re still not talking so I don’t know what’s bugging him, but there’s something going on.”

  Meredith’s heart started up a slow, solid kick. “I did another interview with the cops Wednesday night,” she said hesitantly. “About the drums, the gum wads, and Seymour. Aunt Sancy took me in to talk to them again because I remembered something Wednesday afternoon.” Then she told him about Ronnie’s one-hundred-dollar comment.

  Gene whistled. “That explains it,” he said. “They’ve obviously contacted him. Now there’s a situation where I’d like to be a fly on the wall.”

  “All I told the cops was what happened,” said Meredith, feeling suddenly defensive. “I didn’t say Seymour offered to pay Ronnie. I just told them what she said.”

  “Of course,” Gene said immediately. “Like I said, you’re not a natural liar.”

  Relieved, Meredith let out a whoosh of air.

  “Mind you,” added Gene, “Seymour is. And he has a lot to lie about here. So you’re going to have to get yourself ready for that.”

  “I guess,” said Meredith, swallowing.

  “I’ll back you, though,” Gene assured her. “I saw one of the gum wads on your butt and the rain hats—including the one Seymour had in his car. And I’ve been here every day, watching him like a hawk. So if you need me, I can testify about every breath he’s taken in home form this year.”

  Meredith rode out a wave of emotion. “Thanks!” she said, blinking back tears. Off in the distance, she could feel a headache prowling.

  “Okay,” said Gene. “I’ve got band practice—what else is new? See you Monday, eh?”

  The weekend plodded by. When Aunt Sancy tried to engage Meredith in discussion about her return to school and her pending home form encounter with Seymour, Meredith gave noncommittal replies. She didn’t have a clue what she was going to do when she first saw the Mol—speak to him or spit at him. Truth be told, she was going into paroxysms at the mere thought of it. But what would be the point of talking about it? No one could predict Seymour’s behavior, and anyway—like Gene had said—he was on pins and needles. Sure, relatively speaking, she was on ice picks, but at least she wasn’t the only one suffering.

  Monday morning, she resolutely pulled on her WikiButt jeans. Before falling asleep the previous night, she had prepared several rationales for her aunt in case the first one wasn’t enough: Number One: It’ll give me confidence. Number Two: It’s my symbol for not giving up. And the clincher, Number Three: It’s what a Goonhilly would do. In fact, as Aunt Sancy herself had admitted, it was more likely what a Polk would do. But, upon spotting the jeans, her aunt didn’t raise a fuss—merely raised her eyebrows, then went into a long, slow smile.

  “Never a dull moment,” she murmured, and left it at that until they had climbed onto the Harley twenty minutes later. Then she swung into high gear. “Now you remember, Meredith,” she said as they started off down the alley, “I talked to Mr. Sabom last Friday, and he said he was on top of the whole thing. If you experience any trouble—any at all—you’re to go straight to him. I don’t like the fact that you’ll be sitting anywhere near that Seymour character in home form, but you should be safe enough with an entire class around you.” Face taut with uncertainty, she maneuvered through morning traffic, then pulled up to the curb outside the north tech-wing entrance. “Off with you, now,” she added brusquely. “Skedaddle. And call me at lunch to let me know how things are.”

  “Twelve-fifteen on the nose,” affirmed Meredith.

  “Fine. I’m off to deliver this yearbook to the police now. Outta my sight,” said her aunt, and Meredith was released from her concern. Within seconds of climbing off the Harley, she was swarmed by curious students who crowded in, gaping at the bandage and her shaved temple. What with the barrage of questions directed at her, Meredith didn’t even think to glance in the direction of the practice field, where she had been assaulted. By the time she reached her locker ten minutes later, she had learned that it was common knowledge Ronnie and Lana were now residing at the youth detention center, but no one seemed remotely aware of Seymour’s possible role in the affair. Ditching her knapsack and windbreaker, she collected the necessary books and headed toward home form. Greetings continued to swamp her as she progressed along the hall, and then, finally, she was turning the corner into the corridor that led to the music classroom, her attention homing in on the looming doorway of Home Form 75.

  Deep in her gut, a thud started up. Here we go, she thought, swallowing. Poky-Polk-Goonhilly meets Godzilla. With a long, slow breath, she stepped into Home Form 75. At once Seymour’s gaze was on her—narrowed, intent, his mouth tightening. But instead of locking into his stare, Meredith found her gaze shifting to Gene, who was straightening in his seat, a welcoming grin on his face. An answering grin lit Meredith’s, and she started toward the third riser and the uninhabited drums.

  “Meredith,” called a voice to her left. Turning, she saw Mr. Woolger beckoning her toward his desk. “How are you?” he asked, his eyes riveted to her bandaged forehead.

  “Fine, sir,” Meredith assured him. “It looks worse than it is.”

  Mr. Woolger nodded. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “I have a message for you—from Mr. Sabom. He wants to see you in his office.”

  “Oh,” said Meredith, startled. “I’ll go see him after home form.”

  “No,” said Mr. Woolger. “He said expressly that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived. In fact, my understanding is that he’s in his office right now, waiting for you.”

  “Oh,” repeated Meredith. “Okay. Thanks.” Doing an about-face, she headed out the door and along the corridor that led toward the front office. At one minute to nine, the halls were mostly empty—only the odd student scurrying to beat t
he last bell. And so, undeterred by further questions, she reached the front office just as the final bell went off; accompanied by its shrill wail, she pulled open the door and walked toward the receptionist’s desk.

  Multiple pairs of secretarial eyes zeroed in on her bandage, and she was swiftly escorted into Mr. Sabom’s office. “Meredith,” he said, standing up behind his desk and reaching out to shake her hand. “I was relieved to hear from your aunt that you’re going to be okay. How are you feeling today?”

  “Fine, sir,” said Meredith, retrieving her hand from his firm grip. Then, unsure how to conduct herself in an actual face-to-face encounter with the Phoenix, she glanced awkwardly around the small room.

  “Please, sit down,” said Mr. Sabom, pointing to one of several chairs, and Meredith slid gratefully into the nearest one. “Thank you for coming in straightaway, like I asked. You’re probably wondering why I wanted to see you.” Sitting down behind his desk, Mr. Sabom steepled his hands. “It has to do with something you told the police ... in your second statement to them, I believe it was.”

  Deep in Meredith’s gut, a thud started up again. Unease—she was definitely crawling with it. Not because of the topic of conversation; obviously, it was to be expected. But something undefined lurked in the Phoenix’s expression—guarded, almost predatory. Meredith didn’t know how to read it. “Yes, sir?” she said tentatively.

  “There seems to be some kind of problem in home form with a fellow student,” said Mr. Sabom. “Over seating arrangements, I believe?”

  “Not with me,” Meredith said hastily. “I don’t have a problem with the seating arrangements.”

  Mr. Sabom frowned slightly. “But that’s not what you told the police,” he said.

  Confused, Meredith frowned back. “I didn’t tell the cops I had a problem with seating arrangements,” she protested.

  “But, in fact, you did,” said Mr. Sabom. “In fact, you indicated that tension over the current seating arrangements in Home Form 75 may have led to Ronnie’s attack last Friday.”

  “Well, yes,” hedged Meredith. “Sort of. But not the way you’re saying it. There is tension, yes—but I don’t have a problem with the seating arrangements.”

  “But you were concerned enough over that tension,” said Mr. Sabom, leaning forward, “to mention it to the police. And, in the process, to make a serious allegation against one of our senior students, Seymour Molyneux.”

  The thud in Meredith’s gut deepened until she was vibrating to it. “Seymour has been trying to get me to trade seats with him since the start of the year,” she said in a heated rush. “He’s gotten other kids involved by getting them to stick gum wads onto my desk seats in my classes, or my butt when I’m walking through the halls. I know for sure that he did this because he admitted it to me himself last week. And after Ronnie hit me with the rock, she told me someone was paying her a hundred dollars to attack me. So that’s what I told the cops—nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t say Seymour put her up to it.”

  “But you implied it,” said Mr. Sabom.

  “The cops asked me if anyone other than Ronnie had anything against me,” protested Meredith. “Last Wednesday, Seymour said that unless I gave up my home form seat to him, I’d have to keep my ass covered for the rest of the year. Then, Friday, I got attacked. I thought I should tell the cops about it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell a teacher—say, Mr. Woolger—about what Seymour said to you?” countered Mr. Sabom.

  Flushing, Meredith sank back into her chair. Guilty—for some reason, the Phoenix’s tone had her swarming with soldier ants of guilt. “Because it was just words,” she blurted finally. “I never saw him actually do anything.”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Mr. Sabom, an expression of satisfaction taking over his face. “Words. Conjecture. Speculation. What we have here is a complete lack of evidence of any wrongdoing on Seymour’s part.” Taking an emphatic breath, the principal leaned back in his chair. “Meredith,” he said, his voice ringing with confidence. “My guess is that you have entirely misunderstood some off-the-cuff remark Seymour made to you. Wherever you go in life, I can assure you there is going to be tension. It’s part of the human condition. The trick is to be able to put it into the proper perspective.

  “Now, I’m sure you didn’t make your allegation against Seymour out of malicious intent,” Mr. Sabom continued reassuringly. “With regards to his character, I can tell you that I have known the boy personally since he was in grade school. He’s a friend of my son’s. So I know without a doubt that under no circumstances would he be involved in something the likes of which you’ve been describing.”

  “But, sir—” protested Meredith.

  Shaking his head, Mr. Sabom cut her off. “We’ll leave it to the police to investigate,” he said. “I have no doubt Seymour will be entirely vindicated. In the meantime, however, I think it would be in everyone’s best interests to transfer you to Home Form 34. It’s just around the corner from the front office, in the east corridor—Room 103, a math classroom. The teacher, Ms. DuClot, knows you’re coming. I’ve had an extra desk brought in for you.”

  “But—” stammered Meredith, stunned.

  Again, Mr. Sabom shook his head. “You said there was tension, Meredith,” he said firmly. “And you seem to be under the impression this tension is threatening your physical safety. Under the circumstances, I should think you would be glad to transfer to a different home form.”

  “No!” cried Meredith, rising to her feet. “I like where I’m sitting in Home Form 75. I want to keep sitting there. This isn’t fair. I’m not the prob—”

  Mr. Sabom raised a warning hand. “It’s not up for discussion,” he snapped. “The decision has been made. Ms. DuClot is waiting for you.”

  Getting to his feet, he crossed to the door and opened it. Her head pounding, Meredith stood gaping at him; then, clutching her books, she shot past him and out into the office. But her encounter with Polkton Collegiate’s principal was not quite complete.

  “Meredith!” he called as she headed toward the exit. “Those jeans you’re wearing. They’re the ones you’ve been using to ... document the situation?”

  Turning to face him, Meredith said warily, “Yes, sir. It’s to document the gum wads—when each one was stuck on me. It’s just times and dates—no swear words, anything like that.”

  Mr. Sabom’s face took on a stern expression. For a second, Meredith half-expected the infamous lock of hair to ascend directly from the top of his head. “You will go home at lunch and change into something else,” he ordered. “Those dates are an invitation for more of the same. Wearing them is asking for trouble, and it’s my job to keep this school trouble-free.”

  Meredith didn’t bother to reply. Whirling toward the exit, she strode past the staring secretaries and out into the empty hall, where she stood leaning against a wall and breathing heavily. Somewhere in the vast, pounding space that was her brain, thoughts floated—images of herself storming into Home Form 75 and accusing Seymour in front of the entire class, Gene rising to his feet to support her, even Morey joining in on her behalf.

  Behind her, the office door opened. “Meredith,” said a voice, and Meredith turned to see one of the secretaries observing her. “D’you need help finding your new home form?” she asked.

  “No,” choked Meredith. Wordlessly, she headed down the corridor toward Home Form 34, the secretary’s gaze on her back until she turned into Room 103.

  The school library was the usual sonic conglomeration of shuffling papers, clicking computer keyboards, and the odd muffled cackle. Getting up from the work table where she had been conferring with several classmates, Meredith headed to the back of the room to check out the stacks for information on the Canadian Senate. Somewhere in the 900s, she mused, perusing the shelves, then paused as she heard a stifled burst of laughter. Curious, she edged to the end of the aisle and peered out at a row of study carrels that lined the library’s south wall. Most were empty, but cluster
ed around one in the far corner, she spotted a clutch of senior male students. Hunched over a laptop at their center sat Seymour Molyneux.

  Later, Meredith could not have said where her rage came from. That she was angry at the Mol went without saying, and the situation had been dramatically compounded earlier that day by the Phoenix’s actions. But upon seeing Seymour sitting there with a casual grin on his face, probably clicking his way through a video game, something came over her—immense, catastrophic. Suddenly, she was breathing electric air and shaking as if plugged into high voltage. Without thinking, she stepped into the rear aisle, raised a furious, apocalyptic arm, and accused, “You!”

  Harsh-edged and guttural, her voice carried just far enough to be heard by Seymour and his friends. Glancing up from the laptop, the group focused, en masse, on her bandaged forehead; even in her heightened state, Meredith noted how every one of their eyes widened in the same startled dismay. They know, the thought came to her. They all know what Seymour knows.

  “You did it!” she hissed, her hand still raised and pointing. “Everything that’s happened—it was all because of you.”

  Seymour blinked once. In the silence that followed, she saw the pulse beating in his throat. “Did what?” he asked, a slight quiver in his voice. Quickly, he cleared his throat.

  “You know what!” growled Meredith, not quite able to name it even now. “And you got me transferred to Home Form 34.”

  Seymour’s eyebrows lifted. Even through her rage, Meredith could see his surprise. “That’s why you didn’t come back this morning?” he asked.

  Meredith’s eyes narrowed and she continued to stare him down. Returning her gaze, Seymour waited a full ten seconds, then gave in and spoke again.

  “Who kicked you out?” he asked cautiously. “Woolger?”

  “Sabom,” she snapped, watching the way Seymour took this information into himself—like a slow wave, an appealing scent, a congratulatory handshake. His shoulders relaxed, he settled back into his chair, and a carefully relieved expression spread across his face. Finally, he smiled. Around him, his buddies took on more obvious delight—tapping exuberant fingertips across the top of the carrel and expelling triumphant grunts of air.