Honor Code

by Kiersi Burkhart

  I feel tears starting to work their way up my neck, into my face. Hayden had tried to warn me about this.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” I say, trying to sound calm even though I am a collapsing skyscraper. “Even though Hayden was the one who technically invited me.”

  Scully’s face clouds. “I hope you don’t see it that way,” he says. “When I saw your artwork, I thought to myself, I want to know this artist. I want to show her what Edwards Academy has to offer.”

  So I’m a charity case. A tax write-off.

  “That’s why I asked to be matched up with you,” he goes on. “I . . .”

  “It’s no biggie,” I interrupt, wanting to hurry this along. I don’t want to burst into tears in front of him—but if I don’t leave soon, I will. “I totally get it. It was fun getting to know you.”

  I smile, offer my hand for a shake, and relief spreads across Scully’s face. He goes in for the hug.

  He lets me go, and before we can even say goodbye, I dart inside the front door. I check in fast and am only halfway up the stairs when the tears start. I hide my face inside my elbow and pretend like I’m coughing the rest of the way to my room.

  Gracie’s not here. I climb onto my bed, pulling the blankets up over my head.

  You’re a shitty friend!

  I did everything possible to be a good friend. I got her a date. I pushed her to do activities. We wouldn’t have even the possibility of a social life without me.

  Everyone buys into it—especially you.

  So what? Is it so bad that I wanted to have friends, or a boyfriend? That I wanted to have a place here and feel like I belong?

  I fall asleep with my dress still on, my flawless makeup job seeping into the pillow.

  Chapter Seven

  It rains all night, pounding the roof and windows, waking me up every few hours. I have to drag myself out of bed for Saturday Session—and the polo game later.

  If I’m still even going after last night.

  As we tidy up for inspection that morning, Gracie doesn’t say anything. She takes off for breakfast while I’m still getting my bag together.

  She’s never left without me before.

  It’s cloudy outside, and the walk to Hamilton is muddy. There’s still a drizzle coming down, so I have to hold my backpack over my head to keep from getting soaked. Everyone walking into the cafeteria looks sleepy and washed out after last night.

  At breakfast, Gracie doesn’t even look up as I slide into our table with Bex, Eliza, and Lilian. She gossips and laughs with them like everything is normal as I eat my sausage and eggs across from her. Nothing she says requires a response from me.

  My insides feel scooped out. First Scully, now this.

  We’ve never had a serious fight before. I’m scared what it means. What about going to college together, being roommates, staying up late nights studying? Me going to Harvard, her going to art school, sharing an apartment somewhere in Boston? She was going to be my maid of honor.

  On the way to Saturday Session, all the charming little dirt paths that snake between buildings have become mud pits that everyone avoids—and avoiding them only makes them wider. The mass of ivy seems to have grown closer to the doors of the building where I have Saturday Session, squeezing the brick like a choking hand.

  Today it’s my turn to meet with my advisor to discuss college plans.

  “I want to do law,” I tell Mr. Figueroa.

  His gaze slides across my class schedule. “Keep taking classes from Mr. Jordan, then,” he says. “He’s got a law degree from Georgetown. He’ll have plenty of advice for you.”

  Sure. Thanks. Very helpful. Except I already leafed through the course catalog on the second day of school and picked out which Third and Fourth Year classes would look best on my transcript.

  I leave my ten-minute advising session with nothing.

  Then we’re herded into Cath for a mandatory “sports assembly”—I assume to prep us all for the water polo game tonight.

  I don’t even want to go anymore. I’ve had about enough of Scully, and Edwards itself, to last me all weekend.

  “I want to stress good behavior at the game tonight,” the provost says. “You are representatives of Edwards Academy. Remember: We are all more than the shine on our shoes, or the pennies in our pockets. Our actions show who we are.”

  My actions have shown me to be a sixth grader who fights with her best friend at the school dance.

  The provost steps back from the podium. “I’m going to hand it over for a moment to our captain of the water polo team,” he says. “Scully Chapman!”

  Scully jumps up from the front pew as the crowd breaks into applause, and he heads up to the podium. He has to raise the microphone because he’s almost six inches taller than Provost Portsmouth.

  “Thanks, Frank,” he says. Everyone laughs. “I just wanted to say a few words. First—thank you for supporting us. Practice has been intense this past month, and everything you’ve done, from returning our dirty dishes for us in Hamilton, to bringing us snacks in the library . . . those little things are huge for us. They add up.”

  His friends take his dishes back? And bring him food? It must be nice to be the King.

  “I want to tell you how much I appreciate every single one of you. Everyone who comes to our games and cheers . . .” Scully grips the sides of the podium. “You guys are the ones we do it for. Your support means the world to us. I hope I’ll see you at the game tonight—we’re not going to let that state championship get away this time!”

  The audience erupts in applause. Someone shouts Scully’s name as he heads back down into the pews, and Provost Portsmouth taps the mic a few times to regain control.

  State championship? Sounds important—maybe I shouldn’t miss this game after all. Even if Scully and I aren’t, well, dating . . . I still met his friends. They know my face and my name now.

  This could be my chance to get in.

  -----------------------

  http://privateschoolnewb.tumblr.com

  Oct. 21, 2017

  Boarding school looks like:

  The pool always being too small.

  I wish I’d known she liked Him that much. You know—in that way. Not just amateur-hour lusting over His pecs, but a full-scale “Let’s date and get married and have babies” kind of thing. I would never have accepted the “date” if I’d known.

  Maybe I should get out of here.

  Go home, swallow my pride, go to a normal school.

  So much less homework. It was manageable for a while, but now that midterms are coming, I’m staying up late doing my reading every night and finishing my write-ups about it during lunch.

  At a normal school I could chill out. Be myself. Have actual free time.

  And the pool of eligible guys would be big enough that this shit wouldn’t be a problem.

  The dance was . . . I guess I’d call it humiliating. Definitely in my list of Top Ten Most Humiliating Life Events.

  How can my roommate be so monstrously inconsiderate? It’s like we’re living on separate planets, shouting at each other across hundreds of miles of empty space.

  I thought I had at least one real friend here, someone I could be myself with, besides those three tennis girls who sorta let us sit with them in the cafeteria.

  Thinking that was a mistake. It’s impossible to be yourself with anyone in this place. Like making a friend in prison—what you feel isn’t real. It’s just dependency. Survival.

  At some point the school is bound to get between you. All the head games, all the conformity, all this mindless dedication to the rules. Ever since I heard this line of the honor code, it’s been following me:

  We vow to live by the rules set out for us, because those rules were created to keep us safe.

  But what it doesn’t mention is that living by the rules means living by *their* rules. It means moulding yourself into the thing they want you to be and then keeping yourself like that, posed and squashed a
nd strangled, until you no longer remember what you once looked like, acted like, or thought like.

  All I have left now is Him. I’ve decided for sure now: I AM going to that polo game after all. I’m going to root for Him, cheer with the best of them, and let Him know that I don’t take to heart what happened.

  That I’m still cool. Still in the game.

  Still here.

  -----------------------

  I make a point of hanging out in our room after assembly, but Gracie never comes back. It’s strange and quiet and boring without her. I’m almost never here alone.

  Fine. It’s time for the polo game anyway.

  I’ve never been to the Edwards pool. The whole building smells of chlorine, and the walls swim with spidery water reflections. Through the chlorinated depths I can make out a massive black and red badger painted on the floor.

  I search for Gracie in the bleachers. While I’m blocking the aisle, someone bumps into me.

  “Jeez, get out of the way.”

  Music comes on over the PA to announce that the game’s starting, so I rush to grab a seat.

  The Edwards team comes out first. Scully looks fierce and sexy in his tight red speedo. There’s something I never thought I’d say, but wow.

  I went to the Mixer with that guy. Maybe I was a charity case, but I bet every girl in school looked at me with envy.

  After the opening coin toss, the players dive in. There’s a lot of splashing and yelling and boys in speedos hurling a yellow volleyball at each other’s heads.

  It’s quite brutal.

  I cruise the crowd every few minutes looking for Gracie. Of course she’s not here—she loathes school activities. But if she were, she’d probably be making some snarky remark about the barbarism of it, or the tight, tiny speedos. I’d be laughing so hard I’d have to gasp for air.

  In the pool, Scully leaps out of the water like a dolphin. One arm high up over his head with the ball cupped against his wrist, he hurls it directly into the goal net.

  We’re in the lead.

  Someone starts a wave, and a row of people sitting nearby with painted red and black badger faces undulate like some kind of weird zebra.

  The worship of Scully Chapman is a living, breathing thing.

  They score again after halftime, and the crowd is in raptures.

  And besides the few words I exchange with the girl next to me when she bumps my arm, I’m alone.

  -----------------------

  We win, of course.

  We.

  I consider this loaded word as everyone around me surges to their feet, roaring and clapping. The sound reverberates off the tin bleachers and the aluminum roof.

  Scully’s team does a lap around the pool, waving and soaking up the crowd’s adoration.

  Then the game’s over and people get up to file out. I jump to one of the higher bleachers to look for Gracie, but it’s a mess of bodies as people thunder down the stairs to get out first. A few people give me odd looks because I’m just standing there.

  I sit down.

  Why couldn’t Gracie just be happy for me? But it was like if she couldn’t have him, neither of us could. And he doesn’t even like me! I want to scream at her. It shouldn’t be up to me to apologize. She’s the one who blew up at the dance.

  I don’t want to fight with the crowd, so I wait until almost everyone has gotten bored and filed out before I stand up to leave. Some teachers are standing around talking as I head down to the pool.

  “Sam?”

  My body lights on fire at the sound of his voice.

  Scully stands at the door to the boys’ locker room dressed in a tight white tee and equally tight jeans.

  “Hey!” he says, walking over. “You came.”

  “Oh, uh, of course.” I squeeze the straps of my backpack. Why did I bring a backpack? I look like such a nerd. “How could I miss it?”

  “I hope you had fun, and about last night—”

  That’s when Provost Portsmouth steps out of the faculty office and throws up his arms.

  “My man!” The provost approaches us and slings one arm around Scully’s shoulders, squeezing him like a dad would do. “Have you decided on your plans for next year?”

  “Come on, Frank,” Scully says, sliding out from under his arm. “You and my dad both. I just got out of the water, and it’s practically a year off. I don’t want to think about college right now.”

  “Mike and I both care about you,” Provost Portsmouth says. “And your future. After that game you played today, I want to make sure that whichever one of those California schools you pick offers a path in athletics.”

  I want to laugh at the way he says those California schools, like California is a less civilized foreign country.

  “I know,” says Scully, not hiding his impatience.

  The provost turns a little to include me in the conversation. “You know I was a big tennis star when we went here? We’ve always had a great tennis program. If I’d been smart, I would have kept doing it in college. Everybody needs tennis players.” Good thing I signed up. Maybe that’s how I’ll afford those four years at Harvard—tennis scholarship. “But I was nothing compared to Mike. Mike took the polo team to the state championship. And we’ll be champs again this year. With you leading the team, Scully—”

  “It will crash and burn.” A leggy, red-headed kid wedges between them and shows off how tall he is by draping his arm over Scully’s shoulders. His face is a constellation of orange freckles.

  “Waldo.” The provost seems unfazed. “Glad you could join us half an hour after the game’s over.”

  So this is the infamous Waldo Wilson.

  “Sorry. Had to rehearse my lines for the musical. Singing is how you get the girls now.”

  The provost gives him a wry look. “Had no idea.”

  Scully slides Waldo’s arm off his shoulder and drops it like he did Frank’s. “I bet the musical will be a big hit.”

  “Why would I care?” asks Waldo, laughing with his huge mouth. “I learn my lines, and the cute girls come.” Then, and only then, does he notice I’m there. “And who’s this?”

  “My friend,” says Scully, “Sam.”

  His friend.

  Waldo looks me over, like he’s grading me in a beauty pageant. Then he shrugs and turns to the provost. “I need to talk to you about this car issue, Frank.”

  Just like that. Like I’m not even here.

  “I told you, Waldo,” the provost says, dropping the fun-loving principal act, “you didn’t meet the grade requirement last year to earn your parking permit. Try again in a semester.”

  “But, Frank, I—”

  “No but Franks.” He crosses his arms. “You’ll get your permit the same way Scully did.”

  “You should have actually studied for your finals last year, Wally,” says Scully, not without pleasure. “Maybe then you could get a parking pass.”

  “At least I have access to you, who has a nice hunk of junk with wheels.” Waldo grins back at Scully and playfully punches him in the arm.

  “That doesn’t really make me want to drive you anywhere in it.” I’ve never seen Scully like this—actually mad about something. “I think I should head home,” he says, reaching for my hand. “I’m tutoring Sam, and we’ve both got a load of homework tonight.”

  Tutoring? His skin is blinding hot against mine. Suddenly my hand in his is all I can think about.

  “But Ursula wanted to make you and the rest of the team dinner.” The provost glances at Waldo. “All the usual guys are invited, too. I want to talk to you about your college plans, Waldo.”

  “But the good boy has homework,” says Waldo, winking at Scully.

  I sort of hate this guy, and I don’t even know him.

  “Please come,” the provost says. “We’re having empanadas.”

  “Come on, best friend!” Waldo says, elbowing Scully. “We haven’t caught up in so long.”

  Scully looks at me, then lets out a si
gh.

  “Thanks again for coming tonight, Sam,” he says. “I’ll make up that tutoring offer to you later, okay?”

  He picks up his gym bag and follows Frank and Waldo out, the provost resuming college talk like there’d been no interruption.

  Chapter Eight

  I give Gracie a day or two more to cool down. Anyway, I’m busy thinking about that tutoring offer. But the next time we’re both in the room together, I start out with, “Gracie, I—”

  She interrupts me. “Look, Sam, it’s fine.” Like she already knew what I was going to say. She opens the lid of her computer. “I’m over it.”

  “C’mon, talk to me.” I sit down at my own desk, which faces hers. “We live together.”

  “There’s not anything to talk about.” She clicks her mouse and stares intently at her computer screen. “I’m not mad.”

  I lean forward over the desk and gently push the lid of her laptop down so I can see her. “Can we just move forward? Please?”

  “We are moving forward.” She gestures at her computer. “But my homework isn’t.”

  It’s just a desk between us, but it feels like a canyon, with a whole mighty river rushing beneath our feet.

  I think I get it. To her, Scully was off limits. And I crossed her imaginary line.

  But who cares about lines? Why does she even have to draw one?

  Anyway, it’s fine. I’m fine. She can just . . . sit over there and mope.

  It’s sort of a blessing, I guess, because midterms start this week and it feels like the world is on fire. Not shooting the shit all the time with Gracie means one less distraction. I don’t remember how I used to do all my homework before dinner and still squeeze in a half-hour phone call with Mom every Friday.

  And on top of the mountain of work I have, going to polo games takes up a ton of time. But every time there’s a home game, I still head to the pool and cheer. I want Scully to see me there rooting for him. And I sort of enjoy watching now. He’s magnificent, a pinnacle of human capability.

  But trying to do everything is adding up. Even if we don’t talk about our assignments anymore, Gracie and I still both stay up late working almost every night. I’m sipping an energy drink I bought at the commissary late on a Thursday when a knock comes at the door.