The bucket was filled with rusted brackets and scrap metal.
“You got a pair of gloves?”
I shook my head.
“Here, use mine,” he said, pulling a pair of dirty work gloves from his tool belt. “Grab yourself a wheelbarrow and dump this where you’ve been putting the old railing. Here’s a walkie-talkie. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to come down. You might as well clean up that flashlight while you’re at it.” He scratched his head. “It’s a mystery how some things get in here.”
Though intrigued to be back in the lighthouse, the work proved monotonous. My hands ached and forearms burned from working the crank (the next day I would be so sore it hurt to brush my teeth). Max’s voice over the walkie-talkie was my only company. It was while pushing the wheelbarrow across Oak Yard that any sense of tradition vanished. Like Max had said, it was nothing more than ground cleared of weeds and covered with sod and new trees. The southwest quadrant of the courtyard became Wellington’s hollow heart, and I walked across it without a second thought, the wheelbarrow making a crisp line of bent grass to mark my path.
If anyone thought differently, specifically those from the Eastbridge campus, they kept their opinions to themselves, for no one so much as glanced in my direction. Perhaps it was my appearance that exempted me from Wellington’s staunchest tradition: the wheelbarrow, the work gloves, my Wellington shirt dirtied beyond recognition. I could have easily passed for one of Max’s workers.
I emptied the wheelbarrow behind the maintenance shed. The sky had darkened; a distant flash of lightning flickered through the clouds.
“Make that your last trip,” Max said over the walkie-talkie. “There’s a storm headed this way. We won’t finish today anyway.”
The storm arrived as I was leaving the lighthouse. Students returning from practice ran through the courtyard to get out of the rain; someone by the fountain fumbled with an umbrella. The rain picked up as I started across Oak Yard, and when the first clap of thunder rumbled over the island, the downpour began. It came with such intensity that the four wings of the school vanished. I could only see the gazebo to my left and the base of the lighthouse behind me.
I was soaked by the time I reached the gazebo. The air was filled with the sound of rain ricocheting off the rooftops. Only the occasional rumble of thunder rose above the downpour. I couldn’t see beyond the nearby oaks, their slender boughs battered in the rain, pools of water collecting about their trunks. The walls of the courtyard—all of Wellington, in fact—had disappeared.
I sat on the gazebo’s banister and watched the marble-sized rain crater the turf. Runoff from my clothes collected in a puddle beneath me. Though my stomach rumbled at the thought of being late for dinner, I had little choice but to wait it out.
Four figures materialized from the storm. They strode purposefully across Oak Yard, oblivious to the weather. Even through the rain I recognized the blue tiger paw on the white football helmets. Three of them were in half-pads, probably just released from practice, and the fourth held an umbrella over his head. I didn’t have to see the arm cast to recognize Loosy-Goosy.
I retreated to the far side of the gazebo. William Foster, Dale Tucker and John Bixley were stone-faced beneath their helmets. But none frightened me more than Loosy-Goosy. I was shocked at how much weight he had lost. What little muscle he had managed to put on had vanished—his chest looked flat as a board, his unbroken arm shriveled to the point of uselessness, and no amount of exercise could ever remove the drawn look that haunted his face.
“Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,” he chided, closing the umbrella. “I find you in the strangest places.”
“I’ve been helping Max,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t matter.
“Yes, we’ve seen how you follow him around. Rather pathetic, even for a newby.”
My mind raced. I couldn’t outrun them. Because of the storm, no one would hear me shout for help.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Loosy-Goosy said, stepping forward.
But then, somehow, Max’s voice rose above the rain.
“You forget something?”
The walkie-talkie was still clipped to my belt. I had forgotten to return it.
“It’s raining buckets out there, so just hang on to it till tomorrow.”
I yanked the walkie-talkie from my belt. “Max! Max! Help! I’m in the gazebo. Uhhh!”
Tucker lunged forward and tackled me to the floor. His face was inches from my own. “I’ve missed you out on the field, Hawthorne,” he said, tapping my forehead with his helmet. Through watery eyes, I watched Bixley lean down, pry the walkie-talkie from my hand and throw it into the rain.
“Stand him up,” Loosy-Goosy ordered.
Foster pulled me to my feet and pinned me to the side of the gazebo. I nearly hyperventilated when Bixley cocked his big fist back.
“Wait!” Loosy-Goosy said. “He’s mine.”
Disappointed, Bixley lowered his fist.
“Give me your helmet,” Loosy-Goosy instructed.
“What?”
“Your helmet! Give me your helmet.”
Bixley grudgingly complied. When Loosy-Goosy slid the nose tackle’s helmet over his head, only the seriousness of the situation prevented me from laughing. The helmet came down so low it nearly covered his eyes, with the chinstrap hanging halfway down his chest. Loosy-Goosy would have looked less ridiculous had he put a bucket over his head.
“Because you’re too much of a pussy to play football, I’m bringing football to you,” he said, lowering his head.
Foster and Tucker had my arms pinned. Bixley was grinning ear-to-ear.
Beyond the gazebo, the rain continued to fall.
Loosy-Goosy rammed into my stomach like a spear. The impact forced the air from my lungs. I tried to double-over, but Foster and Tucker kept me propped between them. I couldn’t exhale; I couldn’t speak or scream or even breathe. The pain hung over me like a cloud. I tried to catch my breath, but I might as well have tried to stop the rain from falling.
When Loosy-Goosy hit me again, my vision went red. Bixley’s eyes were bloodshot, his face obscenely sunburned. Blood rained down from the sky. My head lolled backwards, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
When the third blow came, fresh air streamed into my lungs like a current of ice water.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
It was Loosy-Goosy. He was down on his knees rubbing the back of his neck.
I hung between the hands that held me, taking in generous lungfuls of air.
“Can I finish him?” Bixley asked.
“Not while I’m still alive,” Loosy-Goosy said, removing his helmet. “How do you think he’ll look with a broken nose?”
“Might make him prettier,” Bixley said, causing Foster and Tucker to laugh.
When I first saw him out of the corner of my eye, I was half-convinced he was a hallucination, a byproduct of my oxygen-deprived mind. The others hadn’t seen him yet. I watched in disbelief as he ran through the rain. I was so elated I began to laugh—a wheezing noise that sounded strange in my ears.
“That’s the last time you laugh in this lifetime,” Loosy-Goosy threatened, cocking his puny fist.
Max rushed into the gazebo, shoving Loosy-Goosy with enough force to send him flying out the other side. The rain had done nothing to wash the grease from Max’s hands. His red hair lay flattened to his scalp, his bristly moustache dripped with moisture. He looked driven by the storm. The rainwater streaming off him glistened on his skin, exposing his anger.
“This is over,” he said in a hard voice. “Let him go.”
The hands that held me released their grip, and I dropped to my knees. Scurrying footsteps gave way to the drumming of the rain. When I looked up, Bixley and Max faced-off. Bixley’s bulk, enlarged by his pads, looked untested; Max stood rigid as a beam of steel.
“You’re just a grease monkey,” Bixley said. “I’d knock your ass off this
island if I felt like getting kicked out.”
Though he stood a foot taller than Max and outweighed him by close to sixty pounds, I felt sorry for Bixley. He had only seen Max walking alone with his head down, keeping to himself. He hadn’t watched him bust corroded couplings loose with a twist of the wrench; he hadn’t felt his iron grip digging into his shoulder. I remained motionless, fearing that any movement would send them both into action.
“It’s just you, me and the rain, boy,” was all Max said. But it must have been enough, for without saying a word, Bixley reached down, picked up his helmet, and stepped into the storm.
“You all right?” Max asked, helping me to my feet.
“I’ll be okay,” I said, putting a hand to my stomach. “I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it. I could tell you weren’t foolin’ around. Nearly broke my neck on the way down, but I made it.” He pulled out a fresh toothpick, but it must have gotten wet, for after sticking it between his teeth, he grimaced and threw it away.
“What was all that about?” he asked.
“You know the kid with the cast?”
“The one I pushed?”
“Yeah. I’m the one who broke his arm.”
“Oh.”
“It was an accident. It happened during football. That’s the real reason they’re after me, but they used the excuse of trespassing in Oak Yard.”
Max shook his head.
“The kids from the old school take it pretty seriously. I guess they figure it’ll be around a long time.”
Max gazed into the rain. “Nothing stays here for long. Nothing but that lighthouse.”
I looked up into the cloud-filled sky as another round of thunder crashed overhead.
“Storms out of the south are the worst,” Max said. “But they move in a hurry over water. It shouldn’t be long.”
The storm didn’t interest me as much as the fact that Max seemed to know so much about the island. He talked like he had spent his entire life here. I thought back to what he had told Roland after catching us in the clock tower. And don’t think for a second I won’t find ya, ‘cause there isn’t an inch of this island I don’t know.
Trapped in the gazebo with no work to do, Max opened up to conversation, which came in spurts of unrelated small talk. Neither of us were in a hurry to leave, for Loosy-Goosy’s umbrella lay at our feet, and the rain had lessened enough to reveal the walls of the courtyard.
The storm left the island as quickly as it arrived. The sun shone brokenly through the passing clouds, reflecting off small pools of runoff. The frogs lining the fountain continued to spit their streams, spilling water onto the sidewalk.
“Looks like we don’t have to stay the night after all,” Max said. “I wouldn’t let it bother you that they got the best of you. If you give me their names, I can report it first thing to Mr. Lawson.”
“That might make it worse.”
“Figured as much. Some things you have to fight on your own.” He stepped from the gazebo and retrieved the walkie-talkie. “She still works,” he said, holding it to his ear.
Then he turned and, with his head down, returned to the lighthouse.
CHAPTER 7: THE HEADLINERS
Sections of the New York Times lay spread across the table. Of Roland, I could only see his fingers curled around the edges of the Perspective section. Chris tossed grapes above his head and caught them in his mouth, looking down every so often at the day’s headlines. Derek’s breakfast sat untouched, steam rising from a stack of pancakes as he perused a column of stock quotes. Derek’s father was founder and CEO of The Sentinel, a company that had made a killing in home security systems. They had recently issued their IPO, and there wasn’t a morning that went by when Derek didn’t check their stock price.
I was reading the New York Court of Appeals ruling in the highly publicized affirmative action case involving Columbia University. Alicia Simms, a twenty-year-old white female, had filed a lawsuit against Columbia claiming that despite being valedictorian of her graduating class and scoring in the top one percent on the SAT, she had been denied acceptance due to admission quotas. Over the course of several years, the case had made its way to the New York Court of Appeals, which had ruled 5-3 in Alicia Simms’ favor. When I read the court majority’s ruling, it was my father’s voice that spoke the words:
The state shall not discriminate against, or grant preferential treatment toward, any individual or group on the basis of race, sex, color, ethnicity or national origin in operation of public employment, public education or public contracting. The goal of the 14th Amendment, to which the nation continues to aspire, is a political system in which race no longer matters. A system which permits one judge to block with the stroke of a pen what is clearly defined in the Constitution tests the integrity of our democracy.
I read the article in its entirety, recalling Mother’s advice to stay abreast of Father’s cases, as nothing was more embarrassing than being informed of a ruling by someone outside the family.
My eyes strayed across the cafeteria to where Benjamin sat gazing out the window. I had tried convincing him to join us, but he refused. Ever since the lighthouse, he had drawn in on himself. Though he still voiced his homesickness, his sobs were less audible, as if the sound brought back his fear from the stairwell.
“I don’t believe this.” Chris was hunched over the newspaper, his nose inches from the print.
“What?” Roland asked.
“I knew he came here for a reason. I knew it! This SUCKS!” he shouted, flinging the paper across the table.
Derek picked up the paper and read aloud: “‘Final Senatorial Debate’ … no way!”
“What?” Roland asked.
“Oh, this is phenomenal. You’re going to flip when you hear this.” He cleared his throat. “‘The debate for the Rhode Island Senate seat, featuring Senator Coleman seeking reelection, and Republican Candidate, Governor Michael Forsythe, will be hosted by … Wellington Academy.’”
“Let me see that,” Roland said, setting his paper aside. “Wow. And here I’ve been reading about how my father plans to modernize the military in the post-Vietnam era. Talk about boring.”
“Did you know about this?” Derek asked Chris. But Chris didn’t respond. He was slouched in his chair staring out the window.
“Have they ever had a debate at a school?” Roland asked.
“It says here it’s unprecedented,” Derek confirmed, still skimming the article. “‘In an effort to boost citizens’ awareness of Rhode Island’s heritage, the debate will take place on Raker Island, in the shadow of the state’s oldest lighthouse.’”
“Carpetbagger,” Chris muttered darkly. “It’s bullshit.”
“What do you mean?” Derek asked.
Instead of answering, Chris made a hasty departure, leaving behind his half-eaten breakfast. Roland left shortly thereafter, taking Chris’ tray with him. I finished the last few bites of my breakfast, also preparing to leave.
“Hey, what were you reading about?” Derek asked.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
“A New York Court of Appeals ruling on affirmative action. Excruciatingly boring, but my father is one of the judges, so I felt obligated.”
To my surprise, Derek reacted as if I had stated the profound.
Later that morning, the student body was summoned to the auditorium. Mr. Hearst strutted across the stage and reiterated the morning’s headlines to much applause. Mr. Hutcheson, the government teacher, who appeared to be in a mild state of shock, announced that a contest would be held where each student could submit a question for the candidates. The winners, selected by the faculty and the Rhode Island Board of Elections, would get to ask their questions live during the televised debate.
As I was leaving the auditorium, Mr. O’Leary motioned me over with a dramatic wave. “I come bearing good news,” he said, presenting an envelope. “Not only will you get to witness our future
leaders engage in debate, but your disciplinary probation has at last come to an end. Your days of backbreaking labor, brief as they were, are officially over.”
“Oh.” I examined the envelope without opening it.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“I was expecting at least a minor display of enthusiasm.”
“It’s just that … I’ve been helping Max in the lighthouse, and it’s kind of a two-man job.” I felt guilty at the thought of abandoning Max after he had come to my rescue.
“Are you telling me you’re enjoying your punishment?” Mr. O’Leary shook his head. “If only the headmaster knew.”
“It feels more like work than punishment.”
“So much for negative reinforcement. Okay, here’s a thought,” he said, running his fingers through his beard. “If you were to continue your work with Max three days a week, that would still leave two afternoons for sports.”
“I think I’m already testing Coach Thurman’s patience. Most coaches require you to be there every day.”
He smiled. “I know one who doesn’t.”
“Let me guess …”
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun. And it will keep you off the football field.”
Earlier that day, I had come across Loosy-Goosy in the hall. He had done his best to glare at me, but due to the thick brace around his neck, he only managed to look like the victim of a serious accident. To return to the football field was unthinkable.
It seemed that Wellington was doing everything in its power to confuse its student athletes. Football had been played on a golf course, and fencing was conducted at the bottom of the empty indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool. Numbers in black linoleum tile marked the depth; a hot tub—as bone-dry as the pool—sat in the corner. All that remained of the diving boards were the octagonal heads of corroded bolts set into the floor. And though the pool had probably been drained years ago, the faint scent of chlorine lingered.
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