“Done?” Percyfoot blustered. “Done? Why we haven’t even begun! We were going to cover the Crusades today, my lad. Rousing stuff!”
August tried to look interested, but Sir Reginald wasn’t deceived. The boy was slumped in his chair as if his spine had committed suicide. What to do? Sir Reginald was no teacher; he was one of the world’s finest actors. Still, he’d made a vow to finally give August the life he deserved. But the boy was so goddamned annoying. Sit up straight, for the love of god! Piss in the toilet! Don’t set fire to the sitting room!
Mirroring the boy’s slouch in dejected self-pity, Percyfoot was suddenly struck with an ingenious idea. Why not make use of that hallowed device that rich and unskilled parents had been relying on for generations? The boarding school! Such an obvious solution! August would meet well-bred peers his own age, be taught by men who knew how to navigate the awful labyrinth of youth, and best of all, he would be gone, so Percyfoot wouldn’t have to deal with him!
But, alas, the boy was a special case. He’d never attended school, and even if he had, he had no identification. He was so nonexistent. What facility of higher learning would ever accept such a foul-mouthed enigma like August?
The slouch of despair was resumed as Reginald resigned himself to an early death due to homeschooling-related causes.
After a few minutes, however, he broke his depressed silence with a roaring laugh. August jumped.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing’s the matter, my boy,” Percyfoot boomed. “In fact, everything’s been fixed. Go out and get rip-roaring drunk. You won’t be able to much longer!”
August didn’t like Percyfoot’s ominous tone, but the suggestion did seem like a good one, so he slipped out the door and was off to a pub.
Percyfoot continued laughing. What an old fool he was! How could he have forgotten? As luck would have it, he was more than well acquainted with the headmaster of a very prestigious institution where August would receive the best education that his horrid homeland could offer.
Still chuckling, Percyfoot slathered another piece of toast with too much butter as he hashed out the finer details of his plan. Blackmail was going to be fun.
Part Three
The Willington West Academy for Gifted Boys was situated on a sprawling apple orchard in eastern Massachusetts. The fact that the school’s name, Willington West, and its location, eastern Massachusetts, didn’t coincide in the slightest was never mentioned. Established in 1834, WWAFGB accepted only the most gifted of boys, as long as they were gifted with plenty of money.
The current headmaster was named Archibald Haven Ferdinand St. Christopher Richmond IX. He’d attended the Willington West Academy for Gifted Boys in his youth, as had every previous headmaster save the first, and had held his position for seven years. Breaking the stereotypical mold of the stodgy old academic, Archibald was in good health, had a full head of hair, kept a lean figure, boasted a confident smile with a handshake to match, and clocked in at the almost suspiciously young age of sixty-seven. He was adored by the boys, tolerated by the board’s crotchety elders, and ignored by the students’ parents, who generally had no time to waste on parenting.
Of course, Archibald Haven Ferdinand St. Christopher Richmond IX hadn’t always been a headmaster. In fact, his distant past was about as far removed from dusty libraries and desk-drawer decanters as it could get. In his early twenties, Archibald had taken it into his head to study abroad in England. His parents were delighted, not only that he showed such an interest in his education but that there would be an entire ocean between the couple and their lovely spawn. Perhaps due to the unfamiliar bucolic terrain, perhaps swept up in the romantic fantasy of a life on the road, but almost certainly in an act of flagrant postadolescent rebellion aimed toward his conservative parents, Archibald dropped out before the end of his first term at Cambridge to join a traveling troupe of actors. Needless to say, the Richmonds were outraged, and a delighted Archibald went on to have one of the most exciting chapters of his life. In the course of this year he collected experiences and friendships in abundance, but no one he encountered would have such a profound effect on him as Reginald Percyfoot.
The pair became fast friends, Percyfoot recognizing Archibald’s sheer intellectual brilliance while the latter reveled in the former’s enormous talent onstage. The entire company would stay up until all hours every night, a hallmark of traveling actors in their twenties, but long after the last of the lights had been shut off, Archibald and Reginald would still be extrapolating the finer points of Molière or Wilde.
The blatant fact that Archibald had little to no acting talent was obvious to both, and after a year on the road, the defiant rogue reentered the hallowed halls of academia where he belonged. However, the two had managed to maintain a steadfast friendship through the years, a friendship Percyfoot was planning to exploit.
Percyfoot sat behind the wheel of a Chrysler or Chevrolet (he could never tell the difference). Having lived the majority of his adult life in London, with the occasional sojourn to New York, he’d never learned to drive, nor had he felt the lack. That was until he’d been forced to inhabit the smoggy cesspool that is Los Angeles. The poor man was forced to learn the mechanics of the automobile, a skill he felt he was better off not knowing.
Alas, he now could operate a car, and he jammed his foot on the clutch, slamming the blasted contraption into gear as he headed toward the Willington West Academy for Gifted Boys, the vehicle shuddering in protest all the while, as ill at ease with its driver as the man was with the machine.
After getting lost more than twice and employing some acrobatic swearing, he finally pulled into the long drive that led to Willington. To say that the school was impressive would be an understatement most egregious. It sprawled, but in an ivy-choked, milk-and-honey sort of way.
Percyfoot parked his car near what he thought was the school’s main building, though in all likelihood it was probably the servants’ quarters, or perhaps the lost-and-found. Standing in the cavernous entryway, however, was Archibald Haven Ferdinand Et cetera, beaming his trademark smile.
My god, he’s thin, thought Percyfoot, consciously sucking in his paunch. Hasn’t aged a day.
“Reggie!” cried Archibald, jogging the remainder of the distance to his friend and wrapping him in a hug.
How American, thought Sir Reginald, smiling all the same at the generous greeting. This folksy charm was what had drawn him to Archibald in the first place, that and the man’s splendid mind.
“Archie.” Percyfoot laughed through the hug. “I see you’re just as demonstrative as ever.”
“Well, come on, let’s have a tour!” Archie said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. At the moment, he looked far more like the schoolboys under his charge than a dignified man approaching old age. Percyfoot had to practically skip to keep up with him.
As the tour progressed, Archibald calmed, his voice settling into a stately tenor as he described the history of the school, the architect’s intent, the style of the gardens. After the long and stressful drive, Percyfoot would’ve preferred a hot meal and a large chair to the echoing chambers of Willington, but he could see Archibald was having a good time showing off and he wanted his friend properly subdued before he sprang his ambush. One can only see so many archways, however, before the mind wearies. When Archibald led him toward yet another building, the school’s oldest dormitory, the seasoned actor finally snapped.
“For the love of god, man! You needn’t detail the history of every brick! Let’s have a sit.”
Archie, accustomed to the artist’s capricious mood swings, was unoffended and took Percyfoot straight to his office, an oak-paneled paradise with all the trappings of scholarly masculinity. Brass busts, varying bottles filled with amber liquors, oil paintings so dark one could hardly make out what was depicted; a veritable utopia for a bespectacled bachelor. Percyfoot found the most impressive of the leather wingback chairs and sank into it gratefully.
<
br /> “It really is lovely to see you,” said the headmaster. “Care for some scotch?”
“Oh, just a drop, how kind of you to offer. A bit more, if you don’t mind. Oh, for god’s sakes, man, we aren’t Protestants, fill the damn glass.”
The two men clinked their libations together and each took a taste, savoring the liquor and one another’s company.
“I admit, I was most intrigued as to the reason of your visit,” Archibald eventually said, alluding to the phone call Percyfoot had placed regarding August’s installation at the school. “Really, Percy, you needn’t have gone through the hoopla of inventing an orphan child just to stop over. I’m more than happy to entertain an old friend.” Again he flashed a winning smile, sparkling with mischief.
So the subject had been broached without him having to bring it up. Sir Reginald corrected his posture and prepared to pounce.
“I’m afraid the boy is no fib, Archie. His name is August March, and he’s my ward. I intend to adopt him.”
A furrowed brow of genuine puzzlement replaced the headmaster’s sly grin. “You mean to say that you’ve really taken in a child of the streets? Forgive me, but you’re hardly the model of paternal devotion. In fact, you’re the most selfish narcissist I’ve ever met. Again, no offense intended.”
“None taken,” Percyfoot replied truthfully. He swilled the scotch gently in its tumbler before changing the subject. “Do you remember, in the year we traveled together, that little town we played all summer? It was close to Brighton.”
“Of course,” answered Archibald. “Quite fondly, in fact.”
“What was the name of that town? It’s escaped me.”
“I can’t recall.”
“Such a quaint little place,” said Percyfoot. “We had quite a summer there.”
“We’ve enjoyed many summers together.”
“Indeed,” Percyfoot said, letting the weight of memory fill the room. “You’re going to accept August March into your school.”
The headmaster guffawed. “You’re joking!” Archie saw by Reginald’s face that there was no jest intended. “But you can’t be serious? We have Rockefellers at Willington, boys who’ve grown up in the shadow of the White House. You can’t expect their sort to mingle with a foundling just because you’ve taken a shine to him. Even if I were to accept the child, the board would have my head! I’m sorry, but it’s ludicrous. It can’t be done.” Archibald was nearly winded by his friend’s obstinacy. Nothing in the forty-some-odd years he’d known the man had prepared him for his sudden dive into the sugary waters of fairy-tale sentiment. Was this to be a rags-to-riches story Percyfoot planned to capitalize on? The waif transformed by the beneficent godfather? It made no sense. Percyfoot was a pompous, self-absorbed, egocentric, libidinous debaucher.
Percyfoot smiled, swishing some scotch about in his mouth before swallowing, savoring the burn. He continued as if Archie had said nothing. “You’re going to accept August into your school, or I’ll expose you. Imagine the controversy. A man of your particular . . . inclination running Willington? What would the board think? What would the parents say? You wouldn’t last a minute once the story broke.” Percyfoot finished his scotch with a triumphant swallow. “Good stuff,” he said. “I think I’ll have another glass.”
Archibald, his hand not even inching toward the scotch, looked at Sir Reginald with cold contemplation. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked. “You mean to come in here and ruin me for the sake of some trash you’ve taken in off the street? After a lifetime of friendship? I can’t understand you.”
Percyfoot’s smug air of victory vanished. “Archie, you must know I’d never do anything to seriously harm you.”
“Then what in the name of god was—”
Percyfoot put a hand up to stop the onslaught. “A spot of fun that I, admittedly, took too far. But please believe me when I say that nothing in this world means more to me than the future of this boy, even your reputation. He’s brilliant. Take him under your wing. I wouldn’t trust him to anyone else.”
The headmaster, tempered after Reginald’s speech, remained unconvinced. “We only accept the best families here at Willington. A ruffian from the street hardly constitutes—”
“Damn your prejudice!” Percyfoot yelled, slamming his fist down on the end table. “He’s a remarkable child who’s had despicable luck, yet against all odds he’s survived. We must do right by him!”
This was most peculiar. Reggie, huffing and moist-eyed? For some child? After a brief respite, Archibald stood and, with a generous pour, refilled Percyfoot’s scotch. “I must admit your determination surprises me. I’ve never seen you take this much interest in a human being before, save for certain deceased European playwrights.”
They sat for a few minutes in the comfortable silence of long acquaintance, sipping scotch and pondering.
“I’ll take the boy on,” Archie finally acquiesced. “On a limited trial, of course.”
“Perfect!” Reginald exclaimed, bouncing to his feet, echoing Archibald’s previous enthusiasm. “Everything’s settled! Now kiss me, you old devil. You look positively ravishing!”
* * *
The transition from Scarsenguard orphan to street thief had hardly been a smooth passage, but that was nothing compared to the shift from street thief to proper boarding-school boy. Life at Willington was so foreign, August felt he might’ve adjusted sooner had he moved somewhere Asiatic; a new culture and alphabet would hardly present as many challenges as the gaping gulf of the class divide.
The boys were simply impossible to relate to. In New York, if August gave someone half an apple or helped a fellow pickpocket shake off the cops, an alliance was formed, simple as that. The lines were not so clear at Willington. Unaccustomed to the differences between old and new money, August committed so many graceless faux pas within his first week that he was quickly banished to the very outskirts of the community, a chronic social leper detested even more than Richie Simon, the boy whose father had made his fortune in the newspaper industry; tradesmen were tolerated, but a journalist? One’s values can only stoop so low.
August didn’t mind being a pariah; he was used to operating alone. The truth was, these persnickety virgins filled him with an amused pity. The height of rebellion was to sneak off and smoke a cigarette. For god’s sakes, hadn’t anyone stolen the tires off a car and then gotten blackout drunk to celebrate?
The boundaries between the Willington set and August came to a head one afternoon when the students were given a bit of time to loll about on one of the lawns and “just be boys,” as the professors sometimes put it. August suspected this time was more for the professors to “just get drunk,” but that was neither here nor there. Most of the boys lay about together in that affectionate chummy way that only exists at boarding school, while August sat separately, his back against a handsome oak, blatantly smoking and not giving a damn if he was caught, a habit the other students all loathed and respected him for.
He was enjoying his cigarette when a boy, kicking a ball around with some of his friends, shouted, “Think fast, March.”
The ball whizzed through the air and hit August hard on the side of his head. He wasn’t hurt; it was more shocking than painful. But that wasn’t the point. This was clearly a power display, and the boy who’d kicked the ball, a bossy loathsome prick by the name of Prescott Alderly, was testing him for weakness. Well, if Prescott wanted an enemy, August was more than happy to give him one. After all, it was hard to be frightened of a Willington bully when just a few months prior, he’d seen one of his friends stab another boy in the leg.
August rose, crossed to Prescott, handed him back his ball, and in a flash, delivered three quick jabs to his stomach. Prescott, winded and clutching his midsection, fell to the ground, groaning.
“Bastard,” Prescott moaned through his pain.
“I’d rather be a bastard than a priggish little fuck like you,” August replied.
He strolled off back towar
d his dorm, tossing the still-lit butt of his cigarette on the lawn, while the Willington boys stared in wide-eyed wonder.
* * *
Rumors spread like good jam. Had August March really beat up Prescott Alderly? And was he really and truly a bastard? None of the students had ever met a bastard before, and all felt a mixture of shock, disgust, and pride knowing that they’d consorted with one. August’s dorm mates, two boys who were pale as milk with less than half the flavor, gave August such a wide berth that they inched along the wall when heading to bed, both practically wallpaper. Even the professors were impressed by the scandal.
“It seems this March boy is a right and proper bastard,” Professor Firestone, head of history, said to Professor Sharp, head of mathematics.
“Can’t be,” Professor Sharp replied, balancing an ashtray on his protrusive gut as he smoked yet another bowl of tobacco from his resin-caked pipe. “Even old Richmond wouldn’t stoop so low as to let a bastard into Willington, no matter how far left he leans.”
“Still,” said Firestone, pouring himself a third fingerful of gin though he’d sworn not to drink before nightfall, “it is odd, his joining midterm and all that. He’s been less than exceptional in my class.”
“Indeed,” Sharp agreed. “I find him onerous at best.”
A moment of silence as both men surrendered to their vices.
“Did you hear he made a fool of Prescott Alderly?” Professor Firestone eventually offered.
The ashtray shattered on the floor as Professor Sharp shot up, clapping his hands together like a biddy at the opera. “No! Oh, tell me everything! Tell me everything!”
For his part, August hardly noticed his evolving status. When he entered a room, he did perceive a certain hush, but he attributed it to his classmates’ disgust rather than their interest. What truly troubled him were his studies, for though he played the part of the carefree rebel, August was actually quite concerned to discover just how far he lagged behind his peers.
The Astonishing Life of August March Page 11