"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, all traces of any smile disappearing. "You do realize, do you not, that missing calling-over is a grave offense? What possible excuse can you have?"
"MacPherson and Mercy, sir," I started, but then a shocking thing happened. Little, who rarely spoke to anyone unless he absolutely had to, cut me off.
"We were out f-f-fishing, sir," he said boldly; or, at least, that halting delivery of some sort of speech was bold for Little. "The fish weren't biting. We wanted to catch a fish, and so we stayed out too late. The fault is entirely our own, and we gladly accept any p-p-punishment you deem fit."
I snapped my head toward my companion. What was Little doing? I wondered. Yes, technically, we had knowingly stayed out late, but it wasn't our fault. There had been very good reasons.
"Of course you do," Dr. Hunter barked back, but when I turned to look at him, his eyes weren't on Little. They were on me.
"I do understand that when boys go fishing, they like to catch something," Dr. Hunter went on. "Be that as it may, flouting the rules in favor of the possibility of catching trout cannot be tolerated."
I could almost feel Little commence to trembling even more beside me. No doubt he was terrified at the prospect of the beating Mr. Winter had warned us about.
"You will each memorize forty lines of Homer a day for the next two weeks; I will be by to test you on them nightly. What's more, you will be confined to your rooms for that same period except for essential activities. Essential activities means lessons, eating, and sports. Essential activities does not mean singing with your friends in the great room on Saturday nights. It does not mean going into town on the weekends. And it certainly does not mean going fishing." Dr. Hunter paused. "If there is a second offense—and I trust there will not be—the punishment will be more severe."
Poor Little. He couldn't help himself. "You mean you're not going to beat us?" he asked.
Dr. Hunter looked like thunder as he lowered his face down to Little's level and barked, "Go!"
Little scampered off, obviously relieved that things hadn't gone any worse, but I remained behind.
"Was there something you wished to speak with me about?" The headmaster looked at me, some small amusement in his eyes. "Were you perhaps expecting a beating too?"
As the headmaster had been detailing our punishment, I'd had a chance to think on why Little had cut me off, why he wouldn't allow me to inform Dr. Hunter of Hamish and Mercy's involvement in our misadventure. Clearly, he feared reprisals. And perhaps they would have wanted revenge. But I was sure I had seen that glimpse of a smile on Dr. Hunter's face when he first walked in. Surely if he knew the true state of affairs here at the Betterman Academy, if he was made aware of how relentlessly Little was persecuted by the others, he would take decisive action to put an end to it.
"No, sir," I said at last. "But I did want to say that while, yes, it was our own fault that we were late this evening, it was not entirely our own fault. MacPherson and Mercy—"
"Yes, you started to say something about them earlier, but then Little cut you off."
"He cut me off, sir, because he is terrified of them! He fears that if you were told the truth about what happened this evening, MacPherson and Mercy would exact their revenge."
"The truth? And what truth might that be?"
"They deliberately followed him down to the river for the sole purpose of committing mischief. We had to climb a tree just to escape them! And it was obvious that if we had come down while they were still there, at best we would have been thrown in the river; at worst, grave bodily damage would have ensued. That is the thing, sir! They are bullies, and they are forever persecuting Little, more than anyone else. He lives in a constant state of fear from them, going to bed at night and rising still trembling. I worry that if something is not done—"
"Are you aware, Gardener, that I am aware of your record at the previous schools you have attended?"
I had been so caught up in the passion of my narrative I had missed the fact that what slight amusement there had been in Dr. Hunter's eyes at the beginning of our tête-à-tête had dissipated. I saw now that it was no longer there.
"I suppose, if I had thought about it..." I couldn't help it. I did squirm a bit.
"So I am aware of the lying and the cheating and the general mischief—the fights and all that—although I must confess, I have yet to suss out why it was you left your last school. Be that as it may, nothing in your record caused me to believe the worst of you—boys, after all, will be boys—but this? I never suspected that you would be that worst sort of boy: a teller of tales against your mates."
"Sir?"
"The best thing a boy can hope for from any school is to be marked down as having good character. Well, your actions tonight shall result in a loss of character. Your punishment is hereby increased to sixty lines of Homer, and I hope never to have such a discussion with you again. You should know, Gardener, that schools have run quite nicely for centuries on the system currently in place, and they have done so without your help." He nodded once, curtly. "Consider yourself dismissed."
I turned away with a heavy heart, filled with dejection. Whatever might ultimately save Little from the constant state of misery he lived in, it would not come from this quarter.
***
I confess that, as it turned out, I did not mind my punishment. When Dr. Hunter came by to test me on my memorized lines, I was always ready for him, and every now and then I could see approval in the way he looked at me. No more was said about what I'd tried to discuss with him that night at his residence. And although most of the other boys would have resented two weeks of being confined to their rooms for anything other than essential activities, I didn't mind that either. In fact, I found it a relief not to have to go to the great room on Saturday night and sing poorly and then be tossed in a blanket for my efforts, nor did I mind not being able to go for a stroll after supper or into town on Sunday. I enjoyed the time alone, time to spend on studying and, since it was now easy to finish my lessons early, as there were no other distractions, time to spend reading for the sheer pleasure of it. And of course, I wasn't really alone, for nearly every moment I was in the room, James was there as well. As I worked silently, he worked silently. As I read silently, he read silently. And so it went.
It wasn't until the second Sunday of my punishment, after I heard him refuse an offer to go into town with some of the others for the second week in a row, that it occurred to me that James might be staying in on my account.
Did he feel that sorry for me? I wondered. Did he worry that if left on my own for too long, I might do something dire to myself? Whatever the case, I now felt responsible for his self-imposed lack of freedom. And so, for the first time since my confinement began, I sought to engage him in conversation.
It helped that there was something on my mind.
"Why is everyone here?" I wondered aloud.
I was sitting at my desk and had turned in my seat to ask the question. James was lying on his side on his bed, head propped up on one elbow as he read Alexandre Dumas's The Three Musketeers.
He looked up now. "That's a rather existential question for a Sunday," he observed.
"I didn't mean it like that," I said, feeling a blush color my cheeks. "I meant that the Betterman Academy is so"—and here I recalled Paul Gardener's words for it—"last ditch. No one appears to be greatly interested in the learning aspect of the place, except for me. And possibly you," I added grudgingly.
"Thank you," he said, just as grudgingly.
"But what of those others? What did they do to land themselves here?"
James yawned, even though it was still only early afternoon. "The usual reasons, for the most part. Hamish and Mercy, as you well know, are villains. They no doubt got sent down from their previous schools for similar reasons as the ones that brought, well, you here: lying, cheating, general mischief. Although I do suspect there was more violence on their parts."
"An
d Little?"
"Surely you've noticed that Little is, um, a little dull?"
I nodded.
"That's it, then. I know it's not nice to say, but it is the truth: Little was too slow for the other schools he went to."
"And how about you?" I said. "What are you doing here?"
He yawned again. "What are any of us doing here, really?"
There was something odd about that yawn—forced, almost too casual—and his choice of words. It was obvious to me that he was trying to deflect the question. But why? Why wouldn't he want me to know why he was here? Then it occurred to me: I would never want him to know the real truth of why I was here! What if my questions started him asking questions? I certainly couldn't have that. And so I did the expected schoolboy thing, countered indifferent sarcasm with indifferent sarcasm. "Now who's being existential?" I asked.
But he ignored me. He swung his legs around and pulled himself up so he was sitting on the edge of his bed. "Since you've decided to be in a talkative mood today, let me ask you something."
"Yes?" I suddenly felt cautious.
"What happened during your meeting with Hunter that night you came in late?"
"Oh, that!" I laughed. It was a relief that he wasn't going to quiz me on any of my peculiar habits—how I dressed and undressed in total darkness, how sometimes the supply of washcloths mysteriously diminished—and it was a relief finally to talk about it with someone.
So I told him the whole story, everything from when Little and I first heard Hamish and Mercy tramping through the woods to the point where Dr. Hunter dismissed me.
"You idiot!" he said when I'd completed my tale. "How could you do something so stupid?" Despite his having nothing physical in common with Will except gender, James looked and sounded shockingly like him when he said that.
"Excuse me?"
"You're supposed to be so ... worldly, Will! Aren't you the boy that's been sent down for more crimes than anyone here?"
I nodded in acknowledgment of my assumed résumé.
"Then how could you not know such a simple thing?" he went on. "How could you possibly think that you would tell Hunter and then, oh, I don't know—what? abracadabra?—he'd make it all go away?"
When he put it like that...
"Yes," I said, feeling the need to defend my actions, "but have you ever seen all those bruises Little gets? Or how he lives in terror? And he's right to feel that way! If someone doesn't do something about it, one day Hamish and Mercy might accidentally kill him!"
"And you think that the way to stop this is to tell one of the masters or Hunter? How can someone with your experiences possibly be so naive?"
For obvious reasons, I chose not to answer that.
"I don't care what you say," I said. "Something has to be done."
"I'll tell you one thing."
"And that is?" I clenched my fists at my sides. I was prepared to fight longer, all day if I had to.
"You may be stupid, but I admire your spirit."
Now I really didn't know what to say.
James stretched out on his bed again, resumed the position he'd been in before, and picked up his book.
"Would you like to read this when I'm done with it?" he offered. "It's awfully good."
"That would be nice," I said, unsure how to take what he'd apparently meant as a compliment: I was a stupid person with spirit.
"Oh," he said, idly turning a page, "I've never asked you: what compulsory sport do you intend to pursue here?"
***
Oof!
It was amazing how the air got knocked out of one when one's chest hit the ground hard, one's body having been thrown to the cold earth by some unseen opponent.
I should have known that cricket would not be the sport for me. True, I'd looked downright natty when I'd put on my uniform a few hours previous: the crisp white trousers; the jaunty cap and jersey that were a colorful red and royal purple, the house colors of Proctor Hall; the untanned yellow cricket shoes on my feet. But for once I should have heeded Little's endless fears.
"Cricket is a violent sport," he'd squeaked at me. "There are injuries all the time. Bruises, broken collarbones, even lamings!"
I'd scoffed at the idea of the lamings, but as I spat dirt out of my mouth now, I was scoffing no longer.
The uses of the ball, the bat, the wickets—like Casca said in Julius Caesar about Cicero's speech, it was all Greek to me.
So I spent the day mostly trying to avoid the sports implements entirely, running around on the field as far away as I could get from the main action, the mess of boys chasing and pushing and kicking after a leather ball as incomprehensible to me as the military maneuvers and fighting of Will's beloved wars.
"Look at Gardener," I heard Hamish say to Mercy at one point. "He's even worse than Little. Why, he runs like a girl!"
I resented that remark, even as I resembled it.
"We should tackle him," Mercy suggested.
"But he's on our team!" Stephens objected.
Whatever Mercy said in reply, I didn't hear. Ignoring the constant refrain of Little that was ringing in my head—"If you run, you only make it worse on yourself in the end"—I ran. Mercy must have responded with something persuasive, though, for before I knew it, I was hurled to the ground again, the weight of Hamish full on my back.
I felt his hot breath close to my ear as he spoke: "This isn't really your game, is it?"
***
One thing I knew for certain, I was not going to remove my jacket and waistcoat, roll up my sleeves, arrange for a second, and put on gloves in order to try boxing.
***
Fencing!
Cricket required playing on a side, being part of a team, something I clearly wasn't cut out for. But fencing? That you played for yourself.
I'd read all about fencing in The Three Musketeers, James having loaned it to me as promised when he was finished with it. How hard could it be? True, in Dumas's story, the characters were always running the risk of death. But that was because they were fencing in their regular clothes. The very idea was to do damage to your opponent! But no one was going to be fighting a real duel here—we were simply boys playing compulsory sports at school! Surely they would provide us with protective clothing so that no one would get seriously hurt?
For once, I was right about something.
There was protective clothing. There was a white uniform—once again, I looked natty—underneath which was a variety of thick gear to offer protection to different body parts. There was even a mask with a mesh front to protect the face, and a bib extending down from the mask so that no neck skin was vulnerable. There were gloves to keep the foils from dangerously finding their ways up tempting sleeves. Really, there were no openings anywhere that the foil could pierce. And if there were? The tips of the foils—which were disturbingly sharp; I checked—were covered by little balls so they could do no damage.
This was sport of the best kind, a gentleman's sport, I thought to myself as I faced off against Hamish. Hamish, unlike the other boys, who practiced only one sport, engaged in every sport he could make time for in addition to cricket. I had one hand on my hip, foil raised, our mates from Proctor Hall gathered around us.
"En garde!" I shouted, fancying myself D'Artagnan as I brandished my weapon at my enemy. I was determined to thrust and parry my way to victory. I didn't need to be a good runner for this sport. I didn't need to know any silly rules about balls and bats and wickets. All I needed was to be more agile than my opponent, which I was, I soon saw. Fencing, I quickly realized, didn't involve any regular sort of speed. Rather, it involved the vision to see where your opponent was going so that you could parry his attack or gracefully move out of the way of his thrust, preferably while making a connecting thrust of your own.
I could do this!
I could beat Hamish at this!
What I hadn't counted on was Hamish's anger.
What I hadn't counted on was that Hamish could occasionally be in contro
l of that anger, waiting until the fencing master was distracted by a diversion caused by Mercy and Stephens that gave Hamish just enough time to turn his weapon in reverse and move in close to pummel my body with the hilt of his weapon.
It was the blow to my head that knocked me out, briefly.
***
I came to only to find James and Little carrying me across the commons, in the direction of Proctor Hall.
"I'm fine," I insisted.
I was lying, of course. I was doing the expected schoolboy thing: pretending events didn't matter, when they did; behaving as if being beaten viciously was of little import, something to be met with an unflappable exterior.
But on the inside?
On the inside I was badly shaken, scared, terrified even, just thinking of what had happened.
At the pub with Will that night, that night that seemed so long ago now, he had warned me that school might be a dangerous place for me. But had I listened? No. The worst I could imagine back then was being exposed as a girl and finding myself sent down as a result. It had never occurred to me, not in my wildest nightmares, that as a boy I might find myself physically beaten so ruthlessly.
Yes, I had been tossed in a blanket. Yes, Little and I had been treed by the river. Both had been unpleasant affairs, even unsettling, but neither had been anything like this.
No one had laid a hand on me in anger in my entire life.
I wanted to run, run away—well, if I could run, which I could not, given how badly bruised my whole body was. Still, I wanted to get away from the Betterman Academy as quickly as I could, put this, all of it, behind me. I had been silly to think I could impersonate a boy, foolish to believe that my dream of an education could ever be a reality. I would—
And then anger came in.
What was I going to do, become like Little? Live in fear of the likes of Hamish? Oh, no. I had worked too hard, come too far—they would not take this away from me.
"I'm fine," I insisted again as James and Little carried me up the stairs of Proctor Hall to the door of Mrs. Smithers's rooms.
The Education of Bet Page 10