The Education of Bet

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  When she asked them what had happened, they told her that a contest had simply gotten a little too zealous.

  Despite the pain I was in—did Hamish have to hit me so many times? and so hard?—I could see that she didn't believe them. But what could she do? It would be the same back at the scene we'd just left. The boys would tell the fencing master that it was an accident that I'd been injured so badly, perhaps even blame my lack of skills for what had befallen me, and the fencing master would have no choice but to take them at their word. In fact, he'd no doubt be relieved to have avoided a moral dilemma, for what would he have been compelled to do if brought face to face with the knowledge that one boy had intentionally caused grievous bodily harm to another? We all knew the lay of the land at the Betterman Academy. The very worst crime one could commit was to tell on someone else.

  Even I knew that now.

  "Leave us," Mrs. Smithers commanded James and Little, looking more annoyed than I'd ever seen her. I wondered if she was frustrated that she'd been lied to about what had happened. Perhaps she held James and Little partly responsible for their complicity in those lies?

  Whatever the case, they took their leave after James had put his hand on my shoulder and assured me I would be all right, and Mrs. Smithers closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock.

  "I'm fine," I insisted yet again as she removed my fencing mask.

  "Take everything off," she said, ignoring my words.

  "What?" I said, unsure if I had understood her. She couldn't mean...

  "Your clothes," she said harshly. "How can I possibly treat your injuries, how can I even tell how severe those injuries are, if you keep your clothes on?" She put her hands on her wide hips. "There's no need for modesty. I can assure you, Gardener, that in my time at the Betterman Academy, I've seen many a boy naked."

  Chapter eight

  I remained seated, frozen to the spot.

  "Well, Gardener," Mrs. Smithers said when I refused to move, "are you going to take off your clothes or am I going to have to take them off for you?"

  At last, as though a mesmerist were controlling my actions, I slowly began undoing my fencing tunic, one excruciating button at a time. Then the protective gear, moving slightly quicker now. By the time I got to the last layer of covering between my body and the world, the material that bound my breasts tight, my fingers were working with rapid speed to remove the mummy casing. It was as though it had finally struck me that the end was near, my exposure imminent, and now I simply wanted to be done with it.

  In truth, after the battering I'd received at Hamish's hands, it felt good to be free like that. And hadn't I not so very long ago been contemplating leaving anyway?

  I sat in my chair, trousers still on, my mummy material dangling uselessly from my fingers, and waited for doom to fall on me. And yet, curiously, I felt a strange combination of defiance and detached acceptance about it all. If I'd ever given the matter enough thought, surely I would have realized that eventually it would come to this. Or if not exactly this, then some form of it. Let whatever is to happen, happen, I thought.

  Mrs. Smithers barely glanced at my upper body, perhaps both shocked and embarrassed at the sight of my semi-nakedness, before turning away from me to fill a basin with water. Then she took a cloth, immersed it in the water, and began gently bathing my injuries.

  Hamish's efforts had not broken the skin anywhere, I saw now, but there were more bruises than I could count, the coloration of those bruises already changing to a startling array of hues, angry purples and reds and sickening yellows.

  As the cloth made contact with my skin, I involuntarily flinched back, from both the coldness of the cloth and the sensation of pressure against my injuries.

  "Sorry," Mrs. Smithers apologized curtly. "If I'd known one of you boys was going to get yourself half killed today, I'd have made sure to heat some water in preparedness. As it is..."

  "One of you boys"? Was Mrs. Smithers insane? Was she blind? Could she not see that, whatever else I might be, I was not "one of you boys"?

  "Whoever did this," Mrs. Smithers went on when I did not speak, beginning to apply some sort of ointment to the tender skin covering my ribs, "wanted to do as much damage as possible."

  Of course she was right, there had been grave malice in Hamish's behavior, but what was going on here? Why was Mrs. Smithers not acting shocked? Why was she not sounding the alarm, sending for the housemaster, sending for the headmaster? Why was she not...

  No, I told myself. Of course she wouldn't do that, couldn't do that while I was still half naked. It wouldn't be proper. She would wait until after she'd finished ministering to me, and then she would turn me in. It was only a matter of minutes now, I thought, as she began to wrap cloth around my ribs, cloth not dissimilar to that which dangled from my fingers.

  "It'll hurt even more in the morning than it does now," she cautioned as she worked, "but if you keep this dressing on it, you should heal nicely in no time." She paused, gave the matter some thought. "No, you won't heal in no time, but you will eventually heal. There."

  As Mrs. Smithers had worked, her fingers had moved with deftness, and yet I'd also felt a roughness to her gestures, as though she were angry at something. I'd assumed she was angry with me for my idiocy and my lies. But now, as she reached down and gently pried the dangling fabric from my fingers, I felt a change. Perhaps she pitied me for the mortification that was about to come?

  "Here," she said softly. "You'll be wanting this again."

  "What?" I said dumbly.

  Why was she...? But then I thought, Of course. She's giving me my things back because she can't very well parade me through the school naked.

  I began to wrap the fabric around myself, wincing with the effort; Hamish had assaulted my back as well.

  "Perhaps I can help you with that," Mrs. Smithers offered.

  Without waiting for an answer, she took the fabric and gently began winding it around my upper body, careful to avoid any contact that might be indelicate. Then she helped me back into the fencing tunic.

  "I don't think you need the protective gear anymore," she said as she did up the buttons, "but you'll be wanting to keep yourself covered with this, at least until you get back to your room." She finished the last button. I had the peculiar sensation that I was being dressed like a doll. "There," she said a second time, clearly pleased with herself.

  "What is going on here?" I burst out, the first words I'd spoken, other than the dumb "What," since she'd told me to take off my clothes.

  "I'm sorry?" She looked puzzled.

  "You're sending me back to my room now? But I don't understand. Are you going to send for Dr. Hunter and have him go there? Or are you just going to call a carriage to take me away?"

  "Why would I do either of those things?" Mrs. Smithers looked more puzzled still.

  God! Did I have to say everything myself? "Because I'm a girl!" I half shouted at her in my exasperation.

  "Oh." She paused. "That."

  "Yes!" For some strange reason, I felt like throttling her. "That!"

  "But why would I turn you in now?"

  "Because you've just learned—"

  "Is that what you think?" And then she laughed, practically in my face, the first real mirth I'd ever seen Mrs. Smithers show. "You actually think—" She struggled to control herself, but it appeared useless. "You actually thought—"

  "I fail to see the humor in the current situation," I said, the sternness of my words useless in the face of her gales of laughter.

  Oddly, I think it was my use of the word humor that sobered her.

  "No," she admitted at last, "the current situation is not funny. It is merely funny that you think I am only just today discovering that you are a girl."

  I narrowed my eyes at her. "How long have you known?"

  "How long?" She looked at me as though I'd said something particularly dense. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

  "Do I think you're—"

  "I'v
e known since you brought those sheets to me! Impetigo, my foot. What kind of fool story was that to tell me? What was it you said, that when you were younger you had it so bad you used to bleed like a geyser? Believe me, I know a little bit about medical matters, and I know impetigo doesn't work on a body like that."

  "So that's what clued you in?"

  "Well, that and the quality of the blood on the sheets. I am a woman, after all, Gardener; I do know that a certain kind of blood looks different than others."

  I didn't understand. She'd known all this time, and she hadn't turned me in?

  "What is your real name anyway?" she asked when I failed to speak.

  "It's Elizabeth." I spoke haltingly. "It's Elizabeth Smith. But some call me Bet."

  "Bet." She smiled. "Such a pretty nickname." Then she turned brusque again, becoming all business as she handed me the protective fencing items. "You'd best be off now, Gardener."

  I had no idea what to make of all this.

  "You mean you're really not going to turn me in?" I wondered out loud.

  "Turn you in?" she said. "Are you joking with me?" She laughed again. "I happen to think it's the most marvelous thing I've ever heard of!"

  ***

  I made my way back to my room, still stunned, hearing Mrs. Smithers's words echoing in my mind.

  "In my time at Betterman," she'd said, "I thought I'd seen everything, but I've never seen anything to top this. A girl masquerading as a boy to get an education? My hat's off to you, Bet, and I'll do whatever I can to help—I think it's great to see one of us putting one over on one of them for a change. But do be more careful, won't you? Perhaps I should tell your masters that compulsory sports are out of the question for you for the time being? At least that should minimize one of your risks of exposure."

  James was seated at his desk. He turned when he heard me enter, his expression miserable.

  "Are you all right?" he said anxiously, rising. "You were gone so long, I feared you might be even more injured than you seemed." He took a step toward me, then stopped himself, as though fearful that if he touched me, perhaps laid a hand on my shoulder, he would cause me greater damage. I was grateful that he did not touch me, for if he had, I would surely have broken down in tears: tears for the shock of physical pain; tears for the frustration of having been unable to defend myself against Hamish; tears of relief that I hadn't been exposed, had been granted a reprieve. I could not allow myself to cry in front of him; even though I thought tears were a perfectly reasonable response in these circumstances, it was not what a boy would do. Certainly, it was not what the kind of boy I had decided I would be— had to be—would do.

  "What did Smithers say?" James asked when I failed to respond immediately.

  "She says that I am to be excused from compulsory sports for the time being, which is, I suppose, a good thing, given that I apparently have no talents in that area." I tried a brave, manly laugh, but the effort caused me to wince as it sparked a seizing pain in my ribs. "She says I will live."

  "I suppose that is a good thing as well," James said, attempting to put his own brave smile on it. "Here, sit." He pulled out my chair for me. Having seen my wince, he was all solicitousness now.

  "I'm sorry I did not do more to help earlier," he said once I was seated.

  Without him having to expand on that, I knew what he was talking about. He was talking about his—and everyone else's—failure to intervene when Hamish was pummeling me.

  "It is all right," I said, absolving him now. "We all know that would only have made matters worse."

  "Yes," he said, but he did not look relieved at this acknowledgment.

  "Do not fear," I said. "Eventually, I'm not sure how yet, I will have my revenge on Hamish."

  "I have no doubt that you will."

  I wondered if he believed that, if he believed in me.

  "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

  "No," I said. "All I want to do right now is get out of this fencing costume, since I am no longer to be a fencer."

  "Do you need any help?" he offered.

  I thought of what that would be like, having James help me undress. Curiously enough, it was not an unpleasant thought. But no. I had survived being exposed to Mrs. Smithers. I could not be so lucky twice, never mind the impropriety of it all.

  "That is all right," I said. "I can manage. Now, if you would just..." I indicated the door with a nod of my head.

  "Oh, right," he said, smiling for the first time since my return. "My roommate who is too shy to take his clothes off in front of anybody. Still, are you sure you don't need me to—"

  "Go, James. Please."

  He went.

  But, oh, how a part of me wished that he could stay.

  ***

  October turned into November turned into the early dark days of December.

  After the fencing incident, I had become something of a pariah among the other boys. It was as though my physical humiliation had been so great, in no small part because of the spectacularly public nature of it, that the others feared proximity to me might cause them to catch the same disease. Even Hamish and Mercy avoided me in the initial aftermath. It would have been nice to think they did so out of shame at having gone too far and because they did not want to hurt me any further. But somehow, I did not think this was the case. Rather, I believed they feared their own exposure. Hamish had managed to do so much damage to me because Mercy and Stephens had distracted the fencing master. But they might not be so lucky a second time. And it would reflect poorly on them if they were caught physically damaging a boy who had already been so ... accidentally injured.

  Although they were careful to avoid me, I was not careful to avoid them. Indeed, I actively sought them out. I did this for two reasons: one, revenge for my own sake; and two, revenge for Little's sake, for they had steadily increased their efforts against him.

  And so, whenever we were waiting in line to enter chapel or some such place, I made my way to a position behind Hamish and Mercy and elbowed them hard in the ribs or kicked them in the backs of the knees. Then I dropped back into the crowd before they could see me.

  Through it all, James remained by my side. He never explained his newfound allegiance to me, but I suspected it stemmed from his guilt about not coming to my aid more forcefully during the fencing incident. So after I dropped back into the crowd following my meager assaults, he assumed my position in line, meaning his was the face Hamish and Mercy saw when they whirled around. It left them frustrated at not being able to fight back; for some reason, they were still intimidated by James. And James was with me one Saturday night when I got it into my head to replace the beer in Mercy's bottles with vinegar that I'd borrowed from Mrs. Smithers.

  "The looks on their faces!" Back in our room later on that night, we laughed at the outrage that followed hard on their usual manly swigs.

  And James was with me the following night when we scrawled Mercy's and Hamish's names on the outside walls of Proctor Hall, coupled with the most vile of epithets.

  And James was most definitely there with me the night before Christmas holiday when we stole into their room in the dead of night, doused the slumbering Hamish and Mercy with buckets of water, and shouted, "For Little!" before racing back to the safety of our own room and breathlessly locking the door behind us.

  We collapsed onto our individual beds, laughing, as we listened to the drenched scoundrels' muted curses as they twisted the doorknob. Those curses were no doubt muted because they did not want to rouse Mr. Winter, whose rooms were closer to ours than to theirs and who would not be pleased if awakened, no matter what crime had been committed against them.

  "I never would have guessed that first day when I met you," James said, "but I shall miss you over the Christmas holiday."

  There was genuine puzzlement in his voice, and I wondered at this. Lately, I'd noticed a warmth in James toward me, and it did not seem to be just because of our newfound camaraderie as partners in crime. It almost seemed—
dare I say it?—that he had a sort of attraction toward me, in his looks and in his deeds. But no sooner would I catch a glimpse of such a thing than he would withdraw, as though confused by his own behavior, his own feelings.

  I, of course, was not at all confused to find my feelings toward him growing. Daily, he seemed more and more attractive, and not simply because he was so handsome.

  But I could say none of that.

  "Yes," I finally said, "I suppose I shall miss you too."

  ***

  Grangefield Hall looked much smaller than the last time I'd seen it, more than three months earlier. But then I wondered: Had the place somehow shrunk, or had I managed to grow larger?

  Of course, at least for that first week of my three-week holiday, I was returning to it as Will Gardener. Perhaps that was what made the difference.

  It was not just the building that looked so much smaller to me. The old man, who had loomed so large to me not so very long ago, looked smaller now too. More shrunken than I remembered him being, more infirm as well. I worried for the first time: What if something truly awful happened to the real Will Gardener while he was off on his adventure? True, the letters I regularly received from him indicated that he was happy enough and well enough, as much as someone could be in the military. But it was hard to tell what was truth and what were lies. Surely I could not keep up my charade forever, even though I was determined to keep it up at least through the holiday break. But what if the real Will Gardener was injured or, worse, killed? What if something happened and the old man never saw him again?

  "Uncle," I greeted him solemnly, feeling the responsibility to succeed in my impersonation more keenly than I had before. Previously, I'd wanted to carry it off for my own sake, so as not to be caught out. But now I wanted to carry it off for his.

  "My boy," he said warmly, holding out a gnarled hand to me.

  "It is good to be home," I said.

  As I spoke the words, I realized how true they were. It was a relief to be away, at least for the time being, from the problem of Hamish and Mercy. It was a relief to be free of the responsibility of Little. It was even a relief to be free of the attraction I felt toward James, and of his for me. I wondered briefly, wildly: Could James like boys? In a way that was, well, contrary to my liking of him?