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The Initiation

Page 9

by Ridley Pearson


  “Do you deny it?”

  “No, of course not, Headmaster. I didn’t hear a question, that’s all.”

  “That sharp tongue of yours will not carry you well, young man. To whom were you paying a visit, and with whom, since as I understand it you were in the company of at least two others?”

  The truth was that James and his pals had not visited anywhere other than the boys’ bathroom. But James was learning his way around the truth, or at least becoming adept at manipulating it to his advantage.

  “Clements and Ismalin, Headmaster. A failed attempt, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I guess they weren’t back from study hall. At least I couldn’t find them. They were going to talk to Coach about getting me onto the varsity soccer team. I wanted to hear how it went.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yes, Headmaster. I very much want to play for varsity.”

  Mr. Cantell leaned forward like a tree bending in a strong breeze and whispered into the headmaster’s ear, which, judging by Crudgeon’s face, was an unpleasant encounter. Mr. Cantell was known in the dorm as Mr. Can’t Tell due to his general cluelessness, strained eyesight, and poor hearing. Crudgeon found him about as welcome as a horse finds flies.

  “I’m looking for volunteers, Mr. Moriarty,” Crudgeon said. “There’s been a small plumbing problem in the girls’ dorm, Lower Two, and I’m looking for real leaders to jump in, to pitch in. What do you say?”

  “Plumbing problem?” James struggled mightily to contain his grin.

  “Something appears to have adversely affected the pressure in the system. Can you believe that? As a result, there’s been some spillage, some overflow. If you have rubber boots, what the Brits call Wellingtons, I would keenly suggest finding them.”

  “Volunteer?” James asked.

  “Then it’s settled! Excellent! I’m glad to hear it,” Crudgeon said. “I knew you were a leader, Mr. Moriarty. Well done!”

  “I was only asking—” James stopped himself, realizing Crudgeon wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  “And let me just say that anyone found to be responsible for the mishap will not only be immediately expelled from school, but will be held financially liable for any damages, and the case will be referred to local authorities as vandalism. If—and I only say ‘if’—any of the persons is caught it will be a black mark on his or her résumé for years to come. May I just add that, in all my years of association with the school, I have never known of such a prank being perpetrated. It required calculation, coordination, and planning. Were it not so loathsome an outcome, one might applaud such resourcefulness.” The headmaster’s mixed message had James’s head spinning. On the one hand he seemed ready to lynch James from the nearest tree; on the other, to celebrate the kind of mind that could conceive of such a thing.

  “O . . . K.”

  He approached James and whispered, to keep away from Cantell. “Mr. Moriarty, a word to the wise: if you are endeavoring to retrieve your family Bible; that is, if you know of its location, you and your associates are advised to leave a note with that location. I spoke of this, did I not? Remember: no questions asked. The clock is ticking for such amnesty. Know this: the Bible must not be handled. This is imperative! It’s why we keep it under lock and key.”

  “Why would my family’s Bible be dangerous, Headmaster? Is it the contents you’re worried about?”

  Crudgeon gestured for Mr. Cantell to leave the room. The hall master did so and closed the door.

  “I said: watch that tongue!” Crudgeon’s face went a fiery red.

  “You know what I think?” James asked rhetorically. “I think there’s something in it. A document folded up in its pages? Or maybe it’s that our genealogy is off. We can be traced back to some revolutionary, or slave owner or pirate or something. The point being: you don’t want anyone to see it.”

  “I cautioned against handling it. I will say no more on the subject. This, for the health and well-being of the handler. Do you take my meaning? I do hope so!”

  “I don’t know anything about the Bible’s location, Headmaster. But if you don’t want us looking for it, why did you tell us about it and then add that until it’s found we’d all be in study hall? You must have wanted us looking for it.”

  The two conducted a short but meaningful staring contest.

  “I think we both know better. Listen to me, James. You would not be the first Moriarty to make trouble in hopes of being free of Baskerville. But, as it is said: be careful what you wish for. This school, this administration, has your best interests at heart. Your future in mind. At this point in your development the outside world will prove far less tolerant and a good deal more demanding. Mark my word.”

  “My father said nearly the exact same thing to me.” James did not appreciate the coincidence. “What’s going on here? What’s with this Bible?”

  “Mr. Cantell!” the headmaster called loudly. The hall master returned.

  “I thought,” Crudgeon said, addressing Cantell, “perhaps we might enlist Messieurs Richmond and Thorndyke to assist Mr. Moriarty with the cleanup, since the three are so often seen in the company of one another. A caution, James: be careful of the company you keep.” Raising his voice again to conversational, Crudgeon offered James a snarl masked as a smile. “Guilt by association can prove as damning as willful participation.”

  Mr. Cantell stepped forward, sensing he was allowed to speak. “I’d dig up some rubber gloves and goggles, if I were you, Mr. Moriarty. The science lab would be a good place to look. You’ll be doing a little exercise in the study of bacteria for the next few hours. You might want a face mask as well if one can be found. You may expect a particularly noisome environment.” The two men departed, snickering. James quickly Googled the word “noisome”—causing or able to cause nausea; a sickening stench—and understood why the men had been moved to amusement.

  CHAPTER 15

  HEATED INTEREST

  RECEIVING A NOTE FROM A BOY WAS SOMETHING new to me, and not at all unwanted. The hand that had penned my name onto the school envelope was strong, precise, and the writing therefore closer to calligraphy than cursive. I opened it with trepidation, Natalie and Jamala watching me the whole time. Determined to keep the contents private, I swiveled from time to time to prevent either of them looking over my shoulder. Natalie had shed the horse barn smell thanks to wearing her school uniform. When Jamala craned to see what I was reading I was forewarned by the tinkle of ceramic beads woven into her hair that turned her into a wind chime.

  I assumed the note was from a boy and not a proctor by the simple fact it was addressed with my first name, Moria, not Miss Moriarty. Never mind my woman’s intuition; I was still growing into it, along with everything else about womanhood. It not only informed me of the fact, but suggested the identity of the boy as well: Lock.

  For one thing, I could imagine Sherlock sending me such a note. For another, it was written in a wide, flowing ink that I was pretty sure belonged to a fountain pen. Sherlock and the headmaster were the only two persons on campus I could imagine using such an instrument. For yet another, neither I nor my roommates had seen it delivered. Mystery surrounded Sherlock like his bizarre wool cape. I found that mystery stimulating, like I imagined a cup of coffee (a beverage I had no desire to try despite its availability in the dining hall). Pulse-elevating. Capable of flushing me with warmth and a kind of giddiness new to me. Considering my high degree of intellect—and all who met me did, as far as I was concerned—such physical and emotional responses rarely visited me. I spent a good deal of my time in my head and only now and then remembered it attached to my often uncoordinated and awkward body, one I didn’t understand or particularly even want to understand.

  So, as I slipped the stout card from the envelope, sheltering it from view with cupped (trembling) hands, I read it with heated interest.

  Observe the darkness as it is caught.

  The extraordinary when it
is fraught,

  alight in random symmetry

  and spend some time with me.

  I uncupped my hands and placed the note onto my well-organized desktop. (My roommates kept their space about as organized as a rat’s nest.) Natalie and Jamala heaved me aside to get a look at it.

  “Huh?” Jamala gasped ignorantly, which, being exactly what I’d expected, was the reason I’d allowed them both to see it.

  “It’s a poem!” gasped Natalie. “How incredibly romantic!”

  “It’s not,” I said.

  “Of course it is. Incredibly romantic.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Who knows?” I said, trying to sound oblivious, which was not easy for me. I was rarely if ever oblivious. Foolish. Childish. Girly. But oblivious? Please!

  “It’s an invitation. There’s no doubt about that whatsoever!” Jamala was the smarter of the two, Natalie the endless romantic.

  “I promised Susan I’d help her with her geography maps. When I come back, I want a full explanation.” Jamala grabbed her books and was off, leaving me alone with Natalie.

  “You know, even if you figure it out, you can’t go alone. You can’t meet a boy in some secret location all alone. I won’t allow it.”

  “That’s a hideous thought,” I said. “No boy in this school would hurt me or any girl, and you know it.”

  “You remember what they said in orientation.” Natalie, something of a pseudo-know-it-all, wasn’t asking. “We girls practice the buddy rule. The poem’s not signed, which is both intriguing and mysterious. Who doesn’t sign an invitation like that? Right there it smells of trouble.”

  “You’re right,” I said, thinking that by agreeing with her I could shut her up.

  “That’s better.” Natalie handled the note to read it. Her touching it annoyed me. I wanted it all to myself. “It’s a pretty poem, but in a weird way. Don’t you think?”

  “Very weird.”

  “But not exactly mental maniac weird, unless that’s a ploy to lure you.”

  “You watch too many horror movies,” I said. “Not all boys who write notes are serial killers.”

  “But we agree it’s from a boy?” Natalie asked.

  “Could be a clever girl, I guess. But, yes, I think it’s a boy.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “I might.”

  “Tell me!”

  “No way! At the moment it’s a meaningless poem, so what’s it matter?”

  “It is, isn’t it? I can’t make it out.”

  This was a test I was giving her, though she remained blissfully unaware of it. She passed the test by failing it. She had no clue of the meaning while I’d already pieced together some of it.

  The word “symmetry” told me to see the poem as a reflection of itself. Therefore “meet with me” referred back to “darkness as it is caught.” Darkness was caught at night. The square root clue had me puzzled. I climbed up onto my top bunk and lay down with my head on the pillow and my eyes on the ceiling. Thinking. Reading. Rereading. Memorizing.

  A girl in a previous year had attached those glowing plastic stars to the ceiling. Maintenance, or some other girl, had removed them but they left behind a brighter paint color where they’d once covered. I had the stars without the phosphorescence, an impression of the sky without the annoying illumination keeping me awake. I allowed my eyes to roam the eleven stars and the curving moon, interrupting my vision by slipping the card between my eyes and the hideously textured surface and reading the lines over and over. I was pretty sure she’d not stuck them up there randomly. Their shadow selves looked familiar to me—some constellation I didn’t know the name of. The term “Seven Sisters” came to mind, though I didn’t think that sounded constellational. I’d learned a number of the clusters from Father when standing barefoot in the sand by the edge of the water, Nantucket Sound lapping at our feet, or lying down on towels to save our necks from getting tight. He’d rattled them off like they were the names of neighbors. I sensed he’d made friends of them, which had opened up more than the sky to me. I had left the time of having dolls as friends and was still too shy or overly protected to have the real kind. I had James. I had memories of Mother I wasn’t sure I wanted. I had this deep ache in me that cried out to fill it, a place where knowledge was stored and a sense that if I didn’t fill it quickly I’d run out of time to do so; that I’d forget before I had the chance to remember. So, where my father filled his place with names of constellations, I filled mine with books. He opened that world, giving me permission to use the library in our Boston home, the one in our summer home and, by far most important to me, the library in his office—so long as he was in the office at the time of my selection.

  This was like being given an award. Or maybe a family sword dating back centuries. The offer represented hope and trust; the hope of discovering worlds as yet unknown, the trust of a man I admired very much. Maybe he’d planned the trip to the beach in the dark to coincide with the offer. Maybe it had just slipped out of him. Maybe he’d identified something in me that told him it was time. I’m not an adult, so I have no idea what triggered the invitation. But it changed me. Stars and constellations will forever fill me with a sense of awe and expectation, of another’s belief in me, of a kind of timelessness that only the blindness crafted by a night beach, the salt smell, and the sound of licking waves can create.

  Observe the darkness as it is caught . . .

  My choice of a place to observe the darkness would have been a beach on Cape Cod, a bit too far away at a hundred miles or more. Where would a boy like Lock catch the night, watch the stars? I wondered. Was it even Lock who’d left me the note? And then it hit me. Observe the darkness . . . The school observatory! The telescope would allow me to see the “extraordinary when it is fraught, alight in random symmetry.” A lush and gorgeous description of the stars. I’d never been to the school observatory but had a vague understanding it was poised atop the hill opposite ours, with the hockey rink, another place I hadn’t visited, in the valley between the two. The story I’d heard was that the observatory was attached to what had once been the grandest estate house between Hartford and Boston, one that had burned down a generation earlier, leaving only its celestial observatory unscathed. At some point the entire estate had been acquired by Baskerville Academy—or quite possibly, the other way around—and the observatory restored and updated.

  I jumped out of bed with far too much enthusiasm and, if I must say, far more gracefulness than usual, landing like a gymnast and hurrying to throw up the window blinds before I thought to consider my actions.

  “What?” called Natalie, who was busy writing a paper she’d put off for days. “Is something out there?” She jumped out of her chair. “Should I call Mistress Grace?” Our hall mistress was as close to a fairy godmother as anyone I’d met. Smart. Unflappable. Fluent in three languages. But she wasn’t my first go-to in a panic, which was clearly Natalie’s current state.

  “No. I’m just hot is all,” I said, hoisting the large window up and throwing it open. One thing the dorms had not been so far was hot. We practically froze each night, in the middle of September, for heaven’s sake. Opening the window was tantamount to insanity by any definition. I had committed a roommate atrocity and worse, I knew all this before I ever did it, making it all the more insane. The blinds clattered behind what the proctors called “the night breeze” but the Weather Channel would have assigned a number to. The room went from cool to chilly to icy in less time than I had to realize my mistake and pull the window shut again.

  “You . . . opened . . . the . . . window!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

  “I think my nose just froze off!”

  “I’m really sorry. Really! It’s just—” I had a choice to make; I decided to include her, though only slightly. “‘Observe the darkness . . . alight.’ The sky! He, if it is a he, is talking about the night sky. He’s telling me to observe the night sky!” I tried to temper
my excitement, but found myself overly carried away once again.

  “Oh my gosh! You’re right. You’re absolutely right! OK, I forgive you.” She pulled open the window herself, oblivious to the chill. If anything, we relished it.

  Our hair blew back as we leaned out the window, craning our necks upward where ghostly clouds raced like Death Eaters. The unseen moon fought a gauzy haze that burnished its edges, bent and twisted like smoke in flight. In between it all, stars sparkled in a nocturnal brilliance. Such sights could only be seen from isolated, lightless places like Baskerville Academy. Or from the beach at our family compound, a place that called so close to my memory I could actually mistake the wind for the faint cough of waves uncurling at my feet.

  It came to me around 2 a.m. I might have been dreaming or maybe not. The square root of Beacon Hill! What a dunce! I suddenly couldn’t wait for tomorrow to be almost yesterday. I would have to slip away halfway through school dinner in order to find out who had left the poem, and why. One of the longest days of my life.

  CHAPTER 16

  HIS OPINION MATTERS

  “HOW DIFFICULT WAS IT TO FIGURE OUT?” Sherlock sat beneath a beautiful curving spiral staircase that coiled around the outside of the round observatory. I stopped, walked back down a few steps, and peered through the metalwork. The sun had set behind the ridge a few minutes earlier, bringing a quick and early dusk.

  “Is that you, Lock? What are you doing curled up in a ball in shadow? Other than hiding, I mean.”

  “Staying warm. You’re late.”

  “It’s ten minutes past seven. I’m quite proud of myself, actually. A girl has a right to be a few minutes late, after all. It must be two miles over to here. I had estimated one and a half. Besides, it’s a steep climb past the hockey rink. It slowed me down.”

  “How difficult?”

  “I didn’t know it was from you, if that’s what you mean. I struggled a bit. It took some missing stars on my ceiling—those glow-in-the-dark kind—to remind me of the Seven Sisters—”

 

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