I want to say I don’t give a damn because I don’t plan on being here for day two, but he’s probably right. I can try to live in the woods all I want, but it would only be a matter of time until I get caught and hauled back to juvi, jail, and then prison.
Stupid infrared helicopters already caught me once.
As huge as this place is, they probably have their own flying around scanning the hillsides every night for runaway work-study kids. Based on what Azzie said, they probably also have a bunch of barking German Shepherds and mean guards helping hunt down the runaway work-study kids. Can you say human tranquilizer darts? No, it wouldn’t be mean guards. It would be the rich Fundies chasing us on horseback with their expensive customized tranquilizer rifles and laughing at our misery, one of them would be blowing a hunting bugle over the barking beagles (they’d have those too), and the Fundies would get extra credit for every work-study kid they capture.
No, they don’t need any of that. They just need a deadly electric fence. Like the one in front of me.
I heave a sigh.
“Come on, Mary,” Jonah says. “Let’s get you going.” He puts a big hand behind my back and moves me toward the main buildings.
I go willingly.
It’s not so bad here, right?
Not when Jonah literally has my back with his gigantic hand and I guess Rob is watching over me from who knows where and gifting me a much needed beanie.
There’s worse places.
Chapter 16
“You’re late, Miss—” Mr. Klein stands on the empty stage of the auditorium. Well, almost empty. There’s a podium center stage, and a big projection screen hangs behind him. On it is a photo of a circular stone Greek theater. Mr. Klein checks some papers on his podium and finishes, “—Angerman.”
Every kid in class turns their heads to stare at me from where they sit in the sloped rows of theater seats. The Fundies in navy jackets glare hate, the work-study kids beam sympathy. They sit only in the back two rows. The Fundies are scattered all over the auditorium, sitting wherever they please, except for an open row between them and the work-study kids. Call it no-man’s land. Even so, quite a few Fundies are crammed into the corners as far back from the stage as possible. It’s ironic because the work-study kids get the treasured slacker back rows all to themselves, which appear to be off limits to the privileged Fundies. Or is it the Fundies don’t want to sit in the back back because it’ll make them look third class? Who knows.
I consider flipping off all the glaring and gawking Fundies, except what would be the point? I grab the first seat I find. Right next to Azzie, who saved me a seat by the aisle. She lifts her book bag and motions with a smile.
Great.
I drop down next to her.
“I saved you a seat,” she whispers.
“I can see that, thanks,” I smirk.
Mr. Klein uses his stage voice to call out, “It is Miss Angerman, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I sigh because everyone is still staring at me.
He marks something in his notebook on his podium. “Don’t be late again, Miss Angerman. You’re allowed one tardy per term. Any more than that, and you will forfeit your right to be here.”
Is he serious? I’ve never heard of anyone getting kicked out of class because of two tardies. Er, wait. Does he mean kicked out of the academy? I hate to think, but knowing Ms. Skelter, I wouldn’t be surprised. I need to ask. “Mr. Klein, do you mean—”
“Your hand, Miss Angerman.”
“What?”
“If you have a question, raise your hand.”
“But I’m already talk— I mean we’re already talking to each—”
“Your hand, Miss Angerman,” he insists.
The class laughs.
I heave a sigh and raise my hand.
It takes two years for him to point at me and say, “Yes, Miss Angerman?”
“Did you mean two tardies gets me kicked out of class or…” I’m afraid to say it.
“Two tardies in one term will lead to the forfeiture of your tenure here at Castle Hill Academy.”
“Are you serious?” I groan.
“If you doubt me, Miss Angerman, please consult your student handbook. You did get one, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, as I was saying, a festival was held each year in Athens in honor of the god Dio—”
“Mr. Klein?” I ask.
“Your hand, Miss Angerman,” he says with increasing irritation.
Is everyone here a rules Nazi? I raise my hand again.
He points at me, “Yes, Miss Angerman?”
“Did you mean two tardies per class?”
“No, Miss Angerman. I mean two tardies in toto.”
“In what? Oh, sorry.” I raise my hand.
“In toto, Miss Angerman. It’s Latin. Perhaps you should have taken that as your elective instead of this.” He starts to speak then stops. “Are you finished? Or would you prefer to do all the talking henceforth? Perhaps I should turn the lectern over to you.”
More hateful laughter from the class.
I sink into my seat and do my best to disappear.
Mr. Klein goes back to lecturing about the history of Greek Theater.
While taking notes in my school-approved notebook with my school approved fountain pen, which Azzie helps me assemble despite me not wanting her help, I can’t help but notice her penmanship is precise, like calligrapher precise. Her class notes are a work of art. I’d be jealous if I didn’t think she was Eliza-bitch.
I also notice the auditorium. That word doesn’t do it justice. This place is like a grand opera house, except completely modern. Sleek and state of the art with artful acoustic panels suspended from the high ceiling, a balcony overhead and elevated theater boxes on the sides. Talk about extra. Most schools I went to didn’t even have dedicated theaters. They did plays in the lunch room.
At some point during the lecture, which I’m actually enjoying, a wave of titters flitters across the students in their seats. They’re reacting to—
“Do you hear that?” Azzie whispers.
“Hear what?” I whisper back. “I’m trying to take notes.” Fountain pens take some getting used to. The ink just runs and runs.
“Listen!” she hisses.
Then I hear it.
Moans. Male and female.
“It’s coming from one of the boxes,” Azzie offers.
A nearby work-study boy says, “It’s coming, alright.”
The kids next to him all giggle.
Mr. Klein is so busy booming away in his stage voice and describing the slides in his PowerPoint presentation, he doesn’t notice until the moans are so loud and obnoxious they’re impossible to miss. He hollers, “Whoever is up there, stop what you’re doing and show yourselves!”
The moaning turns to screaming. The sexual kind.
“Yes, Chase! Yes!” a young woman squeals.
The kids in the auditorium laugh.
“Mr. Wendingham!” Mr. Klein roars. “If that’s you, I’ll—!” More moans. “Stop what you’re doing and return to your seat immediately!”
“Don’t stop!” the young woman squeals.
“Mr. Wendingham!”
I’m assuming Chase’s last name is Wendingham?
“It’s not Chase!” squeals a reedy male voice from the box that sounds nothing like the Chase I met earlier. “It’s! It’s! It’s Tinsley!”
More laughter and all eyes are on a nerdy looking Fundy kid with big glasses who’s blushing like mad.
“You hear that, Tinsley?” A jocky looking Fundy chuckles. “You’re finally getting laid.”
Geeky looking Tinsley appears to be in love with the idea, but everyone laughs at him and his hopeful blushing turns to embarrassment then humiliation as Fundy kids throw wads of paper at him.
“I know that’s you, Wendingham!” Mr. Klein shouts and spins on the heel of his loafer and marches off stage. A backstage door slams open or closed, I ca
n’t tell which, then all goes silent.
One of the Fundies laughs, “You better go, Chase! Klein is coming for your ass!”
Sure enough, Chase stands up in the elevated box and belts his slacks. His tie hangs loose and his shirt is unbuttoned. He grabs his jacket off the floor with one hand, and a beautiful blonde Fundy girl with the other. He pulls her to her feet by the wrist. For a second, I think it’s Eliza-bitch, but Azzie is sitting right next to me. The blonde in the box hastily pushes her skirt down and wraps her arms around her unbuttoned blouse and jacket. Chase rips open the door at the back of the box and hauls the girl out.
“Wait! My panties!” she gasps in panic, lunges, grabs them off the floor, and the two of them dash out the door.
Everyone in the auditorium laughs.
You can hear pounding shoes from the hallway behind the auditorium walls.
Seconds later, Mr. Klein bursts into the box. “Where’d they go?!”
More laughter from the audience, because this has turned into a classic farce, you know, an episode of I Love Lucy or The Carol Burnett Show, both of which I used to watch with my mom and grandma on DVD when I was little because Mams grew up on those shows.
“They dropped over the railing!” one of the Fundies shouts from below.
Mr. Klein grabs the railing like he’s going to launch himself over and give Chase a chase. Everyone gasps, but he’s only looking, eyes searching for the guilty moaners.
Another Fundy shouts and points at the back of the auditorium, “They went thataway!”
More laughter and the farce is complete.
Mr. Klein tries to look, but the main balcony is blocking his view of the main doors on the ground floor. “Someone stop them!” No one moves. Mr. Klein grumbles in frustration and runs out the door at the back of the box. More thudding footsteps as he presumably chases after Chase.
I turn to Azzie and ask, “Who was that blonde with him?”
“With Chase?” She giggles demurely and covers her mouth. “I’m not sure.”
“Was it your sister? Eliza—” I almost say Eliza-bitch. “Elizabeth?”
“I couldn’t see.” She is such a liar.
Everyone saw.
Not that it matters. Who cares what Chase was doing up in that balcony? I’m not even hot from thinking about it. Not one bit. Balcony box sex during class? Really? With a guy who may as well be a fashion model? Like anybody cares about that. Probably the only person who does is that kid Tinsley, who looks like he wishes he was Chase up there with that blonde. Me? I couldn’t care less who that blonde was. Or what Chase was doing to her—
At that point, I finger my pussybow, trying desperately to loosen it because it’s suddenly stifling in here.
Chapter 17
After class, Azzie leads me to the Convent. I try to decline, but she says we have to work tonight.
“Are you serious?” I groan as we walk across campus in a rush with the other work-study kids while the Fundies lounge around outside in the perfect summer weather, laughing it up and relaxing, many of them swiping away at their smart phones and smiling. Did I mention I haven’t seen a single work-study kid with a smart phone? Are you surprised?
“Completely,” Azzie says, pulling me along. “Joan told me to make sure you got your work assignment as soon as class was over, and make sure you get set up with a room.”
“She did? Like a dorm room or whatever?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Oh, good. I’d like to put my book bag and backpack somewhere safe.”
“Can I carry one for you?” she says kindly.
“Oh, I’m fine. You’ve already got yours.” And I don’t trust her with my stuff.
The Convent building looks like exactly what you’d expect. A 19th century Spanish convent with a red brick roof that matches the other buildings here. Azzie leads me inside to a small office. A stocky woman sits behind the desk wearing black. No wimple or anything overly nunnish, but she sure looks like one. She’s punching buttons on an antique adding machine. She has to keep cranking a lever on the side to make the machine rattle. Each time she does, another quarter inch of paper spits out, forming a long roll curling onto the desk.
“Ms. Braunschott?” Azzie asks politely.
“One moment!” Ms. Braunschott barks without looking up. She punches buttons and throws the lever several more times, jots down something in a ledger using a ragged pencil that looks like it was sharpened with a pocket knife, and finally looks up. “To what do I owe the interruption?” Her smile is white with irritation, but her cheeks bake red with rage.
“I brought the new girl,” Azzie offers. “Mary Angerman.”
“I can see that,” Ms. Braunschott scowls. She steeples her fingers on her distressed wooden desk and looks me over like she’s apprising a side of beef. She glares at Azzie. “You may go, Ms. Morgan-Hearst.”
“Yes ma’am,” Azzie whispers, does a quick curtsy, and leaves.
“Close the door,” Ms. Braunschott commands.
“Um—”
“Now, Miss Angerman.”
Not another one. Ms. Skelter was bad enough. I sigh and turn. My backpack is currently slung over one shoulder and I’m holding my book bag in my other hand, so I set it down on the floor and close the door with that hand. Then I face Ms. Braunschott.
“Your bag, Miss Angerman.”
“What about it?”
“Did I give you permission to set it down?”
Is she serious?
“Answer me, Miss Angerman.” Ms. Braunschott has gunmetal gray hair pulled back in a severe bun so tight it’s strangulating and serves as a makeshift facelift. She also has a burly longshoreman quality that Ms. Skelter lacks. Like, Ms. Braunschott could beat up adult men without breaking a sweat. It’s scary, really. “I don’t have all day, Miss Angerman.”
Flustered, I shake my head, “What were you asking?”
“Your bag. Did I give you permission to—”
“Oh, right.” I turn to grab it.
“DON’T INTERRUPT, MISS ANGERMAN!” Ms. Braunschott barks louder than a bazooka.
She’s so loud, I’m literally scared straight and stand bolt upright at attention because it seems like the right thing to do when the devil is your drill sergeant.
Her voice cuts low, “Did I give you per—”
“I’m sorry, I was just,” I quickly grab my book bag off the floor before this gets any worse. When I realize I just interrupted her again, I cringe at attention, expecting the worst.
Ms. Braunschott looks ready to bite a chunk of solid wood off her desktop, which is at least an inch thick, chew it up, and spit wooden bullets at me.
It takes everything I have to stand facing her. The only thing stopping me from running out of here is my deep desire to not get shot in the back by a wooden bullet.
Eventually, Ms. Braunschott grumbles, “Are we going to have a problem, Miss Angerman?”
“No!”
Ms. Braunschott re-steeples her fingers. “Good.”
She turns in the squeaky metal chair behind her desk and opens a wooden filing cabinet. Busies herself doing who knows what while I stand there. Lays papers on her desk. Writes stuff down.
What is she doing?
Do I just stand here until forever?
She looks at the tick-tock clock on the wall. It’s some old vaguely German looking cuckoo clock, I think. That makes three, if you ask me. The clock, Ms. Braunschott, who is obviously a nut job, and me for being crazy enough to actually stand here instead of bolting to the nearest CPS office to file a complaint. This scared straight tough love stuff plays great on TV, but I can’t believe it’s allowed in this day and age.
Ms. Braunschott picks up the handset of an old black phone and dials, which takes forever. Finished, she waits for someone to pick up on the other end, which I swear takes twenty or thirty rings before someone answers (I guess they don’t have voicemail?), then she says, “Have someone send Miss Barker to my office immediately.” Then she
hangs up. Wow. Talk about rude. Who’s the one with no manners now?
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
“Get that,” Ms. Braunschott says without looking up from her pencil and papers.
I want to ask sarcastically if I have her permission, but I don’t want her to kick my ass with her dockworker galoshes, or whatever she’s wearing under her old wooden desk. For all I know, she has army tank tracks for legs, because she’s clearly at least half machine, if not more. I turn and open the door.
A girl about my age with auburn hair steps inside.
Ms. Braunschott levels looks at the two of us, “Miss Angerman, this is your new roommate, Miss Barker. Here is your key. Don’t lose it.” She holds it out. “Miss Barker will explain the do’s and don’ts, won’t you, Miss Barker?”
“Yes, Ms. Braunschott,” Miss Barker curtsies.
“Like you, Miss Barker, Miss Angerman will be on cleaning detail until further notice. I’ll have a uniform sent to your room immediately. You may go.”
What a bitch. I turn to go.
“Your key, Miss Angerman,” Ms. Braunschott grumbles behind me.
I roll my eyes for the benefit of Miss Barker, then turn around and take the key from Ms. Braunschott. “Do I curtsy, or…?” Oops. It just slipped out. I didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic, but I did. Probably because I was trying to impress Miss Barker with my rebellious disregard for what any adult in a position of authority thinks.
Ms. Braunschott’s eyelids flutter like she’s holding in an explosion. “Miss Angerman, you are not the first smart mouth to pass through that door, and you will not be the last. If you desire to remain here at Castle Hill, you will learn your place, or that will be the end of you.” The way she says it makes me think she would stomp my head with great glee rather than bother with sending me back to jail. “Use your intelligence for your studies, not to amuse yourself and your peers.”
Curtsying for her makes me want to puke, but I do it anyway.
“See how easy that was?” Ms. Braunschott grins like an ogre.
I force a smile.
“You may go.”
Rich Boys vs. Poor Boys (The Cruel Kings of Castle Hill Academy, Book 1) by Devon Hartford kd103 Page 13