Harrison Squared (18 page)

The Scrimshander takes out his long knife, and Tobias panics. (I certainly understood
that
.) He grabs George and starts leading him through the pitch-black caves. They immediately get lost, but Tobias keeps running, because he can hear the Scrimshander calling to them. At one point Tobias smacks his head against a rock and nearly knocks himself out.

And when he gets up, George is gone.

*   *   *

The class ended, and Lydia was again surrounded by friends: Garfield, Flora, the tall kid with the bulldozer forehead—basically the same crew she ate lunch with. She walked in the center of them, and I could see her fingers moving. Whatever they were saying, Lydia was running the conversation, and her friends were acting like bodyguards keeping the paparazzi away.

Lydia couldn't hide from me in history class, though. She sat directly in front of me, her back straight as the blackboard Mr. Waughm was writing on. I leaned forward and said quietly, “How long have you Palwicks lived in Dunnsmouth?”

She ignored me.

“Forever, right? Probably live in the same family house. I bet you even give your family boat the same name, generation after generation.”

She looked over her shoulder at me. “What is the
matter
with you?”

One of the last passages in Tobias' diary; that was the matter. Tobias stumbles out of the caves, and it's past dawn. He's really late. His ship is out in the bay, getting ready to depart, and all the ship's boats have left. He's stranded.

I would have gladly let the Ship go, if I were anywhere but Dunnsmouth. I begged for help. A local fisherman looked at my bloodied face and hands with disgust, taking me for a drunken brawler. But he agreed to row me out to the ship on his skiff, which cut through the water as swift as the sea bird for which it was named.

His son, a black-haired boy with the largest eyes I have ever seen, kindly bound my hands with cloth. Something about that boy reminded me of the figure of the beautiful woman I had seen in the cave. “Tell me your name,” I demanded. “I will repay you when I can.”

He told me reluctantly his name, but it was clear he wanted nothing more to do with me.

In the margins of the diary, Tobias had written a sentence, then underlined it: “
For services—Elias Palwick, The Albatross.
”

“Tell me, Lydia—who was on the
Albatross
the night it crashed into my mom's boat?”

I expected her to pretend confusion or deny everything. I was even braced for a slap to my face. But I wasn't prepared for Lydia's big eyes suddenly filling with tears.

She turned away from me, and I sat back in my seat, feeling guilty—which didn't seem fair at all.

Mr. Waughm finished the diagram he was sketching on the board and turned to us with a pleased smile. With his scrawny neck and baggy suit, he looked like a man who'd lost three hundred pounds in a crash diet but had no money for a new wardrobe.

He opened his arms. “People throw around these words as if they're interchangeable. But who can tell me what they really mean?”

The room was silent.

“Come now,” Waughm said. “Let's start with ‘dictatorship.' That's the easy one.”

Again, no one said anything.

“A dictatorship,” Mr. Waughm said, sounding a little put out, “is rule by one person or a small group. But a dictator is a single, absolute ruler. Like, say, a CEO, or the matriarch of a family, or even”—he smiled at his cleverness—“the teacher in a classroom.”

No one spoke.

Waughm's smile faded. “Okay then,” he said. He rubbed his hands as if to restore his circulation. “Now the tricky ones. Dictatorships can come in two flavors. What's the difference between authoritarianism and totalitarianism?” He swung his head about, each eye taking in a separate swath of the room. “Someone. Anyone.”

No one even looked like they were thinking of an answer. Fingers, however, were moving.

“I need a response,” Waughm said. “Yes, both are effective forms of government, but they
are
different.” He pointed to the boy with the wide forehead. “Bart. Illuminate us.”

“I'd prefer not to,” he said. His voice was a cave-like bass.

“What do you mean, prefer?” Waughm said. “I don't care what you
prefer
. Answer the question.”

I held up my hand, and Waughm instantly swung an eye in my direction.

I said, “Both are rule without consent of the people.”

“Harrison. Yes. Go on.”

I hesitated. I knew the definitions—I'd learned all this stuff back in seventh grade, plus the terms were discussed in the opening chapter of the textbook Waughm had given me on the first day—but if the answers were so easy, why wasn't anyone else talking?

“Is that the extent of your knowledge, Mr. Harrison?” Waughm smirked at the other side of the room, as if saying, Can you believe this guy?

“Totalitarian governments,” I said, raising my voice, “attempt to rule
everything
about their citizens' lives. Not only what they do publically, but privately too. That's the ‘total' part. The system depends on a charismatic leader with some kind of ideology that he gets everyone to buy into.”

Waughm nodded, happy to get an answer, even if it was from me. “Yes! Charisma! Every great leader has it. Am I right, people?”

No one spoke.

Waughm coughed and moved toward my side of the room. “Authoritarians are unpopular with their citizens,” he said. “They rule for ruling's sake, just to keep control. But a totalitarian is going somewhere. If you want to reduce crime, eliminate terrorism, keep your enemies at bay, and create some
lovely
palaces, there's only one form of government that will do the job.” He scanned the room. Everyone seemed to be staring into space.

“Totalitarianism?” I said.

Now Waughm was getting annoyed with me. He turned to address the rest of the room. “You may ask yourself, why is that so, Mr. Waughm? Well, I'll tell you. These governments work because the people are united not only behind a great leader, but a great
idea
. It doesn't matter what the idea is, as long as it appeals emotionally. The citizens can
feel
a sense of purpose that guides everything. ‘Everything within the state, nothing outside the state, nothing against the state.' Benito Mussolini said that.”

“Didn't we kick his butt in World War Two?” I asked.

All the fingers in the room stopped moving. Mr. Waughm slowly turned to face me.

“That's true…,” he said, drawing out the word. “However, that doesn't mean Mussolini was wrong. Human beings
need
a sense of purpose. A hierarchical organization—like say, a church—can provide that. Obedience to the organization relieves stress and provides happiness. Ipso facto, people are happiest when they can stop worrying and learn to love their leader.”

“That's bullshit,” I said.

Faces turned toward me. I hadn't meant to swear, but come on. Waughm was being ridiculous.

“True power derives from the consent of the governed,” I said. “Thomas Jefferson. Declaration of Independence.” If I'd been holding a mike, this would be the point at which I dropped it and walked away. Unfortunately, I had no microphone, and the class gong did not ring.

“Language, Mr. Harrison!” Waughm said. “Report yourself to the office, immediately.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I will not be disrespected.”

“That's another thing,” I said. “Totalitarian regimes tend to collapse as soon as people speak up.”

“Out! Out this moment!”

I picked up my backpack. Lydia turned in her chair to look up at me. I couldn't read the expression on her face.

I walked straight to the office. Then straight past it. Then straight out of the building.

*   *   *

Aunt Sel was stretched out on the couch when I banged through the front door. “You look like a man who needs a drink,” she said. I didn't laugh. “Right, inappropriate,” she said. “I'll have yours.”

“I'll be in my room,” I said. It took some effort not to slam the bedroom door too. I fell into the bed and stared at the ceiling. The brown paint was peeling away like dead skin.

I was prepared for a good long session of fuming and seething—I'm only good because I practice—when those lost hours of sleep rushed me from the blind side and clobbered me.

Seconds later Aunt Sel was shaking me awake. At least it felt like seconds.

“You have a visitor,” she said. She was smiling weirdly.

The sky outside the window was black. I wasn't sure what time it was. I sat up groggily and asked, “Who?” Then thought: It better not be Lub.

“You look fine,” she said, and walked out.

What did that mean?

I got to my feet, tightened the strap on my non-meat leg, and went out to the living room. Lydia Palwick was standing inside the front door. She wore a heavy black coat with a wide collar, and a black beret. Her hands were tucked into her pockets.

“You two are school friends?” Aunt Sel asked.

“We have all the same classes,” Lydia said.

“Do you want to come inside? I have crackers, and the most interesting cheese I found in the market. It's unlike anything I've ever tried.”

“I actually came to pick up Harrison for the study group,” Lydia said. I opened my mouth, and Lydia quickly said, “Didn't he tell you?”

“He's been asleep since school ended,” Aunt Sel said. “I didn't even wake him up for supper. How about I feed you two before you take off?”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” Lydia said. “We have plenty of sandwiches.”

“Your mother made sandwiches for your study group?” Aunt Sel said. “That is so lovely.”

“I live with my aunt, actually,” Lydia said. She nodded at me. “It's how we bonded.”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Bonded.”

Aunt Sel opened the door for us and said to Lydia, “I have to ask. You have such lovely hair, and it just
shines
. What kind of product do you use?”

Lydia blinked her big eyes. “Soap.”

“Ah,” Aunt Sel said. “I'll have to try that.”

Lydia said to me, “Don't forget the diary. We'll need that for homework.”

“Right,” I said. I went back to my room and retrieved
Tobias Glück: A Scrimshander's Diary.
Then we walked outside into the cold dark. “I'm guessing there's no actual study group,” I said.

“Nope.”

“So what's going on here?”

“You said we had to talk,” she said. “We're going to talk.” She started walking up the road, toward town. “This way.”

14

But tell me, tell me! Speak again,

Thy soft response renewing—

What makes that ship drive on so fast?

What is the Ocean doing?

Dunnsmouth was a town too small for streetlamps, but our way was dimly and sporadically lit by the windows of houses tucked behind the trees. Lydia walked fast, thank goodness. The damp had almost instantly worked its way under my hoodie, and I was shivering.

“What's the matter with your leg?” Lydia asked.

“What are you talking about?”

She glanced back at me—I was still having trouble keeping up—and said, “This will go better if you don't lie to us.”

Us?
I thought.

She said, “I can see the way you walk. You hide it well, but there's obviously something wrong with your right leg.”

No one back home noticed my gait. Or if they did, they were too polite to say anything. Lydia, it seemed, occupied a data point on the top right corner of the Observant / Rude chart.

“There's nothing
wrong
with it,” I repeated. “It's just made of advanced space-age materials.”

“How'd you lose it?”

“Just careless, I guess. Listen, could you just tell me—” To my right, a shadow slipped from tree to tree. I lost a step, and Lydia kept motoring up the hill. I jogged to catch up.

“That's where I live,” Lydia said. She pointed at a two-story house to our right. The top windows were dark.

“Do you really live with your aunt?” I asked.

“And uncle.” She walked past the house without pausing.

“Okay, now I really don't have any idea where we're going,” I said.

“Let me see the book,” she said.

I handed her the diary. “I'm not making up the stuff about the Palwicks.”

She put the book in her shoulder bag without opening it. “I didn't say you were.”

“I do have to return that,” I said. “Eventually.”

“I'm a fast reader.”

At the Standard Grocery she took a hard left into an alley between the store and a tall, narrow house. We cut through a parking lot, then into another alley. I couldn't see a thing. Lydia reached back, seized me by the shirt, and said, “Almost there.”