The Education of Bet (13 page)

"Ouch!" Mercy cried, one hand going instinctively to his wound while he shook the fist of the other hand at me, as though it had all been my fault. Then he turned to Hamish. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all?"

"Well, we did tree them," Hamish proclaimed manfully.

"We should just wait here," Mercy said, still rubbing his forehead. "Eventually, they'll have to come down."

"Don't count on it," I said cheerily.

Ignoring me, they settled on the ground beneath the tree, seemingly content to wait us out.

So that was how an hour or more passed, the four of us locked in a stalemate as the day disappeared.

Then the first warning bell for calling-over came.

Calling-over was the ritual that ended each day proper at the Betterman Academy. Prior to dinner, we were all required to appear in the chapel, where the masters would walk up and down the middle aisle yelling, "Silence! Silence!" Then each boy was called by name and was expected to respond "Here!" Missing calling-over was a grave offense, and there was only a quarter of an hour to assume one's position between the first calling-over bell and the last.

"You'd better go," I taunted Hamish and Mercy. "You don't want to be late."

"The rules apply to you too," Mercy pointed out.

"Rules are made by the masters as challenges," I said blithely. "It would be bad form not to try to break them. It's almost what they want us to do."

"Yes," Hamish said, "but getting caught breaking the rules leads to punishment. So now you have no choice but to come down."

"Of course we have a choice," I countered calmly. "And today, Christopher and I choose to be late."

"Christopher?" Hamish was confused.

"Little," I said. "His name's Christopher."

There was a hurried consultation as Hamish and Mercy debated what to do: wait for us to get down—eventually, we would have to go to the privy, they decided—in which case we'd all get in trouble, or run for it.

"You probably only have ten minutes now," I said. "Are you sure you can run that fast in your condition?"

Hamish gave the tree one last great shake.

"Thanks for stopping by!" I yelled after them as they took off through the woods.

Little looked at me then as though I was either the craziest person he'd ever met or his own personal hero, perhaps both.

"You do realize, don't you," he said, "that we're going to get in very big trouble for this and that Hamish will hate you forever?"

"Yes, well," I replied, with a bluff confidence I was no longer certain I felt, "but wasn't it worth it?"

October 1, 18—

Dear Will,

It has come to my attention that the letter you wrote me was peppered with lies. I suppose I could return the favor—or the insult—by telling you lies as well, telling you that everything is wonderful here, that the food is the finest of cuisines and the boys the most capital of fellows. But you, having been at school if not at this particular school, would see right through that, would you not? And so, I will instead say...

You might have warned me what school was really like! Yes, you did tell me about the food; I will grant you that. But you might have told me how the boys are more interested in terrorizing one another than in pursuing anything lofty, like, say, the reason we are all supposed to be here—you know, education? You might have said how hard it is to keep one's eyes on that goal when all around, one is distracted by the constant inanity of boys tossing each other in blankets, persecuting one another for poor singing, getting treed by the river—yes, all three have already happened to me—and otherwise jockeying for superior position.

The truth of the matter is, I
do
love the learning aspect of being here. I love Shakespeare even more than I did when I read to your great-uncle—in particular I love all the plays that deal with women masquerading as men, for obvious reasons—and I have grown to love Dickens, with all his coincidences; how something you think does not matter in chapter 1 turns out to be quite critical before the author rings down the curtain with his "finis." I love the Greek and Latin, although it took me quite some time to master the different characters of the former. I even love the vulgus! But no sooner do I immerse myself in one of those things I have developed such a passion for than some new idiocy presents itself to draw me away. Who would have guessed that one of the chief barriers to getting a good education is being at an actual school? Still, I suppose the opportunity is the key. And I would never have thought of the need to master Greek so that I could read works in the original if I had never come here.

My roommate, an annoyingly self-sufficient—dare I say self-absorbed?—boy named James Tyler, is also a great distraction.

Despite the lies in your letter, I do hope that wherever you are, you are being treated well and that you are happy.

Oh, before I close, I have one last bone to pick with you:

I SHOULD THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE WARNED ME ABOUT COMPULSORY SPORTS
!!!

Your sister in spirit, despite all your lies about where you are and pertinent omissions about school,
Bet

***

It was full dark by the time Little and I made our way back to Proctor Hall that night, dragging our fishing gear behind us. At Little's insistence, we'd waited in the tree a long time after Hamish and Mercy had left us, to ensure that they did not lie in wait; it was Little's great fear that they might change their minds and decide that getting punished for the crime of missing calling-over was a price worth paying if it meant the opportunity to torment us some more. I personally thought Little insane for thinking this. As far as I could tell, Hamish and Mercy were too drunk for such a complex weighing of options, never mind that I suspected that both were sound and fury, signifying nothing, and would never risk their own necks if it could be avoided. But Little refused to accept my reasoning. Little, in his fear, refused to leave the tree.

And I refused to leave Little.

So it was that, by the time we made it back to Proctor Hall, final calling-over had long since passed, and the others were no doubt nearly done with supper. Mr. Winter, having had to stay behind to wait for us, thus missing his own supper, did not look happy.

"Dr. Hunter says that you are to go up to the house and wait for him," Mr. Winter informed us. "As soon as supper is over, he will deal with you directly."

We were at the door when Mr. Winter's next words stopped us. "I do hope your backsides can withstand the beating."

I had never been in a headmaster's house before. I had never even exchanged words with Dr. Hunter though I had been at school for over a month.

The headmaster's residence, even with its round tower and its flag flying proudly above it, was not at all impressive when taken in comparison with Grangefield Hall, but it was certainly far grander than Proctor Hall. I suppose a combination of formal and cozy would be the best way to describe it. The lines of the furniture in the room we were led to were severe, as though to discourage visitors from staying long, and yet on those same pieces of furniture one occasionally glimpsed a needlepoint pillow bearing some sort of cheery legend. The combination of severe lines and comfortable cushions delivered a contradictory message. I suspected the needlepoint was the handiwork of Mrs. Hunter, a handsome woman of about thirty years of age whom I'd only ever seen during chapel; Mrs. Hunter was apparently wise enough to avoid the chaos that characterized every dining experience in Marchand Hall.

As we waited for Dr. Hunter to arrive, Little quaked in fear and I tried to get Little to stop quaking in fear.

"I don't think they've ever actually
killed
anyone here for being late to supper," I joked.

For some reason, that failed to help.

Seeing the headmaster as he entered, his open black robe flowing behind him, his don's cap firmly on his head, I thought that Dr. Hunter had much in common with the appointments of that room.

He was about a decade older than his wife, had black hair graying at the temples, and was easily the tallest man I'd ever met. He was also extraordinarily lean, that leanness giving him an air of severity that was consonant with the furniture about us, and his jaw looked as strong as a mallet. But his eyes ... They were very dark, almost black, yet a light danced in them, and as he greeted us with two brisk nods—"Warren; Gardener"—I could have sworn I saw a smile tugging at the edges of that mouth, the teeth beyond those lips strong and white.

"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."