The Education of Bet (9 page)

Mr. Winter, the master of Proctor Hall, was a short man, round as a Christmas goose, with little hair, only a horseshoe of black rimming his otherwise bald pate. He was also, apparently, a deaf man, for he did not seem to notice the overabundance of noise that thundered the walls as he led me up the stairs to my room.

As we turned onto the landing, with me barely able to drag the heavy trunk up the stairs behind me, I caught my first sight of three of my floor mates. One was a tall hulk of a boy with yellow hair and disturbingly pale blue eyes. He had on a purple and red waistcoat, a sign that he was somehow different from the rest of us. Another one of the boys was also tall, but he had the build of a twisted string bean, and his brown hair and squinty brown eyes gave him the appearance of a rodent. As for the third boy, who had a shock of curly red hair badly in need of cutting, it was difficult to gauge his height since he was curled up in the large arms of the first boy.

"Ooh, New Boy," the hulking one said upon seeing me. I couldn't be entirely positive, but I was fairly certain that that was a sneer I saw stretching out his lips. Then, as though my arrival were of no immediate importance, he turned his attention back to the string bean. "Here, catch," he said.

Before I knew what was happening, the hulking one tossed the boy he was holding, and the string bean stretched out his arms, just barely grasping and holding on to the flying object.

Mr. Winter began to lead us past as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

"Your turn," the string bean said, and suddenly the third boy was flying through the air again, only this time he was screaming.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing: they were playing catch with a human being!

"Um, shouldn't someone do something about that?" I suggested to Mr. Winter, casting furtive glances over my shoulder as the master plodded down the hall.

"Whatever for?" he said. "It's just high spirits."

"Yes, but someone could get"—I heard a loud thump behind me, the third boy crashing to the floor—"hurt."

"Pish-tosh. Boys will, after all, be boys." He stopped in front of a closed door. "Here we are."

Mr. Winter turned the knob without knocking first.

Later on, I would more fully register the appearance of the room that was to be my home for however long I could get away with my plan: the lone narrow window that let in little light even at high noon; the fireplace with no logs in it; the hardwood floors with no carpet to warm one's feet on cold mornings; the walls that perhaps had once been cream but were now stained to more of a grayish brown in spots; the two wooden desks and chairs, more utilitarian than decorative, as were the two wardrobes; the two narrow beds, shoved up against opposite walls.

I would take in all of the meagerness of my new lodgings later, because in that moment I was too busy taking in the first sight of the person I would be sharing it with.

"Gardener, meet James Tyler," Mr. Winter said, introducing us, although I must confess, I barely registered the words.

I'd read about beauty in books. I'd even seen some of it in the world. But I'd never before seen so much of it gathered up into a single human being.

James Tyler was a good six inches taller than me; lean without being skinny; with hair that looked like a successful alchemist had fashioned it, adding just a hint of platinum to all that gold; and eyes the color of the ever-changing sea.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, holding out a hand with fingers so long and strong, I thought he must be able to play piano concertos.

I know I must have stammered out something, but later on I could not for the life of me remember what that something had been. I do know it was a long moment before I had the presence of mind to thrust out my own hand and feel the warmth of his fingers as he grasped it.

"You should be safe enough, at least while you are in here," Mr. Winter said, clapping his hand on my shoulder briefly, preparatory to his departure. "Tyler is one of our more, er,
human
students." He left the room.

"Shall I show you around?" my new roommate offered.

"I wish you would," I said, only belatedly remembering that it was high time I let go of his hand. I prepared to follow him wherever he might lead, anywhere.

"Wouldn't you like to stow your things first?"

"Hmm?" I was still dwelling on the warmth of those fingers touching mine.

"Your things." He indicated the trunk behind me.

"Oh!" I said, surprised to see the handle still in my hand; I looked at the trunk as though it were a persistent stranger who had followed me in.

"I've already put mine in the wardrobe on the right," he said helpfully.

Glancing over, I saw that he'd left the wardrobe slightly ajar, and I observed all manner of masculine clothing peeking out. That casualness certainly wouldn't do for me, not when in addition to the suits and other articles I'd packed there was also a dress and wig.

Opening the wardrobe on the left, I inquired, casually, I hoped, "Are there, um, keys for these wardrobes?"

"Should be one on the top," James said, reaching over my head and, sure enough, producing a dusty key.

"Thank you." I deposited the trunk hastily in the bottom of the wardrobe, turned the key in the outer lock, twisted the handle to make sure the door was secure, and pocketed the key.

"You don't need to do that around here," James said, giving me an odd look. "No one will steal your suits."

"Well"—I forced a cheery smile—"with boys being boys, one never knows, does one?" Before he could say anything else, I added, "I'm ready for that tour now!"

***

I may have been overwhelmed by the beauty of James Tyler initially, but I got over it just as quickly when we exited our room and I caught sight of the same three boys I'd seen earlier. Funny how quickly violence can make one forget all about beauty.

James hurried us toward the game of human catch, seemingly as oblivious to what was happening as Mr. Winter had been.

"Tyler," the hulking one said with a curt nod before tossing the boy ball to the string bean once again.

"MacPherson." My roommate returned the nod, curtness and all, as we passed.

"Looks like New Boy's almost as delicate as Little here," the one my roommate had referred to as MacPherson said. "It's amazing the trouble he had carrying his own trunk. I'll bet New Boy'd make a fine new ball for us."

The string bean snickered.

"I wouldn't try it if I were you," my roommate said cheerfully enough, not even bothering to turn around as he led me briskly back down the stairs.

***

As James showed me around the grounds that afternoon, he spoke very little other than to name the buildings he pointed out and sometimes add a sentence about what each was for. He was neither friendly nor specifically unfriendly; he was merely there.

Walking past the school gates with the oriel window soaring above, traversing the gravel walk to the side of the commons, I got the sense he was leading me on the tour more because he felt it was his duty rather than because he took any joy in my company. Indeed, something about him said that he almost always preferred being alone to being with others. Still, I was grateful at least to have someone to walk with—already I sensed that it could get lonely for me here at the Betterman Academy—and I sought to enliven our walk with a little conversation.

"Those three back there," I said, with a nod at Proctor Hall. "Who are they?"

"The large blond one is Hamish MacPherson, Proctor Hall's school prefect. The tall thin one is Johnny Mercy."

"And the one they were, er, throwing?"

"Christopher Warren. Everyone calls him Little. He hates it."

"Except for that last bit," I said, trying on a laugh, "it doesn't really tell me much about them, does it?"

He stopped walking to look at me. "Didn't what you saw back there tell you everything you need to know?" he said evenly. Then he started walking again. "Besides, you'll see plenty more at dinner."

***

At dinnertime Marchand Hall rang with the sound of five hundred chairs scraping the hardwood floor as seats were pulled out, five hundred plates hitting the tables, five hundred glasses being set down, five hundred sets of silverware clinking as five hundred linen napkins were unrolled. Marchand Hall also rang with the sounds of, as Mr. Winter would have it, boys being boys.

James and I sat side by side at a long table with Mr. Winter at one end and Hamish MacPherson at the other. I would have liked to sit almost anywhere else, but according to James it was the custom at the Betterman Academy for boys to sit at tables with their floor mates.

"I keep telling you," Hamish said, addressing Johnny Mercy, "that the idea is to
catch
Little, not
drop
him."

Little, I noted, was now sporting a large bandage over his right eye.

"I would never have
dropped
him," Mercy returned, "if you could learn how to
throw
him."

"Don't you two ever get tired of this game?" James said, sounding bored.

I wanted to say I agreed with him—it seemed to me that this game they played did get tiresome quickly—but the scowl Hamish shot in James's direction was enough to keep my mouth shut.

"Always think you're better than everyone else, don't you, Tyler?" Hamish said.

To this, James gave no answer. I think it was because the answer was too obvious: James
was
better than everyone else. At least, he was better than Hamish.

Hoping not to be noticed, I looked down at the plate that had been set before me. The small piece of meat on it was ...
mysterious;
mysterious and, I suppose,
stringy
would be the next appropriate word.

Still, I was suddenly famished, not having had anything to eat since the meager breakfast I'd barely been able to consume at the inn that morning, so many hours ago now; my stomach at the time had been shaky after Will's and my adventures of the night before.

I took up knife and fork, preparing to tuck in.

"Don't you know anything, Gardener?" Hamish said.

So caught up was I in my own hunger, I didn't really register the words as I attempted to cut the meat.

"Hey! Gardener! I'm talking to you!"

I felt something bounce against my forehead and looked up in time to see that it was a dinner roll.

I realized then that I was going to have to start being more careful, pay closer attention. Hamish had somehow learned my name and had been addressing me, but I'd ignored him because I still wasn't used to my own name!

Hoping to speak as little as possible—for in my hungry and tired state, I feared that I'd forget to speak like a boy—I simply looked at Hamish, the question in my eyes.

"We wait for grace around here before we eat," Hamish informed me, causing me to drop my knife and fork as though they were hot coals when I realized my error. "Don't you know anything?"

The room fell silent, as if on cue, as Reverend Parkhurst, standing at the head of the room, waited for us all to rise before saying grace over the meal.

"
Now
you can eat," Hamish told me when the reverend had finished and five hundred chairs had been pulled out again, five hundred boys had sat down.

I took up knife and fork once more.

"My
God,
" Hamish said. "You're worse than Little here. One would think you'd never been at school before. This your first time away from
Mummy?
"

Much as I wanted to keep silent, I couldn't stop myself from speaking up.

"My mother is dead," I said, straightening my spine as I spoke the truth for both Will and myself.

"Yeah, well, whose isn't? I'll still bet anything this is your first time away at school."

"Actually, it is my fifth," I said, adopting Will's biography with no small degree of pride.

I felt James's eyes boring into me from the side, but I kept my eyes steadily on Hamish.

"Your
fifth?
" His eyebrows rose up nearly to his hairline. "Why, even Mercy and me've only been at three, including here." He waved his fork at me. "What sorts of things were you sent down for?"

I studied the ceiling, hoping to get the order right.

"Let's see ... cheating, lying ... no, that's the wrong order. Lying, cheating, general mischief, and setting the headmaster's house on fire."

Hamish stared at me. They all did. Then Hamish threw back his head and roared.

"Well, at least you've got the lying part right," he said. "I've never heard anything more ridiculous in my life."

"Ridiculous?"

"Yes, ridiculous. Who'd ever believe someone like you capable of all that?"

All right, so maybe I had appropriated someone else's record as my own, but Will Gardener
had
done all those things, and I felt unaccountably offended at this accusation.

"If you don't believe me," I said, showing more steel than I knew I had, "then why don't you have Mr. Winter look into my history?"