The Initiation (5 page)

B
ASKERVILLE
A
CADEMY WAS NEW TERRITORY
for James, and like many pioneers, he found himself ill equipped for it. In the effort to scale the wall of sharing, he lacked the proper rope—since our mother's departure from home (I'd been six, my brother, seven) we'd been raised by my father in an insular existence; trying to navigate the cliques and class hierarchy, James was without an accurate map, stumbling through things like greeting upperclassmen when school tradition forbade such advances from “unders”; addressing teachers by “Mr.” or “Ms.” when the proper terminology was “Proctor,”
“Master,” or “Doctor.” So much was new.

My experience was slightly different than my brother's owing in part to the talkative nature of girls, and the fact there were only eighteen eighth graders, compared to sixty or more in each of the high school grades. The grade names themselves required a translator. I was a middle—I suppose for middle school. James was third form—ninth grade. Then came fourth form, which was tenth grade, fifth form, and sixth form or seniors. I made friends with two girls immediately, my roommates Natalie Sekulow and Jamala Lytner, well aware (from my experience in
real
middle school) that they might backstab me at any random moment. It came down to this: I accepted I was alone from day one, and it turned out I was not. Though James strived (too hard, in my opinion) to belong and be included, he and I at least remained cordial. We didn't see much of each other the first few days—different classes, sports tryouts, and the evening study hall required of all newcomers. I saw him at meals, usually across the dining hall—for a boy to be seen spending time with his little sister no doubt signaled the coming of the apocalypse. For all that peer pressure, James still managed to flash me a smile, or throw me a wink. And I, back at him. I wasn't going to push things. I knew I would be better at this than James.

My position and standing were in fact enhanced by my relationship to an older, decent-looking boy; already a few on my dorm were asking for introductions to my brother. Nothing doing, said I.

Though remote to the point of being scary, the Baskerville campus remained as gorgeous as upon our arrival. The ivy-covered brick buildings (the dorms were called “the Bricks”), the cupola clock tower on the four-story school building “Main House,” the ancient chapel with its gray stone with a peaked slate roof and lavish stained-glass windows. The well-kept lawns and playing fields. The sugar maples. The tall marble sundial surrounded by hexagonal steps that made the perfect gathering spot. Idyllic, unless you factored in 350 teenagers, most of whom believed their school seniority, their parents' wealth, or their family history entitled them and required others to look past their zits, their eating disorders, and their bad table manners. So many of us were trying to outrun our parents' concept of what our lives were supposed to be, that we paid little attention to anyone but ourselves. Me-me-me-me wasn't just the way the chapel choir warmed up; it was also the prayer each of us uttered every morning as we got out of bed. This was my impression as of day four, which felt about two months into my residency. If days passed this
slowly and with such difficulty, I was convinced I'd be in my early twenties by the end of my first year at Baskerville Academy.

James wasn't faring much better in Bricks 3.

“They aren't being mean,” Sherlock said, looking up from his desk at James. “I mean, of course they are, but I don't believe it's intentional. They just aren't smart.”

“I didn't ask.” James kept his head down, not wanting to hear another word.

“Your upper left sleeve is stained, suggesting you wiped your face. That implies drying tears, ergo, crying. For the past two days I've watched the upperclassmen be rude to you, James, and by your own admission you were placed onto the junior varsity soccer team when you're good enough to deserve varsity. I thought that was vanity on your part, or wishful thinking, until I heard Clements and Ismalin, both fifth formers, saying basically the same thing.”

“You did not.”

His roommate looked perplexed. “Why would I tell you what I heard, if I had not heard it.”

“You're lying!”

“My dear friend—”

“Do NOT call me that!”

“—you clearly have no sense of the British, and for that I feel badly for you. We will lie to trick the enemy; that much is duly recorded as history. But to a friend? A comrade? Heaven forbid! It's just not on. Plain as the nose on your face. Bob's your uncle.”

“Shut up.”

“The manners on the boy!” Holmes said, as if talking to a third and unseen person in the room.

“And don't do that. It gives me the creeps.”

“We are roommates. That, by definition, makes us, well, if not friends, partners. We look out for each other. Do I mind that you treat me so poorly outside the confines of this room? The sneers? The snickers? It doesn't feel good, I'll tell you what! But I accept it, of course, as the ritualistic traditions of a boarding institution. You are trying to separate yourself from me. To impress others with your rudeness. But within these walls, my de—” He sighed. “James, we are two peas in a pod, you know. We are roomies, and like it or not, we need each other, if for nothing else than for our own survival.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I do not need you. I do not like you. I find you strange, odd, and even a little frightening at times. I've asked,
not once, but twice for a change of rooms. Twice in four days, you understand?”

Holmes went quiet. Returned to his studying without so much as a wince of ill will against his roommate. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

“Which one is Clements, and which one is Ismalin?” James asked, breaking the silence.

“You must improve your ability to remember people, James. In a place like this, the more familiar you make the stranger feel, the sooner he or she will befriend you. Clements is remembered by a shortening of his name to Clem, which sounds like ‘phlegm.' The boy practically gargles snot; blond, dull blue eyes that give the impression he was dropped one too many times as an infant, thick hands. Ismalin is shortened to Slin, for ‘slim.' Norwegian or Swedish by heritage I'm guessing by his coloring, a whiter blond than Clements, thin hair and eyes like ice. I'd be careful with that boy; he knows far more than he lets on.”

“Do you ever skip the details and just answer the question?”

“Why would I ever do that? The details make the thing. Without details we're all the same. What's the fun of that?”

“Ugh! Never mind! What did you mean about our survival?” James asked.

Sherlock not only did not react, he didn't seem to hear James. James tried again. Same nonreaction. It was as if Sherlock was wearing headphones with the music up really loud. Exactly like that, except his hairy ears were exposed. (Sherlock Holmes was hairy to the point of disgusting in James's opinion. James being a young man who had to rub his arms vigorously to spot any of the few thin hairs that lived there.)

“I said—”

“I heard you, James. I won't contend with belligerence. Figure it out. If you bully me and treat me like dog poo, I will not return the compliment, but I also will not honor you with my presence and intelligence. If you treat me with anything less than respect, I will disappear. Perhaps not visibly, but intellectually, socially, and in every other pragmatic way. Completely and totally. Try as you may to break the bubble around me, you will find it impenetrable. Not only now, but when you need me most. And believe me, James, you need me badly, just as I need you. I did not choose you any more than you did me, for your information. But unlike you, I deal with my current situation, not some hypothetical dream or fantasy that's carried forward from a trivial youth of what I perceive as too much pampering and days at the beach and
on the tennis court. Some of us were less fortunate, I'm proud to say. Some of us appreciate the opportunity here at Baskerville, even if thousands of miles and an ocean away from our brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“If that is all you took away from what I said, I feel even more sorry for you.”

“I get it. I get it! What about our survival?”

Sherlock had retreated into his bubble, and proved true to his word. James couldn't pop it no matter how many ways he tried. The roommates returned to their studies. Four days into residence at Baskerville Academy and they already had no fewer than three hours of homework. Two of those hours, for all newcomers regardless of grade level, were spent in organized study hall in the art room in the main hall. The remainder of their studying could be in the library or a dorm room. Rumor was that the course load would double by the end of the month. By midterms, in the middle of October, it was said nearly 10 percent of each class would flunk and the students be suspended and sent home. This option would have appealed to James had it not been for Father's warning of military academy.

Making no headway with Sherlock, and not in possession of his cell phone (illegal on campus and a first-offense mandatory community service),
James headed to the school post office and placed a collect call from one of five pay phones there. Sherlock's mention of his brother had made James homesick to speak with Father.

He ran into Ryan Eisenower on the stairs down and was being chummy with the boy as I spotted the two. Ryan's dark hair was shaved close to his head; he had wide shoulders, a weight-lifter build, and a big, goofy smile. His father taught government; his mother worked on the headmaster's staff, making Ryan a faculty brat, the sorriest of designations for any student.

I'd beaten James to the phones by ten minutes. I called out from below. James ignored me completely, though Ryan looked down and smiled.

“He's not home!” I informed my brother. “I've just tried calling for the third time.” Either James had gone instantly deaf, or he'd elected to pretend I didn't exist. “He must be traveling!” I called more loudly. “James, he's not going to—”

“I heard you.”

Apparently, I was a nonperson. I wasn't used to being invisible to my brother without a game involved. In fact, it was shocking and I certainly was not comfortable with the idea. I felt a fist to my heart.

James did not know of my arrangement with
Father. I was anxious to hear from Father given the instructions he'd left me with. But my worry about Father took a backseat to my brother's avoidance.

I cried harder that night than I had since the night James had been attacked, my face stuffed into my pillow so my roommates wouldn't hear.

H
EADMASTER
D
R.
T
HOMAS
C
RUDGEON CALLED
a special school assembly on a gray Monday morning with a wind blowing strongly enough to move the wig on Mrs. Furman's head. Crudgeon's secretary looked like a grandmotherly birdlike waif, but when she spoke it was with the bearing of a military drill sergeant. She was one of those cute little frogs that turns out to be poisonous. She called the assembly to attention like a morning crow outside your bedroom window. She took herself and her job seriously, acting more like Dr. Crudgeon's bodyguard than his stenographer.

When the auditorium quieted—faculty in the front two rows, then seniors, fifth form, etc., all the way into the balcony seats where I sat, scanning the heads of hair for sign of James—the impeccably dressed Dr. Crudgeon spoke in a commanding tone without need of a microphone. Though photos in the hall showed a sloping hardwood floor with rows of chocolate brown wooden seats, it now resembled a theater in a multiplex with a theatrical stage and closed curtain that bore the Baskerville crest in gold: the head of a wolfhound (the school mascot) surrounded by a circle of words, not in Latin but ancient Greek. The students had five or six translations for the inscription, most of them containing language that is not repeatable here.

Word had spread quickly that such special assemblies were never good. They suggested trouble either national or international (politics, wars, disasters) or internal to the school (a violation or suspension or expulsion of one or more students).

“Before I arrive to the topic at hand, because it's related,” Crudgeon began, “Baskerville would like to welcome into our ranks two fourth-generation legacies—yes, you heard me correctly!—and direct descendants of the founder of Baskerville Academy, Eldridge L. Moriarty. James is in our third
form, and his sister, Moria, a middle. Please stand up and be recognized.”

James and I stood up for all of a tenth of a second, embarrassed, humiliated, and no doubt as red as lollipops. I knew that James would be seething. A new school was hard enough; it seemed an unkind act to the two of us, one bordering on harassment, to be singled out. Tepid applause mingled with the voices of students exchanging what could only be rude, underhanded comments. I was certain I didn't want to hear any one of them repeated. Only as Crudgeon, whom I now hated, continued his address did our introduction make any kind of sense beyond some kind of cruel hazing ritual.

“The reason I mention James and Moria and their famous relative here at Baskerville is because of a grave situation that has come to my attention, and that is the theft of the school Bible from the Wing Chapel. The significance and importance to this institution of that particular volume cannot be overemphasized. If I hear one more snicker, that student will be a guest in my office following this meeting . . . Mr. Thorndyke!” The auditorium quieted immediately. “Lest you doubt the gravity of this situation, until and unless the school Bible is found—the Moriarty family Bible—there will be room inspections each morning prior to breakfast,
and imposed study hall, beginning tomorrow night, no exceptions, for the entire school. Hush! Silence! Mrs. Furman will post the details of the location assignments for study hall following seventh period this afternoon.

“I strongly urge whoever took the Bible to take advantage of the next roughly thirty-six hours of amnesty to alert a proctor or master or myself as to the location of the volume. Under no means touch the Bible! I repeat:
do not touch
the Bible, as any contact could destroy its delicate condition. Do you hear me?”

Crudgeon waited.

“YES, HEADMASTER!” said the entire room except those of us too new to know the tradition.

“Very well. If the Bible's location is passed along during this approximately two-day period, there will be no effort made to discover the identity of person or persons responsible.” He cleared his throat. “Past the amnesty period you will all find things a bit more difficult for everyone here. When this prank comes to an end . . . at that time, and not before, the morning room inspections and evening study halls shall also come to an end.” He paused. Mrs. Furman stepped forward and whispered into his left ear. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Furman. Some of you, many of you perhaps, will be invited
to speak with me in private in my office in an effort that we may resolve this little mystery all the more quickly. I caution students not to assign guilt or suspicion to those who are summoned. The process will include members of student government, leaders in our community, and randomly selected students as well. We have no prior knowledge or suspicion of the students involved, and any speculation on your part to the contrary would suggest a student susceptible to rumor and one grossly misinformed.”

The auditorium stirred with several hundred restless bodies and feet, but there was not a peep from anyone. A few students had involuntarily placed their hands atop their heads in frustration once the mandatory study hall had been announced, but they pulled them down as Crudgeon paused.

“The missing edition dates back to the first day of our charter as an institution. Its historical importance alone makes it of the utmost cultural significance. There is, believe me, little if any remunerative value to the Bible. If it was stolen by someone hoping to sell it as an antique or any such notion, you have been woefully misguided. Again: any contact with the volume is dangerous—hence our keeping it under lock and key. However, its value to the Moriarty family, from whom it has been on loan for some one hundred and thirty years, and
therefore its value to this institution, must be considered. If meant as a joke, the humor is lost on me. I offer you amnesty before bringing in the local police to clear up this matter.” The comment drew a loud mumble of voices. Crudgeon pretended he hadn't heard it. If he'd been saving this tidbit for last, he'd gotten the reaction he'd sought. Astonishment.

“When we dismiss, we will do so in an orderly manner, front to back and finally the balcony. You are to go directly to first period. We will stay on normal hours today. No one—I repeat, no one!—has permission to return to the Bricks, as inspections are currently under way.” Another roar of murmur. Before he had to cite someone for disobedience, Crudgeon dismissed the students. The exit was anything but orderly, though that was to be expected.

James found himself in the clogged aisle leading to the back of the auditorium. He was alongside Bret Thorndyke and Clay Richmond. “Thanks for everything, Moriarty,” Thorndyke said.

“Do you have any idea how much stuff they're going to find in these inspections?” Richmond said. “Guys are going to get tossed because of this. Our friends. You cooked us!”

“But it wasn't—” James caught himself. Whining wouldn't help his situation.

“He's been waiting for this,” Thorndyke said. “Crudgeon has. All this is is an excuse to lower his dictatorial hammer and turn this into a fascist state.”

“Oh, shut it. You're always finding a conspiracy in everything, Bret. Get real! He doesn't need an excuse to call for a school-wide inspection, and you know it.” Natalie Sekulow, my roommate, was standing just behind James and eavesdropping. She was clearly trying to align herself with James, a fact she supported by shooting him a quick but sympathetic look. Middle school is so trying. I couldn't wait to be in high school. “Is it a pain in the you-know-what? Yes. But it's not as if James stole his own family Bible.” She hesitated, reconsidering. “Is it, James?”

“I didn't know we had a family Bible,” James answered her. “I didn't know it was here at Baskerville, and I didn't know it was on display in the chapel. I hate study hall, and I hate the idea of room inspections. I happen to have a half-dozen bottle rockets hidden in my room. I suppose if they're found, I'm out, which wouldn't be bad except my father has threatened me with military school as the next option.”

Like several other middles, Natalie looked older than her age. She had a wide, interesting face, flat hair, and currently smelled like a barn because
she'd already been out for a morning ride on her seventeen-hand gelding at the orchard. She had a full figure for a girl our age and a creamy slur to her words arising from a Georgia upbringing.

Bret Thorndyke brightened with mention of the bottle rockets. “Class B or Class C?”

“These things put the rock in rockets,” James answered. “Class B as in bi—”

“Don't say it!” Natalie cut him off. “Being heard cursing will get you Saturday-morning detention, in case no one told you.”

No one had told James, but he didn't admit to it.

The line moved slowly but steadily toward the auditorium's exit. “You're a bad influence, Bret Thorndyke,” said Natalie, causing the boys to laugh.

“Mr. Moriarty, a moment please.” Mrs. Furman looked like something out of a wax museum. She could talk without her teeth showing like a mechanical figure from a Disney World attraction. Her wig hair looked glued into place. I stood by the hallway water fountain, backing up to stay out of the stream of students allowing me to eavesdrop, which, as we've established, is any girl's inalienable right. “You and your sister will be among the first students to see Dr. Crudgeon in his office. This, so no one might accuse Headmaster of playing favorites. I wish to advise you, Mr. Moriarty, that
Headmaster is honored—perhaps the word does an injustice to his emotions—to be serving at a time not one, but two Moriartys are in residence here at Baskerville Academy. I tell you this because he may not. Dr. Crudgeon is . . . well, officious and acutely aware of his position here at the school. You understand? A man must do what a man must do. I'm not sure if anyone is famous for having said that, but they should be, don't you think? Anywho . . . it is best not to skirt the issue. Nor is it advised to answer in too longwinded a fashion. You understand?”

“No, not really,” James said.

“Well, that would be why I'm the secretary and he's the headmaster!” She giggled at her own failed joke. “He will ask you questions. He will likely take a fraternal tone with you. Do not take that as an entreaty for you to pontificate or elaborate upon your explanations. No! Be precise. Be truthful. And be quick. He will admire you and appreciate you for such behavior.”

“And you're telling me this because?”

“Why, because you're a Moriarty, dear boy. You're here for four years, your sister, five. Best foot forward and all that, yes? I don't want you making a fool out of yourself the first time you meet the great man.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“Consider me something of a social engineer in this instance. Do you follow?”

James appeared totally and utterly bewildered. In spite of himself, he nodded. Perhaps just to get it over with. “Thank you. I think,” he said.

Mrs. Furman cocked her head, puzzled by the response. “Always address him as Headmaster, never Dr. Crudgeon. And of course you may thank me, my dear. Today, and for the next few years, thank me all you wish! The board and Dr. Crudgeon make the policy, James.” A frank and telling snarl revealed her ultrawhite teeth for the first time. “I put that policy into action.” She reached up, took a twist of James's hair, and tucked it behind his ear. He shivered and his neck flushed a brilliant red. “At the end of first period, James. The front of Main House, ground level. Whatever you do, do not be late.” She collected herself and marched off, somewhat feminine, mostly military, her low heels stabbing the mauve carpet and leaving sharp impressions behind. No lightweight, our Mrs. Furman.