This Can't Be Happening at Macdonald Hall (2 page)

“Very much indeed,” the Headmaster replied cordially. “And may I ask what you are doing at the Cougars' bus?”

Before Boots could reply, Bruno emerged. “I knew it, sir! I just knew it! Those York guys didn't even look for their precious mascot. The nerve of them, accusing us of kidnapping! Look, there she is, right over there. She just hid under a seat to have her kittens.”

Mr. Sturgeon smiled crookedly. “Well, I'm extremely relieved to learn that none of the Macdonald boys stooped so low as to kidnap a mascot.”

“We don't need
that
kind of help to beat them,” Bruno replied.

“Just the same, I think you two had better run along,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “I wouldn't want to see you accused of any hanky-panky just because you happen to be on the scene.” Again his face adjusted itself into a very strange smile.

“Yes, sir!” the two chorused, and ran off to their room.

“Boy!” exclaimed Boots. “Were we lucky to get through this day alive!”

Bruno was rolling on his bed, hysterical with laughter. “Did you see Miss Scrimmage during the anthem? I thought she'd disintegrate!”

“I don't know,” Boots said in a worried tone. “I still think The Fish knows about the flag …
and
the record …
and
the cat.”

“How could he?” Bruno scoffed. “We were brilliant!”

His jubilation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Boots opened it and took a note from the office messenger. It read:
Bruno Walton and Melvin O'Neal are to present themselves at Mr. Sturgeon's office immediately following the dinner hour
.

Dinner wasn't too appetizing to Bruno and Boots, but they lingered over every morsel. Then, with no more excuse for delay, they walked down the marble corridor which led to the Headmaster's office.

Mrs. Davis, the school secretary, welcomed them with a sympathetic smile. “You boys played well today,” she said kindly.

“Thank you, Ma'am,” said Boots. “Is Mr. Sturgeon in?”

“He's expecting you. Go right in.” She indicated the heavy oak door with
HEADMASTER
lettered in gold.

They entered. Mr. Sturgeon wordlessly motioned them to a wooden bench facing his desk. In his eighteen years as Headmaster of Macdonald Hall he had never been known to display a sense of humour. Bruno and Boots quickly noted that although he didn't look any more severe than usual, he certainly didn't look any kindlier.

Mr. Sturgeon leaned back in his black-leather swivel chair and silently regarded them. His silver-rimmed glasses accentuated the steel of his grey eyes. Finally he spoke. “If you two put half the amount of effort into your studies that you spend getting into trouble, it is entirely possible that you would be the most brilliant students in the school.”

Bruno and Boots sat frozen in silence.

“Since you entered this school last year, I have never been able to prove you guilty of anything. Yet guilty you are. Today you have set an infamous record! If I had any concrete proof that you switched the flag, or changed the record, or abducted the cat, I would be addressing your parents at this very moment.”

The boys sat stiff and silent as statues.

“Now,” Mr. Sturgeon continued, “
did
you do any of those things?”

“I guess it sort of looks that way, sir,” Bruno murmured.

“
Which
of those things did you do?”

“All of them, sir,” Bruno admitted.

“Yes. I suspected as much … Have you any idea what havoc you caused today?”

“We didn't mean any harm,” Boots said.

“You didn't mean any harm,” Mr. Sturgeon repeated almost sadly. “Did you not see the embarrassment we suffered in front of the spectators because of that ridiculous flag of — of —”

“Malbonia,” Bruno supplied quietly.

“Did you not see how upset everyone was at the profaning of our national anthem? And to win a hockey game by demoralizing your opponents — by abducting their mascot! I cannot tell you the deep sense of shame I feel over the events of this day.”

Mr. Sturgeon rose and began to pace back and forth in front of the bench.

“I have thought and thought about you ever since you began your — er — extracurricular activities, and I believe that I have arrived at a solution which may save us all. There is a great deal of mischief in both of you, but I believe that you, Walton, are setting a bad example for O'Neal here. I have therefore decided to break up your partnership. You will both proceed to your room, pack your belongings and say good-bye to each other. From this point on, you are forbidden to associate in any manner whatsoever.”

The boys sat stunned by this fatal message. Over the year their friendship had grown so vital to them that neither could imagine the thought of living without the other. No more shared jokes, no more moral support, no more comfortably messy room … no more Bruno and Boots!

“Walton,” continued Mr. Sturgeon, “you will report to Dormitory 2, room 201, where you will share accommodation with Elmer Drimsdale.”

Oh, no! Bruno thought. The school ghoul!

“And you, O'Neal, I have placed with George Wexford-Smyth III. Dormitory 1, room 109.”

Oh no! Boots winced. Moneybags piled to the ceiling!

“You are dismissed,” Mr. Sturgeon concluded. “I expect you to be settled in your new quarters by lights-out.”

* * *

When Bruno and Boots had left the office, Mr. Sturgeon buzzed his secretary. “Mrs. Davis, please get me Mr. Hartley at York Academy.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “He'll be glad to hear from you. He called five times during dinner. Seemed quite upset.”

Mr. Sturgeon lit an expensive cigar and settled back in his chair to await the call. It came almost immediately.

“Hello, Hartley. Sturgeon here. I understand you've been calling … I say there, Hartley, could you speak a little more quietly? … Yes, that's much better … My dear Hartley, our boys did
not
take your cat. She merely hid on the bus to have her kittens … Now surely you're joking. The cat doesn't
skate
, after all 
…
Well, that's out of my hands, Hartley. You'll have to take that up with Miss Scrimmage. Good evening.”

He hung up and sat back, puffing triumphantly on the cigar. Mr. Sturgeon did not often smoke cigars — only when he was celebrating something.

* * *

Bruno and Boots riffled halfheartedly through their belongings, wasting as much time as possible. Every few minutes one of them would toss something into an open suitcase on his bed. Neither had spoken since they had left Mr. Sturgeon's office.

“Don't pack those socks,” Bruno snapped suddenly.

“Why not?”

“Because they're mine.”

“Oh.” Boots tossed the socks across the room.

“We'll have to meet,” Bruno said after a while.

“The Fish says we're not allowed,” Boots reminded him.

“The Fish says! The Fish says!” Bruno mimicked. “The Fish has said enough for one day. I'll see you at midnight. The bushes behind the cannon.”

“Midnight? What if I fall asleep?”

“Impossible. You'll be awake all night listening to the clink-clink-clink of George Wexford-Smyth III counting his money,” Bruno growled. “Be there.”

Nothing else was said. Shortly after nine the boys took a last fond look at their former home, shook hands solemnly and went their separate ways.

* * *

Bruno paused a moment before knocking at the door of room 201. It was opened by a tall, skinny boy with a crewcut. He wore a white shirt, black tie and grey flannel slacks. Thick glasses gave him the look of an owl.

“Elmer Drimsdale? Hi. I'm Bruno Walton,” said Bruno, strolling in and setting down his suitcase. “Hey, an ant!” he exclaimed, stomping on it.

“You killed her!” Elmer shrieked. “You killed her! She was the queen of my whole colony!”

“You keep
ants
?” Bruno asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” the boy replied. “I'm an entomologist. My world is the insect world.”

Bruno nodded understandingly. “I always thought you were a bit buggy, Elmer. Which bed is mine? And kindly keep your ants out of it!”

“That one.” Elmer pointed to the bed by the window. “But where am I going to get another queen for my colony?” he wailed.

Bruno shrugged. “Why don't you try spreading a little sugar around?” Then noticing Elmer's face he added, “Hey, listen, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was your — uh — pet. I hope you find another one.”

“Thank you,” said Elmer reproachfully.

Bruno sighed and pulled off his sweater. “Boy, am I beat. I'm going to take a bath and hit the sack early.” He started towards the bathroom.

“No!” Elmer shouted. “You'll kill my specimens!”

Bruno stopped in mid-step and stared at him.

“My goldfish! They laid eggs in the bathtub today.”

“Congratulations,” muttered Bruno. “I know a cat that had kittens today too. Do I get to know the reason for this aquarium in the bathroom?”

“I'm studying the crossbreeding of goldfish,” Elmer explained. “I'm an ichthyologist. My world is the undersea world.”

Bruno struggled, unwashed, into his pyjamas. “I always thought you were a bit fishy, Elmer,” he groaned.

He crawled into his new bed. It was exactly the same as his old one, but it felt strange and uncomfortable. The whole room was the same, really, even the dull cream-beige paint on the walls. But it didn't
feel
the same. Maybe it was because of the posters. His old room had been plastered with movie posters, one crude enough it would have been confiscated by the teachers had it not been safely hidden away during dormitory inspections. Elmer's idea of artistic wall decoration was a labelled diagram of the Pacific salmon. Bruno sighed. Seven hundred kids in this school, he thought wearily, and I have to get stuck with Jacques Cousteau!

* * *

Boots knocked on the door of room 109. It was opened by a handsome fellow dressed in several hundred dollars' worth of suede and cashmere sports clothes. His haircut, Boots noted, was the hundred-dollar stylist variety.

“Yes? What is it?” the youth queried.

“Mr. Sturgeon sent me,” said Boots. “I'm your new roommate, Boots O'Neal.”

Very reluctantly he was invited inside. “Boots?” said the boy with disgust. “What kind of a name is Boots? What is your
real
name? Nicknames are so vulgar.”

“My
real
name is Melvin,” replied Boots grimly, “but nobody calls me that.
Nobody
.”

“How do you do. I am George Wexford-Smyth III. You may have the bed by the window. I never sleep near a window. The night air is bad for my sinuses.”

Boots, who always slept with the window wide open, said nothing. He sat on the edge of his new bed and surveyed the room: it reminded him of his Grade 8 field trip to the Toronto Stock Exchange. Financial charts covered the walls almost like wallpaper. His roommate was standing staring at one of these charts as though the end of the world were at hand.

“Something wrong, George?”

“My Magneco,” George announced tragically. “It's gone down three points and lost me a small fortune.”

“Oh,” said Boots, beginning to unpack. He carried his toothbrush, toothpaste and soap into the bathroom, but emerged a few seconds later with a puzzled look on his face. “What is that drugstore doing in the bathroom?”

“Those are my medicines,” George huffed. “Better safe than sorry. You never know when disease may strike.”

“Oh,” said Boots again. Because the shelves were overflowing with inhalers, nasal sprays, pain killers, cold tablets, tranquillizers, laxatives and antibiotics, he was going to have to store his own toiletries in his bathrobe pocket.

Climbing resignedly into bed, Boots reflected that if only Bruno were there the room would be paradise. It was completely wired with the most expensive quadraphonic sound equipment, and there was a 3D LCD TV set with remote control and a zoom system. Besides, he thought with a grin, they wouldn't have to worry about illness: even if they caught elephantiasis, he was positive George had a cure somewhere in that bathroom.

* * *

In the Headmaster's residence Mr. Sturgeon suddenly sat bolt upright in bed. “Now where on earth,” he exclaimed, “did they manage to find the flag of Malbonia?”

Boots rose from his bed and silently checked George's solid-gold quartz crystal digital watch. Ten minutes to twelve. He had to hurry if he was going to be on time to meet Bruno. He scrambled into his bathrobe and eased the window open.

“Shut the window … pneumonia …” groaned George in his sleep.

Boots climbed onto the sill and made the short drop to the ground. Crouching beside the building, he scanned the deserted campus. All clear so far. Keeping low and in the shadows, he stole towards the meeting place on the south lawn. He slipped into the bushes behind the cannon and whispered, “Bruno?”

No answer. No Bruno.

Five long minutes passed. Boots had been nervous to start with, but now he was really worried. A few more minutes went by. He checked his own twenty-dollar watch. It had stopped at quarter past nine.

Must be an omen, Boots thought, wrapping his cold feet in the tail of his bathrobe. That was when Bruno and I left our room.

A rustling in the bushes startled him. “Bruno?” he whispered. “What took you so long?”

When a fat brown jackrabbit burst from the woods and scampered across the lawn into the darkness, Boots drooped in despair. Suddenly a familiar voice chuckled, “Aha! Talking to a rabbit, eh?”

“Where have you been?” Boots snapped. “I've been sitting here scared stiff!”