“Charles, where did you get that thing?” I asked.
“You mean my new lady magnet?” He picked up the guitar and strummed a glaringly wrong chord. “This is going to be my new little hobby.”
“Shouldn’t your new hobby be studying?”
“I’m insulted by the implication of your comment that I am anything short of a gentleman and a scholar,” he said with mock anger.
I snorted, “Oh, I do apologize. Of course, I would not want to sully your reputation on campus with such a remark. But if you try to play that bloody thing while I’m studying, I’ll hit you over the head with it.”
“Tsk, tsk. That won’t be necessary. I’ll be over on the girls’ side of campus, strumming away for adoring crowds of women.”
“Yes, and I’ll be having tea with the dean!”
“Ooh, won’t that be nice. Do say ‘hi’ from me and steal a scone or two if you get a chance. I do love a good scone.”
His father walked in, cutting our conversation short. The two of us had not started off on the right foot last year. So I politely said, “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Hello, Tom,” he responded curtly. “It seems that you and Charles will be rooming together again.” There was no attempt in his voice to mask his disdain.
“Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it,” I said in the most diplomatic tone I could muster. “Hopefully this year will be even better than last year.”
“Well, academically, that wouldn’t be very difficult. Hopefully this year, you’ll spend a little less time socializing and a little more time studying. It would do you both good, from what I hear.”
Charles and I shot each other a glance. Most likely, his father had been conversing with Dean Groves, who was an old friend.
Charles jumped in. “Of course, Father, we know better now what the expectations are, and we will most assuredly rise to the challenge.”
“Well, I will believe that when I see it,” he replied. “Very well, your mother and I will be going. Please do see that you attend to your studies. It would bring me great distress to have to remove you from this institution.” With that, he turned around and was gone. Oh, I would like to have given him an earful, but for Charles’ sake, I remained silent.
Charles tiptoed to the door and looked down the hall. Over his shoulder, he said, “Just checking. I wouldn’t put it past my father to try to spy on us. Looks like we are free men.”
“Well,” I said, “my first act as a free man is to say that your father is a thoroughbred arse. I know I shouldn’t say such things, but I am a firm believer in freedom of speech.”
Charles stroked his sandpapery chin as he grinned. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to impede your freedom of speech. Were there any other choice words you would care to include?”
I took a deep breath. “Coward, conniving, pompous, argumentative, haughty, and despicable. An all around pathetic bore if ever there was one.”
“I’d say you’ve pretty much hit the nail on the head. No need to pound it in any further. Using my freedom to vote, I vote we go grab some dinner before the Secret Sevens meeting.”
I cast the second vote: “A perfectly good idea.”
CHAPTER 27
Ambition
THIS MEETING OF THE SECRET Sevens is now in order.” I looked around at the familiar faces and smiled. It was good to be back.
“Gentlemen,” said Patrick, “let me begin by commending you all on last year’s activities. We caused quite a stir with our prank on graduation day. I do believe the dean is still fuming behind closed doors and is probably still refusing to answer phone calls from outraged alumni. We revealed a chink in the armor, but all that means is he will be out for blood this year. The dean is giving rewards to students who come forward with information about those involved in the Secret Sevens, so we must be on our guard. All that being said, the floor is open for ideas on how to start the year off with a bang.”
The usual ideas involving fireworks and glue and toilet paper came forward first. Charles and I waited for them to fizzle before we threw our own idea into the pot.
Charles stood up. “Gentlemen, while I think many fine ideas have been suggested, none of them have shock value. We need to let the dean know that we mean business. I propose that we borrow his beloved Rolls Royce. We can slip the thing into neutral and coast it down to the boathouse, where we will paint it. Then we can jack it up outside the dining hall and hide the wheels so he can’t move it until everyone sees it the following morning.”
There was no question it was a risky plan, but it was bold. The group decided unanimously to go for it. The following night, we congregated outside the dean’s house at 2:00 a.m.
This was the tricky part. Charles jimmied the window open like a pro, and within seconds, he was inside the car. The rest of us began to push the beast of a machine down the driveway and onto the road. About 400 yards more, and we could coast the rest of the way to the boat shop. I continued to watch the house for movement, but nothing happened. Everything was clear. Down in the boathouse, we covered the car in 7s of all different colors. There would be no question who was responsible for this prank.
Pushing the car to the dining hall proved far more difficult and time-consuming than we had ever imagined. Exhausted, we leaned against the car with our sweaty bodies groaning. I checked my watch. It was 4:30 a.m. We needed to hurry. We jacked the car up on wooden blocks so it couldn’t go anywhere. Just as the first wheel popped off the car, I spotted the early morning security man heading in our direction. I turned to the group frantically prying off the other tires and commanded, “Let’s bail. We’ve got a visitor.” Somebody hoisted the tire on their shoulders, and we all darted off in different directions. The security guard was running in my direction. He knew what was happening. Shoot! But at least we had a good head start to the dorms. Once we got inside, he would never know who was responsible. I made it to the door and looked behind me to see Charles barreling up the hill with the tire. He was losing steam. “Come on, Charles. Keep going.” The security guard was only about a hundred feet behind him and closing fast, so I did the only logical thing: I began to hurl stones at the security guard. Everything felt like it was in slow motion, Charles inching forward with the tire bouncing up and down and stones falling silently through the air toward the guard. The spell broke when Charles bumped by me through the dorm door, and we rushed into our room.
Charles dropped the tire and sprawled on the floor, muttering curses between gasps for air.
I looked at him. “Why didn’t you just dump the tire? Now what are we going to do with it?”
Charles looked up at me with his devilish grin, and I wondered why I even asked the question. “You don’t think I planned that far ahead, do you, Tom?”
“Of course not. That’s what you keep me around for.”
“Precisely.”
I kicked the tire.
Just then, the fire alarm rang. Oh shoot! They were flushing us out!
“Charles, we have to get rid of this thing.” I peeped my head out the door and saw people emerging groggily into the hall. Oh boy! This was not good.
I looked around the room. There was nowhere to hide the tire, so we did the only possible thing: We jettisoned it! As the tire plummeted down, I held my breath, hoping it would hit and roll down the hill away from the scene of the crime, but instead it decided to roost like a fowl in the large bush below our window. This was not good. Charles and I slipped into our pajamas and joined the line of students straggling out the front doors.
Sleepy-eyed boys stood in small packs on the lawn. A cold wind nipped at my flannel pants as I joined a nearby huddle. The RD (resident director) was yelling in the background for everyone to stand in a straight line, but nobody listened to him as he grew more and more red in the face.
Suddenly, there was the cackling of a bullhorn, and the voice of Dean Groves blasted us awake. “Stand in a straight line immediately, men, or I will have you all put on probation. We will
be calling the roll to assure that everyone is present. Your cooperation is essential.” He handed the bullhorn to the RD and stared at us as we formed a disheveled line. As the roll call began, he turned and disappeared into the dorm along with two security guards. There was no question in my mind that they were going to search the rooms.
We stood in silence, shuffling in the chilly air, waiting. Ten minutes went by, and still we stood. Twenty minutes later, people were beginning to grow restless. Finally, the dean emerged, and one of the officers was carrying the tire. Even in the dark, I could see the anger in his eyes. He snatched up the bullhorn and glared at us. “It seems that we have some criminals in our midst who took it upon themselves to deface my private property. I do not know who you are, but none of us are leaving until I do. I will wait you out if I must.” He snapped his fingers, and the RD appeared with a folding chair. The dean sat down, folded his arms, and waited.
I felt as if his eyes were boring into me. He must know the tire was below our window. I did not dare to look at Charles. Time stood still. “Breathe in; breathe out,” I told myself as I stared at the ground.
There was a murmuring among the ranks. Questions were being asked up and down the line, but mostly, “Who is responsible?” The sun began to rise thick and red like a giant grapefruit. People were beginning to grow weary and complain. A few tried to sit down but were severely reprimanded by the bullhorn. All the while, the dean sat there playing with his slippery hands, folding and unfolding them, tapping them against his spidery legs. He didn’t read. He didn’t stretch his legs. He just watched and waited.
We were long past the hour mark. In the kitchen, the chefs were probably serving a breakfast of hot buttered pancakes dripping with syrup and fresh strawberries. My stomach growled at the thought. I tried to forget that I was the cause of this mess. All these boys were standing outside because of me. I was to be blamed. I could end it all with one step forward. Early morning students walked by and gawked at the strange sight. My fault. My fault.
I pushed those words back down into my mind’s abyss. Someone would have to cut off my hands before I confessed it was me. I was not going to be expelled. I would not give Dr. Groves that privilege.
An hour later, Dr. Groves slapped his hands against his thighs with a sigh and stood. “It seems that our perpetrators are too cowardly to step forward. So be it.” He was attempting to goad us, to lure us out. “I have my suspicions as to who the culprits are, and I, along with the chief of police, will be conducting interviews in my office. Please do not think because your daddies are rich that you will avoid punishment. The longer you wait, the greater the repercussions will be. This type of behavior will not be allowed to continue and sully the pristine reputation of this institution. From this point on, I am cancelling visiting hours between the men’s and women’s dorms, along with the upcoming inter-collegiate athletics. Obviously, we do not deserve such pleasantries. You would do well, gentlemen, to see that the guilty are found. You are dismissed.”
A few boys crumpled to the ground with tired legs, while the rest of us filed back into the dorm. No one was in the mood for talking. Charles and I locked our door and stared at each other. Suddenly, Charles grinned.
“Another five minutes, and I bet you would have cracked, you infant.”
I glared at him. “Not a chance. I’d go to the grave without confessing.”
A few moments later, there were three sharp raps on the door, and we went silent. This was not good. Charles unlocked the door, and it swung open. Dr. Groves stood there looking at us. “Good morning, gentlemen. Could I have a word with the two of you?”
I could barely believe Charles’ gall when he responded, “Could it wait till after breakfast? I’m famished.”
“I’m afraid your breakfast will have to wait, Charles. There are more pressing matters are hand.” He let himself into the room and shut the door. Without thinking, we both retreated. He smiled. “I’m sure this comes as a complete surprise to you, but the tire from my Rolls Royce was found directly beneath your window. Do you know how it might have found its way there?”
I cleared my throat. “No, sir. First thing I remember this morning was that blasted alarm going off. That’s the honest truth.”
“Tom, this is the second suspicious thing that has happened involving you. First the library, now the tire. I find it very hard to believe that these are merely coincidences. As for you, Charles, you continue to be a grave disappointment in comparison to your brothers. There is much to be said for good breeding, and I fear you have gotten in with the wrong crowd. I would advise you to be very careful about whom you associate yourself with. It would bring your father a good deal of shame if you were somehow involved in these underhanded affairs. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.” Just like that, he was gone.
Charles was red and ready to explode. I put my hand out his shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you,” I said, trying to calm him. “He’s not worth it. I’m going for a walk. Being in the presence of such a terrible human being makes me lose my appetite.”
I strolled down to the lake. My body was exhausted, but my mind was restless. My life was a tower poised to topple. Dr. Groves was breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip up. He was a lion waiting to tear me limb from limb and send me home in disgrace. I could see him salivating. That would be the end. I would return home and live the rest of my days in mundane mediocrity. I would run the family store. I would smile at the customers. I would lie to the world. I would go home and dream of Julia Stine. I would die alone and be forgotten. Somewhere God would watch it all and remain silent, the omnipotent mute, the mysterious playwright writing lines for his chaotic masterpiece. If people knew my thoughts, they would brand me a heretic. Oh well, it must be part of the script, I told myself sourly.
To write is to be made in the image of the author. In writing, we join in the process of creation. In writing, we take the script into our own hands. In writing, we ruin everything. In writing, we find everything. In writing, we escape. It’s always been about escape for me. This whole journey has been about escape, and here, waiting to be called into the lion’s den, I could see that. Through bleary eyes, I stared out across still, blue glass like a sailor long at sea looking for home, but I knew it would not be there. I should have realized years ago that my script was a tragedy.
CHAPTER 28
Waiting and Writing
I STARED AT THE BOOKS on my desk. Three days, three long, anxious days, had gone by, and I had not yet heard from Dr. Groves. I knew the summons was coming. It was only a matter of time. He was making me sit and wait. He was playing mind games from his ivory tower. Thankfully, he underestimated me. He thought I was a know-nothing hick from a small rural town. His sophistication did not allow him to judge me fairly. He expected me to crack at any moment and beg for mercy. There would be no begging, because I knew there would be no mercy. I would be crucified and left to hang as an example for the masses who would thumb their noses and move on, untouched by my humiliation. No, I would not walk the Via Dolorosa. There were still things here that needed to be done. I could not wait any longer. My time was precious; I had to speak.
I was not a divine prophet. I did not believe in such things. I did not have brilliant visions of God like those of Abraham and Isaiah I learned about in church. I was not God’s messenger. God doesn’t need another messenger, as far as I’m concerned. Nothing I say could ever compare with a sunrise or bank of slow moving clouds on a warm summer day. I was not here to call the people to repentance for their sins. I didn’t know what I was calling people to. I didn’t have that part figured out yet. My life was so screwed up that I wasn’t about to say, “Come, follow me.” I just knew there was more to life than the superficial existence I saw all around me. There was more than empty form and ritual. Somewhere along the way, we’d lost the substance. A plan began to form in my mind.
I sat down and began to write. The words began to flow—nothing special,
just simple sentences. I began to tell my story. I told about the pain of losing my mother. I expressed my deep need to be loved by my father and his ongoing failure. I wrote it all down, every bitter, humiliating detail. I did not attempt to cover up the messiness and smooth out the wrinkles. I laid myself out on paper and then sat back and stared in amazement. There I was in all my brokenness. It wasn’t pretty, but it was me. It was honest.
I was still sitting there pensively when Charles walked in looking anxious. “Any word yet, Tom?”
“Nope. Still nothing.”
“The waiting is killing me.”
“I know. Charles, I have a serious question to ask you.”
“Oh no. You’re not going to ask me if I know Jesus, are you?”
“No, you idiot. This is serious, though. I want to write your story. You will remain anonymous, of course.”
“Why would you want me to do that, Tom?”
“To show people here at Locklear that life isn’t perfect. I want them to stop pretending.”
“Are you serious? With everything going on, you want me to sit down and write my story?”
“Yeah, we can’t just sit here and put our lives on hold waiting for the dean to kick us out.”
“Do you think people care at all about my pathetic life story? Let me answer that for you. I think not. We need to lay low.”
“But what if we don’t have much time left? Aren’t you tired of all the craziness? What if our stories could make a difference?”
“This is just the way things are. Telling our stories won’t make any difference.”
“I already wrote mine out. Read it and then decide.”
“I hate reading …”
“Shut up, you big baby. It’s not very long. I’m going to shower, and you’d better be done by the time I get back.” If I couldn’t get Charles on board, the idea was sure to fail.
When I walked back in the room, Charles looked up at me. He shook the paper. “Tom, this is really good. This is much better than any of the garbage we have to read for Remus.”
Finding Tom Page 15
