by Eden Beck
He takes two steps then pauses, sticking one finger up in the air as if he just had another thought. “Oh, and that boy you were staring at. You know, before you realized I was watching you?”
I feel my cheeks redden as I think of the boy from the car.
“Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Stay away from him. I know him. Him and his friends … they’re bad news.”
With that, he heads off towards the front of the school, and I feel my heart lurch inside me.
“Wait!” I call, jogging after him. Rafael cringes outwardly as my suitcase clatters noisily behind me. “So, what do I do next. How do I keep anyone else from figuring the whole girl thing out?”
Rafael purses his lips. “Look, I’m not one to half-ass a thing once I’ve started it. That’s what got me here in the first place.” After a second, a long, obviously pained second, he sighs again. “So, help me god, Alex … ” he gives me another one of those scathing looks. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Regret what?”
“I’m going to help you, dimwit. Now come along quick, before I change my mind.”
Chapter Three
Rafael can only stand the sound of my rattling suitcase for about two minutes and fifteen seconds before he snatches it out of my hands and, in a surprising feat of strength, hurls it behind a massive potted plant in the corner of the main hall.
“Remember that image for future reference,” he hisses at me, grabbing me by the collar of my hoodie and dragging me down a side hall in pursuit of the voices echoing towards us from further on.
The inside of Bleakwood is all dark mahogany paneling and portraits of very unhappy-looking headmasters. Or deans. Or principals. I don’t really know what they call them here. And I suppose it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that whoever is in charge is going to be the person who’s probably going to end up kicking me out of here when the rest of the school figures out I’m an imposter.
Though technically … no one ever did ask if I was a boy. It was never on any of the forms. I guess everyone else just inherently knew this place was an all-boys school and assumed anyone applying with the name of Alex was a boy. For the first time in my life, I guess I’m grateful it was never short for anything else. Just Alex, good ‘ol androgynous Alex.
Rafael doesn’t let go of me until we stumble out into a study area looking out on a short, surprisingly green lawn outside. Somehow, he manages to compose himself immediately to join the rest of the boys looking on as a man at the head of the group explains something about the mountains shielding the school from some of the more extreme Alps weather.
I, meanwhile, draw angry stares as I loudly shuffle to re-gain my footing after being so abruptly abandoned.
That boy from the car keeps throwing glances my way, then leans in to whisper something in the ear of a boy standing next to him. The second boy doesn’t look back but just shakes his head. Something tells me he’s the one from the back of the car, and just like before, there’s something unsettling about him. Maybe it’s the way he stands, his back rigid and his head staring unmovingly forward.
So still, so calm. Something so … pompous about it, like the rest of us are so beneath him that he can’t even be bothered to see who’s made the tour guide huff twice now out of frustration. It makes me want to purposefully trip on the corner of the oriental rug just to cause even more of a scene than I already have.
Maybe that would make him turn.
“If we’re all quite certain of how to use our feet,” the tour guide growls loudly, his voice raised just high enough to carry a warning, “then let us proceed to where you’ll be spending most of your time here, the classrooms.”
That pit in my stomach grows as I follow along at my classmate’s heels, doing my best to blend into the crowd. It’s going to be a little harder to do, I realize, when I discover that everyone else—including Rafael, though I didn’t notice it before—is already in uniform. Suddenly the oversized hoodie feels suffocating.
For all my years surrounded by pre-pubescent boys, I really should know how to blend into them better. They always treated me like I was invisible enough.
As if sensing an impending meltdown, Rafael drops back to walk casually by my side. He keeps his head facing forward, nodding along as the classroom layouts and schedules for the upcoming semester are explained.
“Stop acting so weird,” he whispers, as soon as the guide has motioned for us all to move on. “Just be yourself. And stop looking at everyone like they’re about to narc on you. Only narcs look like that.”
“But I’m not a—”
“Shh!” Rafael sees someone glance our way again and hushes me loudly, as if I was the one talking to him in the first place.
I have to look away, my tongue poking into the side of my cheek to keep myself from making some snappy retort. I find myself looking for a certain set of familiar faces in the crowd … but they’re gone.
“If you’re looking for The Brotherhood, they’re already gone,” Rafael whispers.
“Brotherhood?”
He keeps his face trained forward, nodding like an imbecile again. “You’ll see soon enough.”
And I do.
The tour culminates back in the main entrance after a brief tour up to the dormitories, and back down through the library, equipment storage, and study rooms.
The tour guide, who I’ve since learned is the dean himself, Withers, stands in front of us all with a tablet. I keep expecting him to take some kind of roll call or just … something … but he just keeps standing there, waiting expectantly. They all are.
With the notable exception of myself, everyone seems to be looking up towards the top of the stairs just … waiting.
Now would be a great time to slip up to Dean Withers and explain my whole uniform situation, but I have a feeling Rafael will out me here on the spot if I do one more thing that might potentially embarrass him. Especially with the serious side-eye I keep catching him giving one of the other boys.
I’m just about ready to explode from having to stand here waiting so long when I hear the slam of doors coming from somewhere up above. At the top of the stairs.
It starts as a muffled sound muted by distance. But with each slamming door, it grows louder. Closer. So it continues until the thundering sound is more like weather, like the sounds that echo through the very mountains that surround us.
And then, when the storming of footsteps nearly out-deafens the slamming doors, three boys appear at the top of the steps. The boy from earlier is among them, but for the first time, I get a good look at the other two. A very thorough look … because all three of them stand before us stark naked.
The trio halts suddenly when they reach the top step, each one assuming a wide stance, shoulders thrown back, heads held high, steely gaze staring straight ahead. Even as I look on in total shock and confusion, I wonder at the fact that these boys are anywhere near the same age as me. They don’t look like sixteen or seventeen-year-old boys. They look like men.
The tall, lithe Scandinavian. The long-haired sporty type, with freckles across the bridge of his nose. The statuesque, stoic one in the center.
They look … intimidating. Powerful. And perhaps most surprisingly … not the least bit ridiculous. They look like they belong here. Like whatever it is they’re doing, they were born to do this.
The one in the middle holds something up between his outstretched hands. At first, I’m not sure what it is. He lifts it higher until it’s clutched high above his head.
When he opens his mouth, his voice carries loud and clear.
“We, The Brotherhood.”
In unison, the two boys standing at either of his sides shout the same.
As soon as their jaws clamp shut again, the boy in the middle sweeps his arms down in a sudden, smooth movement, sending the thing in his hand crashing to the ground. It smashes in an explosion of ceramic shards and ash.
The whole hall fills with thick, choking smoke.
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I throw up my hand to shield my face, but it isn’t until the dust has started to settle that I realize I’m suddenly standing alone. Everyone else had the good sense to step back out of the way. With the rest of them hidden in the settling ash, it feels like I’m standing in the midst of an empty chasm.
Movement above draws my gaze back to the top of the stairs.
The air has started to clear on the landing.
As I watch, the three boys each reach down and take a handful of ash. They smear the dark powder across their cheeks and chests like great swaths of warpaint. Once they’re finished, each one of them straightens back up and stares ahead again.
“The Brotherhood Lives.”
This time, the chant comes from all around me, instead of from the boys up above. It scares me shitless, making me jump and whirl around as the ash finally starts to settle enough for me to make the rest of them out. Behind me—much further behind me—the students repeat the chant several more times. The only one who doesn’t is the dean, who though he doesn’t look entirely pleased with the ritual, isn’t doing anything to stop it either.
Well, this is fucking fantastic. I think I’ve joined a cult.
When I glance back up to the top of the stairs, the boys are gone.
But this isn’t the last I’m going to hear of this. I know it when the last of the ash settles enough for me to finally catch sight of Rafael among the rest of my crazy new classmates.
As soon as he spots me, he covers his face with his hands and I know that once again, I’ve done something wrong.
But something else tells me this time, the fix isn’t going to be so simple as biting down my nails or taking a draw on a cigarette. And it might have something to do with the fact that, like the boys at the top of the stairs, I somehow ended up being the only other student smeared with that same ash.
Chapter Four
After a display like that, I half expect shadowy figures to appear all around us in dark cloaks chanting something ominous, probably in Latin.
But instead, everything returns to such stark normalcy that it leaves my head spinning.
“Everyone should take this opportunity to finish unpacking their things and tying up any final affairs before dinner,” Dean Withers says calmly, the only hint that anything totally weird and cultish just happened being the slight cough that punctuates the end of his sentence. “We will meet in the dining hall promptly at seven. Anyone late will be turned away. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the voices chorus around me. I try to join in, but between the ash I’ve sucked into my lungs and that cigarette earlier, all I manage is a pathetic wheeze.
While the rest of the boys start to disperse, none of them giving off the slightest hint that anything out of the normal just happened, the Dean turns directly to me.
“And you are … Alex, I presume?”
The only good thing about the ash covering me head-to-toe is that it hides the full extent of how red my face actually gets.
“Yes, sir.”
“You were late,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Did your driver get lost?”
If I thought my face was red before …
“I took the bus,” I say, tacking on a hasty “sir” to the end.
His face pinches up. “Ah yes. I forgot. You won the contest, yes?”
The way he says it makes me want to reassure him that though I’m not Aston-Martin-for-my-sixteenth-birthday rich, it’s not like I’ve spent the first part of my life roughing it in the streets of Victorian London.
But since I’m already probably in enough trouble as it is, I just shove my pride even further down where the sun don’t shine and nod my head.
Before the vice-dean can say anything else, we’re interrupted by the muffled clatter of heels on the stone floor. A woman, so tall and slender that she towers above nearly everyone present, appears over his shoulder.
“Ah, Withers, I was wondering when we’d get to meet the scholarship recipient.”
Only I see the moment it takes him to compose the Dean’s face. For one brief moment, I see an intense hatred there. By the time he whirls around the greet her, it’s been replaced by a broad, welcoming smile.
Good to know I can’t trust him, anyway.
“Headmistress Robin!” he exclaims, holding out his arms as if he expects her to run to embrace him.
She maintains her position, only nodding her head slightly at him. ”Again, it’s Dean Robin. But so good to see you, too. The summers just seem to keep getting longer and longer, don’t they? I was just starting to think I’d never have to see you again.”
Dean Withers is about to respond, but then he pauses as the meaning of what she just said starts to sink in. She doesn’t wait for him to reply. Unlike Withers, she doesn’t try to hide the flicker of distaste on her features. Instead, she turns sharply back to me.
“Alex, isn’t it?”
She sticks out her hand, then thinks better of it when she sees the grime covering mine. She recovers nicely by clasping her palms together in front of her well-fitted pencil skirt.
“I’m the dean of the preparatory school across the valley,” she explains, for my benefit. “I helped Horace here sort through the scholarship applications. If it was up to him, I think he would have just picked out the one with the oldest-sounding family name and been done with it!”
Her tinkling laugh does nothing to cut the meaning of her words.
“Well, some of us actually have a proper school to run,” the dean grumbles.
“Anyway,” she says airily, brushing his words aside like a distracting gnat, “I just wanted to offer you my sincerest congratulations. Your essay was … remarkable. You just don’t often see that sort of raw emotional intelligence in a boy so young as yourself,” she says.
Normally, this kind of praise would go straight to my head. I’d be strutting around like a peacock for a week, trying to find any reason to bring the topic up in casual conversation. But right now, with Withers straight-up scowling behind this terrifyingly chirpy lady, I just find myself wishing someone else would smash an urn so I could slip into the dust and disappear.
But since no one seems determined to do that, I just manage a gravelly, “Um. Thank you?”
Dean Withers scowls more. I can’t have the dean hating me already. I don’t know much about this place, but I do know that.
So, I squint up at the woman and cock my head to the side. “Who was it you said you were, again? The headmistress of the girl’s school?”
I watch as a little part of her dies inside. She unclasps and then clasps her hands several times, her lips pressing into a tight line as her smile turns less than genuine.
Behind her, Dean Withers straightens back up and for a second, we share an understanding look. It worked. I might not have completely won over the dean, but I’ve avoided being branded an utter traitor on my first day.
Why then does my stomach feel so sour?
“Well, anyway, I just wanted to let you know you can come see me any time. I’m excited by this new direction Bleakwood is taking.”
“As are all of us,” Dean Withers says, loud enough to make it clear he’s announcing an end to her little interruption. “Now, unless you came all the way over here to say what could have been communicated in an email …”
He trails off with an all-knowing look.
“Of course not,” she says.
Dean Withers holds out an arm to usher her in the opposite direction. “And Rafael?” he calls over his shoulder.
I turn around to see Rafael freeze in the doorway, nearly having made his escape.
“Yes, Dean?”
“Alex will be rooming with you this semester. I’ll have his things sent up.”
“Very well, Dean.”
“And Alex,” he says, before finally letting us go, “do try your best to stay out of any more trouble. Wouldn’t be fitting for Bleakwood’s first scholarship recipient to go and get himself expelled, now would it?”
Rafael starts pacing across the room as soon as the door shuts behind us.
It’s a surprisingly spacious dorm. Two long diamond-paned windows look out on the drive leading up to the school. From all the way up here, it’s a wonder I made it up to Bleakwood for the last of orientation at all. Though even still … I can’t decide if turning down a ride from this so-called Brotherhood was the wrong thing to do.
“What … was … that? Were those ashes?”
“The urn? Oh, no. Not anymore. They stopped putting real ashes in those ages ago.”
Rafael stops what he’s doing and lets out one of his trademark sighs. “What are you even doing here, Alex?”
I stop mid-sentence, stricken. I shouldn’t feel offended, but I do.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means … ” he drawls, “you don’t seem like the type that got in here because your great-great-grandfather was a founding member or something, and you don’t seem all that interested in studying … so why are you here?”
I’m taken aback.
“I … I … ”
Why am I here?
I was never one of those girls who dreamt of going to some all-girl’s boarding school and giggling into the night under scratchy sheets, but I certainly never dreamt of sneaking into a boy’s school. I’ve had enough of boys. My whole childhood was rough-and-tumble with enough brothers to make me pretty convinced, at least for a little while there, that I would turn out to be a lesbian.
And then I hit puberty, kissed a couple girls on the schoolyard, and realized that Jack Frazier, designated-middle-school-hottie, was the dreamboat for me.
Rafael is staring me down like my life, or more likely his life, depends on the answer.
So, for lack of a better option, I tell him the truth.
