Inside The Mind Of Gideon Rayburn

by Sarah Miller

  Gid's heart beats in his chest and his throat. His stomach tingles. Gid can vaguely make out Molly racing toward the deeper shadows alongside the classroom buildings at the top of the hill. Mr. Cavanaugh must be able to see something too. As he walks toward the car, swiftly now, he keeps glancing up that way, as if he isn't sure what to track. He approaches the window and motions for them to put it down.

  "Can't we refuse?" Gid whispers. "What about our rights?"

  Nicholas rolls his eyes and starts tucking his shirt into his pants. "You douche bag," he says. "We're in prep school. We don't have any rights."

  pork butt

  Dr. Frye, the headmaster, is at a chamber music concert in Brookline. So Cockweed left them in the care of his wife, Mrs. Frye. For two hours, Gideon, Cullen, and Nicholas have been sitting at the foot of a large wooden antique dining table covered with dried flower cuttings, watching her putter about and braise a roast. Her kitchen is wood-paneled, and copper pots and baskets of garlic and tomatoes hang from hooks on the low ceiling. "Pci^k butt is such an excellent cut," she says. She's very breezy considering how much trouble they're in. But maybe she's just British and batty and consumed with her pork butt. "Inexpensive, yet succulent," she continues as she shuts the oven with a satisfied smile.

  She's watching over them like a mother hen. There's nothing prison guard-y in her manner, but it's kind of clear that she's not going anywhere. So neither are they.

  She opens a sizable bottle of white wine and pours some over a tall glass of ice.

  "Jesus," Gid whispers to Cullen. "It's not fucking Sprite."

  "Hey," Cullen whispers back, "I got a question for you."

  Gid nods gravely.

  Cullen narrows his eyes and makes his face very serious. "If there's a God," he says, "then why does my anus itch?"

  They laugh the laughter of the condemned.

  Mrs. Frye dumps her first glass of white wine into her mouth and immediately refills it. She adjusts her bun with a hairpin, dries a blue glass vase, and sets it down on the table. "Feel free to try your hand at arranging some of those ranunculus, roses, and lavender," she says. She cocks her head at Gideon, and her loose bun tips over to the side of her head. "You're new, aren't you?" she asks.

  The telephone rings. It's the only vaguely modern thing in the house, and its space-age alert sound is sort of a

  surprise.

  "Excuse me!" Mrs. Frye cries out and whips the phone off the wall with a flourish. "Oh hello, dear," she says. "Yes. Yes, they're here, awaiting your judgment. Nicholas Westerbeck, Cullen McKay, and...I'm sorry, young man, I don't know your name. Funny, i know how you like your tea, but I don't know your name." She laughs, again chugging her wine down to the ice cubes.

  Gid—it is about time—realizes at this moment that she is insane. "Gideon Rayburn," he says.

  "Gideon Rayburn," she repeats. She winks at him. "You got the story from Gene, then?" Gene is Captain Cockweed's real name. Not surprising. She cradles the receiver under her chin and fiddles with her hair with both hands, producing several pins. She puts one of them back in, tucks the rest into her mouth, and speaks over them. "Certainly. Certainly. So you're going to fix the tire and then be over. I will call him, yes, by all means get off the phone if you're running out.. .Whoop!" She hangs up and sets her hands on her hips. "Lost him."

  She dials. "Hello," she says. "This is Mrs. Frye. Just fine. A little excitement, indeed. Anyway, the doctor wanted me to tell you he'll be there in about forty-five minutes? All right. Good-bye." Mrs. Frye's brown eyes hover above them, the whites round and glassy like boiled eggs. Gid's insides pulsate.

  "Well, boys," she says, "the headmaster and commander will be back in an hour." She checks an old wall clock that makes hideously hollow and ominous ticking noises. "I'm going to go watch my program, and you...are going to sit here." She drapes her apron over the cabinet door and, grabbing her tumbler and the bottle, walks out. They hear the stairs creak and a door shut.

  "I can't believe there's a television in this house," Cullen says. "I feel like we're in Colonial Williamsburg."

  Nicholas is on his feet. He picks up the phone and hits REDIAL He taps his foot. "Come on, come on," he mutters. Then his eyes light up. "A machine." Cullen rushes over to hear and Gideon, having no idea at all what's going on, does the same. Nicholas holds out the phone so they can all hear the message. "Hello, this is the constable. Leave a message or, if this is an emergency..."

  "I knew it," he says, hanging up. "The constable."

  "Who is the constable?" Gid asks. It doesn't sound like anyone good.

  "The constable," Cullen says, "is a town policeman. A real old-school kind of guy. Anyway, when drug stuff goes down here, they call him. He shows up, with this dog that he's got. And they walk around the dorms. And they find it. You better believe they find it."

  "What kind of dog is it?" Gid asks.

  "What kind of dog? Who cares what kind of dog it is?"

  "I think it's a yellow Lab," Nicholas says.

  A yellow Lab? A special, drug-smelling golden Lab? God, I love New England!

  Cullen blows air out of his lips, a sort of defeated half-snort. Nicholas paces a little, hoists his foot onto a window ledge, stretches a hamstring, then paces some more. He opens the refrigerator again. He takes out a grape and eats it.

  "So," Nicholas continues, "here's what's going to happen.'7 He's now removed the entire bowl of grapes from the refrigerator and is sitting cross-legged on the headmaster's kitchen floor, eating them one by one. "The constable will get here. Molly McGarry, who has no idea that anything is going on, and has more than likely hidden the pot in her dresser or under her bed or some other incredibly obvious place, gets caught with it, and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I mean, you know, if it comes to that, we won't let her hang, but she'll get in trouble too."

  "No, that can't happen," Gid says. "One of us has to go find her. I can't let Molly go back to Buffalo."

  "If Molly gets kicked out and you don't," Cullen says, "we can fix the bet."

  Oh my God! Evil!

  Gid is standing up, putting on his coat.

  At this moment, Mrs. Frye pops in, shuffling in sheepskin slippers. "Just checking in on my friend," she says. She bustles around the oven with a baster, poking the pork butt. "That's fine," she says, and pads back upstairs.

  Gid zips his coat and, rather nerdily, checks his shoelaces.

  "You can't go anywhere," Nicholas hisses. "She'll be back."

  "We're all going back home, courtesy of the constable," Cullen says. He lies down on the floor and rests his feet on the oven door handle. "This is surprisingly comfortable," he says.

  But Gideon's not ready to give up. The outlaw spirit starts to burn in his chest. "Maybe you won't mind going home," he says to Cullen. "You'll have your own car that you'll be driving to a posh day school full of new, naive girls. But if you knew what I was going home to, well, you would know that I would do anything to keep that from happening."

  Cullen and Nicholas are certainly surprised by Gideon's bravery in the face of danger, prep school style. I, for one, always knew he had it in him.

  impulsive gid

  Gid figures the dining hall is the best place to start. He makes his way there in what he hopes is a stealthy manner, low to the ground, ducking behind a bush, hovering near a tree whenever possible. He takes a wide angle on a seldom-traveled campus road behind Emerson, and cuts through a small patch of trees behind the dining hall to find himself standing in front of a picture window, looking right in at their regular table, where Liam Wu sits, alone. He's trying to look as if he's staring into space, but Gid is almost sure he's looking at himself in the window.

  Gid waves. He thinks, God, I'm not even scared of him. He waves some more, with two hands. Liam continues to stare. Gid waves faster. It is only when Gid is jumping up and down like a shipwreck victim seeking the attention of an airplane that Liam leans forward, his brow furrowed, and mouths what appears to be the word me?
/>
  Gid stops jumping and shakes his fists in the air. He mouths, "Yes, you, you moron!" Shit. He squats down against the edge of the building, breathing hard. By the time he's gotten the courage to stand up again, he sees Liam storming down the hill toward him. To Gid's ever so slight pleasure, Liam looks annoyed.

  "What's the big friggin' deal? Where the fuck is my ride, yo? And Where's the weed? It's half ours."

  "Liam, please just do what I tell you, and don't ask me any questions. I want you to go inside. I want you to find Molly McGarry and bring her to me. And if you can't find her, find out where she is."

  "Are you joking?" Liam asks. "Why can't you go inside and do it yourself?"

  "Liam," Gideon says. "We have a big problem. And you can go find out where Molly McGarry is or you will be extremely sorry that you didn't."

  "Molly McGarry?" Liam asks. "That sounds familiar. She's, like, brunette...has a little friend with sort of freaky eyes?"

  "Liam, I really don't have time for the whole let me try to place her on my exclusive radar routine."

  This statement is a miraculous distillation of the exact way in which Liam is an asshole. Liam, despite not being

  all that bright, knows this. His whole body deflates. Even his lips get small.

  "I actually think Molly McGarry is kind of a stealth babe," Liam says.

  Oh, okay, Gid thinks. He knows what Liam's trying to do. He's trying to turn the balance of power back in his direction. He knows that Gid wants Molly. Liam doesn't know why but he knows that, and he's trying to make it clear that what might be a real babe to Gideon is just a qualified babe to Liam. A stealth babe. What a dick. Well, fuck Liam. Molly would never fall for him.

  Not so fast, Gid. Look at all the annoying hot girls that you want. Girls may be less susceptible to sheer beauty than you, but we're not immune to it. Besides, just because Liam Wu doesn't share his charming side with you doesn't mean he doesn't have one.

  Gid wisely doesn't respond to Liam. They face off in the dark, cold quiet of a New England night. Finally, Liam says, "Dude, if you're going to make me go do something for you, you have to at least tell me why I'm doing it." He crosses his arms.

  "I really want to punch you in the face," Gid hisses.

  That was immature. Suburban. Gay. As soon as the words are out of his mouth Gid is mortified. But Liam's face grows instantly red and mottled. Gid knows that look. Liam is feeling shame. His ego is big, but it's fragile, and the fact that Gid, the new guy, is suddenly no longer terrified of him has rocked Liam's world.

  Liam stalks off without saying a word.

  Gid watches as Liam moves through the cafeteria. He's back with appropriate speed. Good, Gid thinks. He seems to understand. "Molly's in the library," Liam says. "What's this all about anyway, dude? Where are Cullen and Nicholas?"

  "Where in the library?" Gideon says, ignoring the rest. "Come on, where?"

  "In the carrels. In the basement. Jesus. I had to talk to the little weird girl. She's probably going to think I'm into her now. Great. Thanks."

  Gid puts his hand on Liam's shoulder. He looks him straight in the eye and says, "Do you have any idea what a totally ridiculous person you are?"

  He's gone before Liam can process what's just happened.

  Gid giggles to himself all the way to the library. He might be screwed, but at least he knows who he is right now. What he's doing. The campus clock, a stately, Roman-numeraled thing above the chapel, reads twenty after seven. Forty minutes to find Molly, and a good hiding place.

  Gid enters the library through the basement to avoid detection. He steps carefully through fiction, A-D, E-H. Finally, from behind the row of Henry James novels, he sees her nestled in a carrel with Moby-Dick and a red pen. "Hey," Gid whispers. She turns. And Gid's heart—like it's a tiny frog in his chest—inflates and jumps. The thing is, he

  can't help but think of Pilar, that Pilar is, like, really, four hundred times prettier than Molly, four hundred times prettier, really, than anything he's ever seen. He's even thought of her, embarrassingly, as lit from within by a thousand candles. But Molly looks so knowing. Amused. The way her lips curve like that, it's not that it drives him crazy with sexual desire, but it does make him feel curious.

  He's staring at her for some time before she says, raising one eyebrow so that she makes herself even more curiosity provoking, "May I help you?"

  Gideon puts a finger over his lips. Beckons to her. She tiptoes over, the wry smile deepens. "My, my," she says. "This is very James Bond. You have this mysterious injury..."—she alludes to his eye—"and my pen doubles as a sword, you know." She pokes him lightly in the ribs, her knuckles brush against a bare strip of skin between the buttons of his shirt. Gid's aware of every stage of her fingers touching him, the light scratch of her nail, the warmth of her skin, the cooler metal of her ring. He finds himself, as if guided by a force greater than himself, taking her hand.

  To his immense pleasure, and surprise, he sees that she's trying not to smile. He thinks this might be even better than if she smiled outright. Yes, Gid...this is indeed correct. "You're worried about the pot," Molly says. "But it's hidden. It's in my room. No one will ever look there."

  "They have a dog," Gideon says. "And they are coming to look." He thinks he can put her hand down now. This is serious.

  "What?" Molly says. "Who is 'they'?"

  "A dog," Gideon repeats. "This guy has a big yellow dog, and it can smell things, the constable..."

  Molly scowls and waves a dismissive hand. "That whole constable thing, that's just some dumb prep school myth. Like the ghost in the chapel."

  Gideon tells her about the headmaster's kitchen. How, out of sheer boredom, he arranged a bouquet of roses, ranunculus, and lavender that the headmaster's wife seemed to be rather impressed by. He tells her about the phone call. "You can't redial a myth," he says importantly. "The constable is very real, and he's on his way."

  Molly puts on her coat but leaves Moby-Dick and the red pen behind. "I'm coming back," she says. "This is my little way of telling myself I'm not getting kicked out of school tonight."

  Molly insists they walk right through the middle of campus. "Hiding in plain sight," she says. "Didn't you see The Fugitive?" Gid still walks as fast as he can, with his head bent into his chest. "Oh, you don't look guilty at all," Molly says.

  "I could hold a newspaper over my face," Gid says. "Would you like that?"

  "No," Molly says, "because then I wouldn't be able to see how handsome you are."

  Sometimes girls make comments that are so transparently flirtatious that guys are supposed to think, "Wow, that was way too flirtatious to actually be flirtatious." I think this was one of those.

  "We do have to cut behind Morrison," Gid says. "Your hide-in-plain-sight plan was a good one, but there are limits." He likes the way she lets him take her arm to guide her into a small patch of woods, and when he lifts her over a tiny stream so she doesn't get her big black boots wet, she doesn't protest either.

  When they arrive at Emerson, they agree that she will take the back entrance and he will wait outside, behind the Dumpster, under the fire escape.

  Waiting for her, Gid stares up at the stars and remembers he's in trouble. He reminds himself that he's insignificant, that it won't matter at all in the grand scheme of things if he gets kicked out of prep school. I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself that nothing really matters except being alive. It never works for me, and I'm not surprised when Gid gives up on it too and just starts praying.

  "Jesus," he whispers, into the brick wall, which feels like a holy thing to do, "I know that it's not a big deal to the rest of the world, but please don't let me get kicked out of prep school." He adds, "Because someday I want to help people and it will be easier to do that if I have gone to prep school. Whatever. Jesus. Or God, I guess. If you don't want me to get kicked out of prep school, send me a sign." And at that moment, an airplane flies overhead. No kidding. And then another one. Then Molly appears at the t
op of the back landing. "Check it out," Gid says. "I prayed to God to send a sign that I wasn't going to get kicked out of school, and a plane flew overhead. And then another one."

  Molly puts her hands on her hips. "Look up." Gid looks up. Another plane flies overhead. "Behold, the celestial event so incredible it happens every thirty-four seconds." Gid stares at her, uncomprehending. "It's called a flight path," she says. "You're a moron."

  Molly lowers the fire escape ladder and climbs down. She walks right up to Gid and, smiling her cryptic smile, plants a kiss on his cheek. "Thanks," she says. "As much as I respect the city of Buffalo, I have to say I'm not too keen on going back. Not like this."

  "Thanks? It was my fault in the first place. I...just wanted to do what was right." Molly nods at this. But her expression, which he would have expected to be reverent, is instead somewhere between guarded and amused. "Do you always do the right thing?" she says.

  Gid thinks of his Molly/Pilar plan. Which can hardly be classified as saintly. But is it wrong? "I mean, the right thing in the sense that letting you hang out to dry for our problem, that would really, definitively have been the wrong thing."

  "What about other wrong things?" Molly asks. "When things get ambiguous?"

  This question makes Gideon nervous.

  Then it hits him: Molly just kissed him. Without him even trying.

  He smiles at her. Inexplicably, he says, "Hi." But Molly smiles back. He thinks he might want to kiss her again.

  They're kind of standing side by side, and he takes a step so he's halfway to facing her. It's a very natural step. Another step would not seem so. He stares at her hipbone. Then he looks at her jawline. She is thin but strong and sturdy. He likes her body. He can't think of a really good reason to move his foot again.