English was a breeze; when given the syllabus, August was happy to see he’d already read every book on the list, most of them before he was ten. But the other subjects were baffling. Physics? Latin? And just what was a fraction? His primary tutors up to this point had been Miss Butler, Sir Reginald, and Sergeant Sycamore. None of them had prepared August for something so ridiculous as the periodic table of elements. All his life, August had counted himself among the cleverer half of humans, but to find that he was duller than the boy who chewed on the bottom of his necktie all through algebra was a revelation most cruel. Instead of rigorous application, August adopted the classic defense mechanism of withdrawing completely, his marks suffering for it.
The plain fact of the matter was, now that all his basic human needs were consistently met, August had time to think about what he wanted from his future. The trouble was, he had no idea. Should he study ferociously so that he might be accepted into some Ivy League university like the rest of his Willington peers? That life didn’t interest him in the slightest. But now that he was off the streets, he no longer aspired to be a bookie, the coveted career of the boys he used to run with. He hated that he academically trailed these snobbish spoiled dandies. August liked being intelligent. He wanted to make a mark. To change things and to impact people.
But how?
* * *
Whenever he needed a respite from the overindulged boys of Willington, August would scale the eight-foot stone wall that bordered the grounds and take himself on a walk, reminiscent of his midnight mind-clearing strolls through Manhattan. On one of these expeditions, August happened upon another campus, Sainted Sisters of the Slaughtered Lamb, which believe it or not, was a Catholic school—but, more important, a Catholic school for girls.
It became August’s favorite pastime to slip through the fence of Sainted Sisters well past curfew and make the acquaintance of one of her pupils. Not in a disreputable sort of way. The girls attending Sainted Sisters were all set to become the wives of senators, high-powered hostesses who secretly oversaw their husbands’ careers. They weren’t about to partake in a schoolgirl liaison and end up in the family way, least of all with someone like August. But that didn’t mean they weren’t above sneaking out of their rooms at night and flirting with a troubled rebel from New York City.
For his part, August appreciated that though the girls at Sainted Sisters were just as haughty and stuck-up as the boys at Willington, they had a second sight his male classmates lacked. Yes, they were born to wealth, but they were still women; the world wasn’t handed to them on a platter in the same way. Even the wealthiest woman in the world still had to find an angle if she wanted to play the game. August liked that, respected it.
Plus they were prettier.
August’s tactic was to stand outside the main dormitory, throw pebbles at windows, and when he got an answer, invite the girl down for a night of illicit flirtation. Not the most original method of courtship, but most of his peers were ignorant of Cyrano, so being wooed by an eloquent oddball still evoked a romantic thrill. Sometimes a particularly devout or conscientious student rejected him, but more often than not, his intended would smirk and then rush downstairs for a coquettish amble.
Unfortunately for August, tonight there were two nuns outside the dorms, deep in a serious conversation that didn’t look like it was about to end anytime soon. Damn. He supposed he could try to wait them out, but crouching behind a bush all night watching two women in wimples chitchat wasn’t why he’d snuck out of Willington and risked expulsion.
August would try again later. He had a flask of whiskey, filched from a professor’s desk. Why not have a drink, enjoy the sights, and swing back in an hour or so?
“Splendid idea,” August whispered to himself, setting off to explore the grounds.
* * *
The liquor filled August’s stomach with a pleasant warmth, and he was humming lazily, approaching what he guessed to be some stables. It seemed every rich person knew how to ride a horse, but August couldn’t imagine it. He’d seen the beasts pulling carriages through Central Park; they were massive. Who in their right mind would climb atop one and kick it in the ribs?
His equestrian reflections were interrupted by a voice behind him. “Who are you?”
August spun around, worried he’d be faced by a burly nun, but instead there stood a young woman near his age, clearly a student of the Sainted Sisters, eyeing him with just a hint of amusement beneath her suspicion. Something about her trace of playfulness comforted August; it was even familiar in an odd sort of way. Assured that there was no immediate danger, August turned on the charm. “Don’t worry about me,” he said with a wink. “I’m nobody. And you are?”
She smiled. “Me? I’m just a girl trying to assess your threat level and wondering whether I should call for the headmistress or go straight to the police.”
This was unexpected. His sangfroid allure usually worked wonders on schoolgirls. This particular schoolgirl, however, was unimpressed.
“You could call for neither?” was August’s feeble suggestion.
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. As much as I’d love to see you lashed for trespassing, I’d also be punished for breaking curfew. I’m afraid your squirming and yelps aren’t worth that. Besides,” she added, assessing him with a cold flick of her eyes, “you don’t seem like much of a threat at all.” With that, she walked off without another word, her long dark braid whipping behind her.
August was stupefied. Where were the giggles? The wide eyes full of veiled vanity? She’d gone nearly ten paces before he’d gathered his wits and started chasing after her.
“Excuse me,” he whispered.
She ignored him.
“Excuse me,” August tried again.
She stopped and turned, humorless. “What?”
Yes. Exactly. What? What precisely did he intend to say?
“I have whiskey,” August offered, pulling out the flask.
Here she sighed again. “Follow me.”
How divine!
The girl led August to the stables, and after peeking her head in with a furtive glance, pulled him inside.
“We should be fine in here,” she said, grabbing the flask and taking a healthy swig. “They hardly ever check the grounds after lights out.” She started absentmindedly stroking one of the drowsy horses’ snouts while August tried to decide how to stand so that he might appear careless and dashing. He leaned against a gate, then nearly screamed when a horse gently nickered behind him.
“Not a horse person?” asked the girl with a cocked eyebrow.
“What? No! They’re incredible creatures. Very . . . tall.”
“I love them,” she said, continuing to pet the mare behind her.
“Of course you do,” August mumbled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Something about this girl put August on the wrong foot. He backpedaled. “It’s just that you’re wealthy. Wealthy people like horses.”
“You go to Willington?” she guessed.
“Yes,” August answered.
“Then you’re wealthy, too.”
“I am not,” he snapped back.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Oh, I suppose you’re there on a scholarship? The bigots who run that place are famous for their generosity.”
It was too difficult to explain his rather confusing situation to this spoon-fed person who probably grew up on some palatial estate on the back of a horse.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” August said. “It’s hard for me to relate to the affluent at times. My circumstances are abnormal, to put it lightly.”
The girl took another drink from the flask. “My mother died five years ago. Less than two months after her funeral, my father remarried. His new wife doesn’t care for me much, so ever since the wedding, I’ve been attending private boarding schools. I hardly ever go home, my father rarely writes.” She didn’t say any of this with self-pity, just a sort of dull resignation
. “You’re not the only one with an interesting life.”
August was sympathetic to her plight, but couldn’t help adding, “My life is pretty interesting, though.”
She laughed. August did, too. He’d made her laugh.
“Go on then, Mr. Interesting,” she said, “fascinate me.”
Obviously she’d known hardship, but August still feared she’d judge him if she learned he was nothing but an urchin. However, he didn’t want to lie after she’d been so vulnerable. What could he tell her without giving too much away?
“I’m from New York City,” he finally decided.
“Me too,” she replied. “What part?”
“What?” August asked. A horse girl from the city? She must be very rich indeed.
“I said me too. I grew up on Eighteenth Street. What about you?”
“The Scarsengua—I mean the Lower East—I mean Twenty-Third Street.”
“Did you move a lot?” she asked.
“I guess you could say—” But before August could finish his thought, a revelation overtook him. “Did you say Eighteenth Street?”
“Yes.”
“It couldn’t be,” he whispered.
“What?”
“East Eighteenth Street? Between Irving and Third?”
“Yes,” she answered, visibly disturbed.
August jumped into the air and hooted.
“You’re the girl with the dark curly hair!”
“What?”
“I used to stand outside your window! You would wave at me!”
Realization dawned on her face. “That was you?”
“Yes!” August cried.
“Oh my god! You’re the weirdo!”
Now it was August’s turn to be disturbed. “What?”
“The weirdo! The kid who always hung around! My dad hated you!”
“Why are you the girl with the dark curly hair, and I’m the weirdo?”
But she was laughing too hard to answer. “This is crazy,” was all she could manage. August started laughing, too. It was suddenly the most hilarious thing that had ever happened.
“What’s going on here?” a sharp voice demanded, serious as a guillotine. A grim middle-aged nun stood in the entrance to the stables. When she saw August, her eyes widened. “Good heavens!” she gasped.
Instantly the girl started crying. August was surprised; he hadn’t taken her to be the type to crack under pressure.
“Explain yourself immediately,” the nun commanded, clutching her rosary so tight August pitied the beads.
“He tricked me, Sister,” said the girl through a sheen of tears. “He told me he was a stable boy. Right before curfew he came up to me and said one of the horses was hurt. And then, when we got here, he wouldn’t let me leave.” She was sobbing now.
Incredible. Truly astounding. August had seen some fine actresses at the Scarsenguard, but this performance was the stuff of legend. He wanted to fling roses at her, weeping out her name, but realized he’d forgotten to ask what her name even was. Tragedy! He settled back in to watch her work.
The nun bought her act completely. Reaching for a heavy shovel mounted on the wall, she growled, “Sinner. Wretched boy.”
Before she could dismember August, the girl rushed into the nun’s arms and aggressively wept. “I was so scared, Sister. I couldn’t run away.”
August watched the proceedings with awe.
“I said, I couldn’t run away,” she cried again. Finally, she pulled herself off the nun’s breast and turned to August. “Run away.”
He finally understood. While the girl flailed about in the nun’s arms, practically pinning the older woman to the wall, August dashed out the stable door and started sprinting back to Willington. He’d covered quite a bit of ground and thought he was in the clear when he heard a gunshot ring out.
Jesus Christ! Could nuns own guns?
Another gunshot sounded in answer.
“The fearful and the abominable and whoremongers,” screamed the nun in the distance, “shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death!”
August decided not to return to the Sainted Sisters of the Slaughtered Lamb. Even the girl with dark curly hair wasn’t worth dying for.
* * *
Archie,
How’s the weather, old man? Bloody miserable in London, but it is nice to be back. Was fearing I’d have to appear in a musical if I stayed in New York. Honestly, what a desperate commercial ploy. They’ll never last.
[Several paragraphs eviscerating American theatre, followed by several more on the fallacies of Hollywood.]
Speaking of August, how is he adjusting? Headstrong bastard won’t answer a single one of my letters, though I write him at least twice a day. But that’s teenagers, I suppose. Horrid people. Please respond with everything he’s up to, no detail is too mundane.
I must off. Miss you most ferociously. Give the boy my love, but take care not to embarrass him in front of his friends.
Yours,
Reggie
Faculty Announcements
Greetings, Gentlemen,
Another school year bustles along. Congratulations are in order to Professor Saunders, who led the crew team to a second place victory in the nationals this past weekend. Well done, Saunders! Drinks are in order.
Professor Roberts asks me to remind everyone that auditions for Romeo and Juliet are fast approaching. Appearing in at least one production while at Willington is a graduation requirement for all students, so please encourage the boys to attend, especially if they might have a flair for the dramatic. See Professor Roberts for more details.
That’s all for this week. As always, don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions or concerns. And please keep me abreast as to how the students are faring, particularly any new students that are just settling in here at Willington.
Until next week,
Headmaster Richmond
To: Headmaster Richmond
From: Professor Sharp
August March is a nuisance and, if I may be blunt, rather dull. His marks are teetering very close to failing in my Level 1 Algebra. When I told him this, he replied (in front of the entire class), “Polynomials? Inverse trigonometric functions? I understand it takes all types to make the world go round, but merciful god, there are limits.”
Please expel him.
To: Headmaster Richmond
From: Professor Firestone
I have found August March to be a disruptive force on several occasions. For example, yesterday he was violently snoring during my lecture on the French and Indian War. When I roused him with a sharp application of my ruler, the boy said my lessons were so dull that not even those who’d been involved in the French and Indian War would be bothered to care.
He needs a firm hand, or perhaps a prison cell.
To: Headmaster Richmond
From: Professor Thompson
August March frightens me.
Dear Reggie,
August is acclimating well.
Must dash,
Archie
Dear August,
Now listen here, I understand you’re very busy, but this is ridiculous! Is it so much to ask for one brief response? Have you made any friends? Are you enjoying your studies? Are you alive? I hate to beg, but bloody hell! Tell an old man what’s happening!
Imploringly,
Sir Reginald
Sir Reginald,
I am alive. Thank you for your (belated) interest on the subject.
—August
Faculty Announcements
Greetings, Gentlemen,
Nearly November already. My how the time does fly.
I suppose I should skip the pleasantries and get straight to the point. As I’m sure you’re all aware, on Thursday afternoon, the south side of Willington’s cathedral was defaced. We’re all privy to the rumor mill’s merciless hyperbole, so forgive my impropriety, but I feel it best to be clear: depicted in great det
ail is a gigantic mural of Professor Sharp and Professor Firestone engaging in a graphic act of simultaneous fellatio. We know the figures are meant to be Sharp and Firestone as their names are legibly printed on their robes, though the likeness is clear in any case.
The vandal remains at large. Some professors rightfully demanding justice have insisted that the culprit is August March, but his rooms have been searched and no evidence was found. Innocent until proven guilty, this is America after all. Rest assured we are doing everything we can to find the culprit.
The custodial staff is working tirelessly to remove the mural, but have informed me that the paint is proving to be rather stubborn. Please have patience and know that it remains a top priority.
In less lurid news, Romeo and Juliet has been cast. Congratulations to all involved!
Until next week,
Headmaster Richmond
Archie,
Any news on August? Sorry to pester, but I must admit to being dreadfully worried.
Yours,
Reggie
Reggie,
Boy is good.
Archie
To: Headmaster Richmond
From: Professor Kuhn
As you know, one of my duties in running the English department is to oversee the school newspaper. I rarely censor the boys, but I received a submission for this month’s edition that I felt couldn’t be printed (though it was quite spirited). I thought you might be interested to read it over.
Willington Monthly Opinion Column Submission:
Student Name: August March
Willington West is supposedly one of the finest institutions of learning the Americas have to offer. But after my brief experience with Willington’s theatre department (or lack thereof), it is my opinion that no school allowing such maladies to befoul its stage should be legally allowed to remain open.
I had been warned by peers and even a professor or two that the dramatics at Willington were a “touch weak,” but after enduring a few rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet, I can safely say that a blistering, infected sore would be a more apt description.
The Astonishing Life of August March Page 12
