The Initiation

by Ridley Pearson

  “I’ll take your questions in order, if I may. As to my deductions, they are just that. Nothing more. No hocus-pocus, no divination, just plain old observation, I’m afraid.”

  “My sister? Beacon Hill? You Googled me.”

  “Did nothing of the sort, James.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I’d rather not,” the boy said somewhat sheepishly. “I can be a bit pretentious, I’m told. Especially when I’m nervous. I have been looking forward to meeting you, you see? Mine was a long trip from London. The interim days have been tedious, if you must know.”

  “My sister?” James pressed unconditionally.

  “Very well. As to your name, it’s on a tag on a duffel bag beneath your bed. The same bag is an athletic bag marked as Northeast Regional Champions—bravo, again. The sticker on the lid of your laptop is crossed lacrosse sticks, simple enough. Boston, because of the tag still on your brand-new belt. Messersmiths is a highly upscale haberdashery native to Boston, hence Beacon Hill or similar neighborhood. Only male child because all of your clothing is new. Nothing passed down from an older brother. Lucky guess, if I’m correct.”

  “My . . . sister!”

  “Easy enough. A pink ribbon on your other bag, used to identify it in luggage claim, yes? You do not strike me as a pink-leaning boy. It’s from a sister’s birthday or Christmas present. She must be a younger sister, because they grow out of pink fairly quickly. I know you arrived to the front of school because you tracked grass clippings onto our shared floor. If you come in from the back, as I did, not only is it a shorter distance, but there’s no lawn to cross.” He allowed a moment for James to respond. When that failed to happen, he continued. “Nothing more than the art of observation, I promise.”

  “A real charmer with the ladies, I’ll bet you are.”

  “You are projecting hostility toward me because you feel inadequate. You mustn’t! I’m quite certain you possess a good number of skills and abilities in your own right. That I have no interest in lacrosse or team sports in particular is a matter of personal preference. I prefer to swim and run track, where I don’t have to rely upon the poor performance of others.”

  “Of all my luck,” James mumbled.

  “I am quite adept at detecting sarcasm, James. I might remind you: opposites attract. I would estimate there’s a high probability we will establish a keen and lasting friendship.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “But I must. The alternative is unthinkable.”

  “I suppose I don’t have any choice but to hear it,” James said, bordering on nasty.

  “Isn’t it obvious? If not dear friends, then, given our differences, sworn enemies. I don’t think that would suit either of us.” The boy smiled, his pointed face and big ears reminiscent of a Russian wolfhound. “Certainly not me.”

  “Sworn enemies, eh?” James made a point of making it sound as if he found this an attractive possibility.

  “What would be the point of that?”

  “Are you going to tell me your name, roomy?” James asked.

  “Have I not? What a foul-mannered friend I am. Sincerest apologies, James.” His movement sharp, angular, and yet oddly graceful, the boy placed his long-fingered hand dangling in space, awaiting contact. James reached out and accepted it warily. The boy had a milky handshake that left James squirming. “I’m called Sherlock Holmes.”

  CHAPTER 5

  BELONGING

  BASKERVILLE ACADEMY WAS NEW TERRITORY for James, and like many pioneers, he found himself ill equipped for it. In the effort to scale the wall of sharing, he lacked the proper rope—since our mother’s departure from home (I’d been six, my brother, seven) we’d been raised by my father in an insular existence; trying to navigate the cliques and class hierarchy, James was without an accurate map, stumbling through things like greeting upperclassmen when school tradition forbade such advances from “unders”; addressing teachers by “Mr.” or “Ms.” when the proper terminology was “Proctor,” “Master,” or “Doctor.” So much was new.

  My experience was slightly different than my brother’s owing in part to the talkative nature of girls, and the fact there were only eighteen eighth graders, compared to sixty or more in each of the high school grades. The grade names themselves required a translator. I was a middle—I suppose for middle school. James was third form—ninth grade. Then came fourth form, which was tenth grade, fifth form, and sixth form or seniors. I made friends with two girls immediately, my roommates Natalie Sekulow and Jamala Lytner, well aware (from my experience in real middle school) that they might backstab me at any random moment. It came down to this: I accepted I was alone from day one, and it turned out I was not. Though James strived (too hard, in my opinion) to belong and be included, he and I at least remained cordial. We didn’t see much of each other the first few days—different classes, sports tryouts, and the evening study hall required of all newcomers. I saw him at meals, usually across the dining hall—for a boy to be seen spending time with his little sister no doubt signaled the coming of the apocalypse. For all that peer pressure, James still managed to flash me a smile, or throw me a wink. And I, back at him. I wasn’t going to push things. I knew I would be better at this than James.

  My position and standing were in fact enhanced by my relationship to an older, decent-looking boy; already a few on my dorm were asking for introductions to my brother. Nothing doing, said I.

  Though remote to the point of being scary, the Baskerville campus remained as gorgeous as upon our arrival. The ivy-covered brick buildings (the dorms were called “the Bricks”), the cupola clock tower on the four-story school building “Main House,” the ancient chapel with its gray stone with a peaked slate roof and lavish stained-glass windows. The well-kept lawns and playing fields. The sugar maples. The tall marble sundial surrounded by hexagonal steps that made the perfect gathering spot. Idyllic, unless you factored in 350 teenagers, most of whom believed their school seniority, their parents’ wealth, or their family history entitled them and required others to look past their zits, their eating disorders, and their bad table manners. So many of us were trying to outrun our parents’ concept of what our lives were supposed to be, that we paid little attention to anyone but ourselves. Me-me-me-me wasn’t just the way the chapel choir warmed up; it was also the prayer each of us uttered every morning as we got out of bed. This was my impression as of day four, which felt about two months into my residency. If days passed this slowly and with such difficulty, I was convinced I’d be in my early twenties by the end of my first year at Baskerville Academy.

  James wasn’t faring much better in Bricks 3.

  “They aren’t being mean,” Sherlock said, looking up from his desk at James. “I mean, of course they are, but I don’t believe it’s intentional. They just aren’t smart.”

  “I didn’t ask.” James kept his head down, not wanting to hear another word.

  “Your upper left sleeve is stained, suggesting you wiped your face. That implies drying tears, ergo, crying. For the past two days I’ve watched the upperclassmen be rude to you, James, and by your own admission you were placed onto the junior varsity soccer team when you’re good enough to deserve varsity. I thought that was vanity on your part, or wishful thinking, until I heard Clements and Ismalin, both fifth formers, saying basically the same thing.”

  “You did not.”

  His roommate looked perplexed. “Why would I tell you what I heard, if I had not heard it.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “My dear friend—”

  “Do NOT call me that!”

  “—you clearly have no sense of the British, and for that I feel badly for you. We will lie to trick the enemy; that much is duly recorded as history. But to a friend? A comrade? Heaven forbid! It’s just not on. Plain as the nose on your face. Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Shut up.”

  “The manners on the boy!” Holmes said, as if talking to a third and unseen person in the room.
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  “And don’t do that. It gives me the creeps.”

  “We are roommates. That, by definition, makes us, well, if not friends, partners. We look out for each other. Do I mind that you treat me so poorly outside the confines of this room? The sneers? The snickers? It doesn’t feel good, I’ll tell you what! But I accept it, of course, as the ritualistic traditions of a boarding institution. You are trying to separate yourself from me. To impress others with your rudeness. But within these walls, my de—” He sighed. “James, we are two peas in a pod, you know. We are roomies, and like it or not, we need each other, if for nothing else than for our own survival.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I do not need you. I do not like you. I find you strange, odd, and even a little frightening at times. I’ve asked, not once, but twice for a change of rooms. Twice in four days, you understand?”

  Holmes went quiet. Returned to his studying without so much as a wince of ill will against his roommate. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

  “Which one is Clements, and which one is Ismalin?” James asked, breaking the silence.

  “You must improve your ability to remember people, James. In a place like this, the more familiar you make the stranger feel, the sooner he or she will befriend you. Clements is remembered by a shortening of his name to Clem, which sounds like ‘phlegm.’ The boy practically gargles snot; blond, dull blue eyes that give the impression he was dropped one too many times as an infant, thick hands. Ismalin is shortened to Slin, for ‘slim.’ Norwegian or Swedish by heritage I’m guessing by his coloring, a whiter blond than Clements, thin hair and eyes like ice. I’d be careful with that boy; he knows far more than he lets on.”

  “Do you ever skip the details and just answer the question?”

  “Why would I ever do that? The details make the thing. Without details we’re all the same. What’s the fun of that?”

  “Ugh! Never mind! What did you mean about our survival?” James asked.

  Sherlock not only did not react, he didn’t seem to hear James. James tried again. Same nonreaction. It was as if Sherlock was wearing headphones with the music up really loud. Exactly like that, except his hairy ears were exposed. (Sherlock Holmes was hairy to the point of disgusting in James’s opinion. James being a young man who had to rub his arms vigorously to spot any of the few thin hairs that lived there.)

  “I said—”

  “I heard you, James. I won’t contend with belligerence. Figure it out. If you bully me and treat me like dog poo, I will not return the compliment, but I also will not honor you with my presence and intelligence. If you treat me with anything less than respect, I will disappear. Perhaps not visibly, but intellectually, socially, and in every other pragmatic way. Completely and totally. Try as you may to break the bubble around me, you will find it impenetrable. Not only now, but when you need me most. And believe me, James, you need me badly, just as I need you. I did not choose you any more than you did me, for your information. But unlike you, I deal with my current situation, not some hypothetical dream or fantasy that’s carried forward from a trivial youth of what I perceive as too much pampering and days at the beach and on the tennis court. Some of us were less fortunate, I’m proud to say. Some of us appreciate the opportunity here at Baskerville, even if thousands of miles and an ocean away from our brother.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “If that is all you took away from what I said, I feel even more sorry for you.”

  “I get it. I get it! What about our survival?”

  Sherlock had retreated into his bubble, and proved true to his word. James couldn’t pop it no matter how many ways he tried. The roommates returned to their studies. Four days into residence at Baskerville Academy and they already had no fewer than three hours of homework. Two of those hours, for all newcomers regardless of grade level, were spent in organized study hall in the art room in the main hall. The remainder of their studying could be in the library or a dorm room. Rumor was that the course load would double by the end of the month. By midterms, in the middle of October, it was said nearly 10 percent of each class would flunk and the students be suspended and sent home. This option would have appealed to James had it not been for Father’s warning of military academy.

  Making no headway with Sherlock, and not in possession of his cell phone (illegal on campus and a first-offense mandatory community service), James headed to the school post office and placed a collect call from one of five pay phones there. Sherlock’s mention of his brother had made James homesick to speak with Father.

  He ran into Ryan Eisenower on the stairs down and was being chummy with the boy as I spotted the two. Ryan’s dark hair was shaved close to his head; he had wide shoulders, a weight-lifter build, and a big, goofy smile. His father taught government; his mother worked on the headmaster’s staff, making Ryan a faculty brat, the sorriest of designations for any student.

  I’d beaten James to the phones by ten minutes. I called out from below. James ignored me completely, though Ryan looked down and smiled.

  “He’s not home!” I informed my brother. “I’ve just tried calling for the third time.” Either James had gone instantly deaf, or he’d elected to pretend I didn’t exist. “He must be traveling!” I called more loudly. “James, he’s not going to—”

  “I heard you.”

  Apparently, I was a nonperson. I wasn’t used to being invisible to my brother without a game involved. In fact, it was shocking and I certainly was not comfortable with the idea. I felt a fist to my heart.

  James did not know of my arrangement with Father. I was anxious to hear from Father given the instructions he’d left me with. But my worry about Father took a backseat to my brother’s avoidance.

  I cried harder that night than I had since the night James had been attacked, my face stuffed into my pillow so my roommates wouldn’t hear.

  CHAPTER 6

  HEADMASTER

  HEADMASTER DR. THOMAS CRUDGEON CALLED a special school assembly on a gray Monday morning with a wind blowing strongly enough to move the wig on Mrs. Furman’s head. Crudgeon’s secretary looked like a grandmotherly birdlike waif, but when she spoke it was with the bearing of a military drill sergeant. She was one of those cute little frogs that turns out to be poisonous. She called the assembly to attention like a morning crow outside your bedroom window. She took herself and her job seriously, acting more like Dr. Crudgeon’s bodyguard than his stenographer.

  When the auditorium quieted—faculty in the front two rows, then seniors, fifth form, etc., all the way into the balcony seats where I sat, scanning the heads of hair for sign of James—the impeccably dressed Dr. Crudgeon spoke in a commanding tone without need of a microphone. Though photos in the hall showed a sloping hardwood floor with rows of chocolate brown wooden seats, it now resembled a theater in a multiplex with a theatrical stage and closed curtain that bore the Baskerville crest in gold: the head of a wolfhound (the school mascot) surrounded by a circle of words, not in Latin but ancient Greek. The students had five or six translations for the inscription, most of them containing language that is not repeatable here.

  Word had spread quickly that such special assemblies were never good. They suggested trouble either national or international (politics, wars, disasters) or internal to the school (a violation or suspension or expulsion of one or more students).

  “Before I arrive to the topic at hand, because it’s related,” Crudgeon began, “Baskerville would like to welcome into our ranks two fourth-generation legacies—yes, you heard me correctly!—and direct descendants of the founder of Baskerville Academy, Eldridge L. Moriarty. James is in our third form, and his sister, Moria, a middle. Please stand up and be recognized.”

  James and I stood up for all of a tenth of a second, embarrassed, humiliated, and no doubt as red as lollipops. I knew that James would be seething. A new school was hard enough; it seemed an unkind act to the two of us, one bordering on harassment, to be singled out. Tepid applause mingled with the voic
es of students exchanging what could only be rude, underhanded comments. I was certain I didn’t want to hear any one of them repeated. Only as Crudgeon, whom I now hated, continued his address did our introduction make any kind of sense beyond some kind of cruel hazing ritual.

  “The reason I mention James and Moria and their famous relative here at Baskerville is because of a grave situation that has come to my attention, and that is the theft of the school Bible from the Wing Chapel. The significance and importance to this institution of that particular volume cannot be overemphasized. If I hear one more snicker, that student will be a guest in my office following this meeting . . . Mr. Thorndyke!” The auditorium quieted immediately. “Lest you doubt the gravity of this situation, until and unless the school Bible is found—the Moriarty family Bible—there will be room inspections each morning prior to breakfast, and imposed study hall, beginning tomorrow night, no exceptions, for the entire school. Hush! Silence! Mrs. Furman will post the details of the location assignments for study hall following seventh period this afternoon.

  “I strongly urge whoever took the Bible to take advantage of the next roughly thirty-six hours of amnesty to alert a proctor or master or myself as to the location of the volume. Under no means touch the Bible! I repeat: do not touch the Bible, as any contact could destroy its delicate condition. Do you hear me?”

  Crudgeon waited.

  “YES, HEADMASTER!” said the entire room except those of us too new to know the tradition.

  “Very well. If the Bible’s location is passed along during this approximately two-day period, there will be no effort made to discover the identity of person or persons responsible.” He cleared his throat. “Past the amnesty period you will all find things a bit more difficult for everyone here. When this prank comes to an end . . . at that time, and not before, the morning room inspections and evening study halls shall also come to an end.” He paused. Mrs. Furman stepped forward and whispered into his left ear. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Furman. Some of you, many of you perhaps, will be invited to speak with me in private in my office in an effort that we may resolve this little mystery all the more quickly. I caution students not to assign guilt or suspicion to those who are summoned. The process will include members of student government, leaders in our community, and randomly selected students as well. We have no prior knowledge or suspicion of the students involved, and any speculation on your part to the contrary would suggest a student susceptible to rumor and one grossly misinformed.”