The Initiation

by Ridley Pearson

  The auditorium stirred with several hundred restless bodies and feet, but there was not a peep from anyone. A few students had involuntarily placed their hands atop their heads in frustration once the mandatory study hall had been announced, but they pulled them down as Crudgeon paused.

  “The missing edition dates back to the first day of our charter as an institution. Its historical importance alone makes it of the utmost cultural significance. There is, believe me, little if any remunerative value to the Bible. If it was stolen by someone hoping to sell it as an antique or any such notion, you have been woefully misguided. Again: any contact with the volume is dangerous—hence our keeping it under lock and key. However, its value to the Moriarty family, from whom it has been on loan for some one hundred and thirty years, and therefore its value to this institution, must be considered. If meant as a joke, the humor is lost on me. I offer you amnesty before bringing in the local police to clear up this matter.” The comment drew a loud mumble of voices. Crudgeon pretended he hadn’t heard it. If he’d been saving this tidbit for last, he’d gotten the reaction he’d sought. Astonishment.

  “When we dismiss, we will do so in an orderly manner, front to back and finally the balcony. You are to go directly to first period. We will stay on normal hours today. No one—I repeat, no one!—has permission to return to the Bricks, as inspections are currently under way.” Another roar of murmur. Before he had to cite someone for disobedience, Crudgeon dismissed the students. The exit was anything but orderly, though that was to be expected.

  James found himself in the clogged aisle leading to the back of the auditorium. He was alongside Bret Thorndyke and Clay Richmond. “Thanks for everything, Moriarty,” Thorndyke said.

  “Do you have any idea how much stuff they’re going to find in these inspections?” Richmond said. “Guys are going to get tossed because of this. Our friends. You cooked us!”

  “But it wasn’t—” James caught himself. Whining wouldn’t help his situation.

  “He’s been waiting for this,” Thorndyke said. “Crudgeon has. All this is is an excuse to lower his dictatorial hammer and turn this into a fascist state.”

  “Oh, shut it. You’re always finding a conspiracy in everything, Bret. Get real! He doesn’t need an excuse to call for a school-wide inspection, and you know it.” Natalie Sekulow, my roommate, was standing just behind James and eavesdropping. She was clearly trying to align herself with James, a fact she supported by shooting him a quick but sympathetic look. Middle school is so trying. I couldn’t wait to be in high school. “Is it a pain in the you-know-what? Yes. But it’s not as if James stole his own family Bible.” She hesitated, reconsidering. “Is it, James?”

  “I didn’t know we had a family Bible,” James answered her. “I didn’t know it was here at Baskerville, and I didn’t know it was on display in the chapel. I hate study hall, and I hate the idea of room inspections. I happen to have a half-dozen bottle rockets hidden in my room. I suppose if they’re found, I’m out, which wouldn’t be bad except my father has threatened me with military school as the next option.”

  Like several other middles, Natalie looked older than her age. She had a wide, interesting face, flat hair, and currently smelled like a barn because she’d already been out for a morning ride on her seventeen-hand gelding at the orchard. She had a full figure for a girl our age and a creamy slur to her words arising from a Georgia upbringing.

  Bret Thorndyke brightened with mention of the bottle rockets. “Class B or Class C?”

  “These things put the rock in rockets,” James answered. “Class B as in bi—”

  “Don’t say it!” Natalie cut him off. “Being heard cursing will get you Saturday-morning detention, in case no one told you.”

  No one had told James, but he didn’t admit to it.

  The line moved slowly but steadily toward the auditorium’s exit. “You’re a bad influence, Bret Thorndyke,” said Natalie, causing the boys to laugh.

  “Mr. Moriarty, a moment please.” Mrs. Furman looked like something out of a wax museum. She could talk without her teeth showing like a mechanical figure from a Disney World attraction. Her wig hair looked glued into place. I stood by the hallway water fountain, backing up to stay out of the stream of students allowing me to eavesdrop, which, as we’ve established, is any girl’s inalienable right. “You and your sister will be among the first students to see Dr. Crudgeon in his office. This, so no one might accuse Headmaster of playing favorites. I wish to advise you, Mr. Moriarty, that Headmaster is honored—perhaps the word does an injustice to his emotions—to be serving at a time not one, but two Moriartys are in residence here at Baskerville Academy. I tell you this because he may not. Dr. Crudgeon is . . . well, officious and acutely aware of his position here at the school. You understand? A man must do what a man must do. I’m not sure if anyone is famous for having said that, but they should be, don’t you think? Anywho . . . it is best not to skirt the issue. Nor is it advised to answer in too longwinded a fashion. You understand?”

  “No, not really,” James said.

  “Well, that would be why I’m the secretary and he’s the headmaster!” She giggled at her own failed joke. “He will ask you questions. He will likely take a fraternal tone with you. Do not take that as an entreaty for you to pontificate or elaborate upon your explanations. No! Be precise. Be truthful. And be quick. He will admire you and appreciate you for such behavior.”

  “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “Why, because you’re a Moriarty, dear boy. You’re here for four years, your sister, five. Best foot forward and all that, yes? I don’t want you making a fool out of yourself the first time you meet the great man.”

  “I appreciate your confidence.”

  “Consider me something of a social engineer in this instance. Do you follow?”

  James appeared totally and utterly bewildered. In spite of himself, he nodded. Perhaps just to get it over with. “Thank you. I think,” he said.

  Mrs. Furman cocked her head, puzzled by the response. “Always address him as Headmaster, never Dr. Crudgeon. And of course you may thank me, my dear. Today, and for the next few years, thank me all you wish! The board and Dr. Crudgeon make the policy, James.” A frank and telling snarl revealed her ultrawhite teeth for the first time. “I put that policy into action.” She reached up, took a twist of James’s hair, and tucked it behind his ear. He shivered and his neck flushed a brilliant red. “At the end of first period, James. The front of Main House, ground level. Whatever you do, do not be late.” She collected herself and marched off, somewhat feminine, mostly military, her low heels stabbing the mauve carpet and leaving sharp impressions behind. No lightweight, our Mrs. Furman.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE LEGACY ISSUE

  “SIT DOWN, SIT DOWN!” THE HEADMASTER looked bigger than he had in the auditorium, not taller but stout like the former rugby player he was. The photos on and behind his desk, along with those hung throughout the spacious office, told of an athletic family man who liked to travel, especially to jungle temples and ancient ruins. He’d apparently spent much of his life seeking out such places, for he aged on the walls. One of the man’s many degrees filled in the blanks for James: a PhD in archaeology; a master’s degree in religion; yet another master’s in education. He looked to be in his forties, but there was too much history spread around; he must have been much older.

  Once James had settled onto the green leather cushion of the dark hardwood chair, Crudgeon took his place behind his desk.

  “Welcome to Baskerville, James.”

  “Thank you, Headmaster.”

  “I trust I didn’t embarrass you and your sister too badly just now. It’s important the students understand the severity of the crime involved. That Bible—your family Bible—is an essential historical artifact here at Baskerville. Why, we can’t exist without it, quite honestly! This is why it’s kept under lock and key at all times. Upon its return—and it will be returned, Mr. Moriart
y—we will be forced to reconsider keeping it on display in the chapel, which is nothing short of a crying shame.” His direct address of James made him feel as if he were being accused of the theft himself. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to defend himself or not.

  “Tell me about yourself! Please!” The man expressed far too much enthusiasm to be taken for real. Why put on such a show? James wondered.

  “I don’t know,” James said.

  “You don’t know about yourself? That’s telling in and of itself. Or you are uncomfortable talking about yourself?”

  James shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, I believe we established that. Let’s try again: Tell me about yourself, James.”

  The man was unhappy with James. His eyes were unrelenting and powerful. “I live in Boston with my father and sister. Our mother . . . left us, or something like that. She’s not around.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Father says she’s not coming back. Moria and I think he does that to protect us. He won’t actually tell us she died. You know. Family stuff. It’s just weird.”

  “Your father’s a good man.”

  “You know him?”

  “I knew of him. He’s a Moriarty. But I was two years behind him.”

  “Here?”

  “You sound so surprised.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “How is he? Your father. Doing well?”

  “I don’t—” James caught himself. “I suppose. I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

  “That’s better than ‘I don’t know.’ Worlds better! He’s teaching, isn’t he?”

  “He is. He likes it.”

  “Everything’s good at home?”

  James hesitated before answering. It sounded like one of those required things to ask, and he didn’t feel like gratifying Crudgeon by answering every single thing. “Why am I here, talking to you? Not that I’m complaining.”

  “It sounds as if you are.”

  “Not at all. Is it about the Bible?”

  “It’s about you, James. Likes, dislikes? Strengths, weaknesses?”

  James nodded. “Yeah, okay. Sports. Video games. Food; I like food. Cape Cod in the summer. Movies; the action ones.” Crudgeon said nothing, awaiting more. “Dislikes? Long winters. Idiots. Being bored. Indian food. My strengths? Seriously, Headmaster, I think that’s for others to say. My weaknesses? That’s a long list, I’m sure. I can’t sing a note but wish I could. I can only do six pull-ups, which su— which is pathetic.” The headmaster nodded, holding back a grin. “I have endless patience for things I like, like computer code and tech stuff. I’m incredibly short on patience when it comes to reading my homework assignments and writing papers.”

  “You see? Not so difficult.” He sized up James. “Why Baskerville?”

  “Excuse me, Headmaster?”

  “Your aspirations? What do you hope to get from your time here? How will you be different on graduation day from the young man you are now?”

  James had no clue what an aspiration was. It sounded like something bad, maybe something to do with breathing. “I hadn’t really—” James caught himself again. Talking to the headmaster was a steep learning curve. “I suppose I want to be smarter. Get into a good college.”

  “Was it your idea to attend Baskerville?” the man asked bluntly.

  “Well, no, not exactly.” James hung his head. “I’m kind of a city guy, Headmaster. My father . . . Baskerville . . .”

  “The legacy issue.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Crudgeon took a deep breath of either consideration or restraint. “Our heritage, our history is everything, James. It shapes who and what we are. What we are to become. Acceptance is a hurdle hard to fly over gracefully. Most of us prefer to smash into the hurdles several times before allowing ourselves the strength of will to carry us over. It may become difficult for you. For your sake, I hope not. I encourage you to make the best of your situation here at Baskerville. Will I put you in detention, suspend, expel you if I need to? Absolutely. You will get no special treatment from me or the other teachers or coaches. None. But, at the same time, you and your sister are family here. Your name means a great deal here at Baskerville, and I’m sure your father would join me in encouraging you to keep that in mind at all times. Heavy a burden as that may be, it is also a badge of honor. It’s your choice how you deal with it.”

  “Yes, sir. Headmaster, sir.”

  “I will ask you this only once. Did you have anything to do with the disappearance of your family Bible?”

  “What? Me? No, sir! I didn’t know we had a family Bible, Headmaster. Much less one here at Baskerville.”

  “Very well. Unless you have any questions I may answer, we’re done here. You may leave.”

  “There is one question I have,” James said, standing.

  “Speak.”

  “My roommate, Headmaster. Do we . . . ? Is there . . . ?”

  “No.”

  “The whole year?” James asked, exasperated.

  “The terms are seventeen weeks, separated by vacation. During a student’s first term there is no opportunity to change roommates. From then on, rooming situations can be applied for every eight weeks, every half semester, both by room and residents. Seniority is given precedence in every such decision. Mrs. Furman can answer that kind of question for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would have thought Mr. Holmes would suit you.”

  James wondered how the man could possibly know the name of his roommate. Perhaps, he thought, it was contained in some of the paperwork on his desk. He hoped so.

  “No. I mean, he’s okay, I guess. Just a little—”

  “British.”

  “There is that, but he’s—”

  “Mr. Holmes was my personal choice for you, James. I rarely am involved in the selection of roommates, but in your case—”

  “I thought you weren’t going to treat me special.”

  The headmaster’s eyes flared.

  “Be careful, young man. You’re on thin ice.”

  James recalled Mrs. Furman’s warning about being too casual.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

  “I believe we’re done here.” Head down, unpleasant.

  “I’m sorry, Headmaster.”

  “You can see your own way out. I trust you will make every effort to enjoy the academy, James. I trust you will come to think of us as a home away from home.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” James made for the door, his hand slick on the doorknob.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE FIRST NOTE

  SHERLOCK HOLMES HAD FILLED THE DORM room with fog in an apparent attempt to brew a cup of tea. Upon entering, James hacked his way through the mist.

  “It’s like you took a shower in here! Ever heard of opening a window?”

  “That’s a rhetorical question, I presume. I rather enjoy an atmosphere reminiscent of London. Good for the lungs, you know!”

  James threw open the window with a flourish. “Well, this is Connecticut, so get used to it! Steam enough in the summer to press your shirt. You’ll just have to wait.”

  “Or you can learn to enjoy a good cuppa.”

  “Cup of what?”

  “No, it’s one word: cuppa. It means ‘cup of tea.’”

  “Then why not just say ‘cup of tea’?” James was exasperated. “Why can’t you Brits just say what you mean?”

  Sherlock harrumphed indignantly. “Yanks,” he exclaimed derisively.

  “What’s this?” James held up a red envelope with his name on it, gleaned from his desktop.

  “A red envelope.”

  “Where did the red envelope come from?” he said, petulantly.

  “Your desk. It was there when I arrived following the assembly.”

  James turned it over in his hand. “Looks like a valentine.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. From your sister, perhaps? I
would also remind you that given the absence of mobile phones, notes and letters are our only means to communicate. I assume we will all be using these methods quite a bit.”

  “I hate the phone rule. So stupid.”

  “It’s intended to level the playing field,” Sherlock said, “and reduce distractions. Hating it won’t change it. Acceptance puts the mind at ease.”

  James glanced hotly, encouraging Sherlock to shut up. He tore open the envelope and read:

  Aloft in the middle of the seven ribs you will find it, but only by night.

  The message had been printed from a computer, or possibly typed using a typewriter. James turned it over and over, rereading it each time.

  “The love note you anticipated?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Something involving the missing Bible perhaps.” Sherlock sounded so sure of himself.

  “How . . . Shut up! I said it’s none of your business.”

  “Hey, Jamie, hey, Lock.” I waved my arms to dispense the fog. “Mind if I leave the door open? It’s like a sauna in here.” I realized immediately that I’d interrupted a strained conversation or discussion. The tension between my brother and his roommate was thicker than the mist.

  “Just what I was telling him,” James said, quickly stuffing the card and red envelope into his back pocket. “You two know each other? What’s that, a nickname?”