17

On the morning of the day we were to have the club performances, I arrived at school an hour early: my father, who drove me in, had a seven-thirty appointment in the center of town. He dropped me off across the street from the Upper School and I crossed the street and went up the steps. The front door was locked. I peered in through the leaded glass and saw an empty, murky entry, stairs ascending to the library in darkness.

For a short time I sat on the steps in the early sun, waiting for the janitor or one of the teachers to arrive and let me in. Then I got bored and went back down the steps to the sidewalk. When I looked back, the school had changed; seeing it empty, I saw it anew. Carson looked peaceful, well-ordered, and at one remove from the rest of the world, like a monastery. It looked beautiful. Under the slanting light, Carson was a place where nothing could ever go wrong.

Down the street, I slipped through the bars of the gate across the headmaster's private entrance. I moved up the private drive and then stepped onto the grass. From this side I could see only the original old buildings of the Carson School. This view too seemed mysteriously touched by magic. For a second my heart moved, I forgot all the bad things that had happened, and I loved the place.

Then, after I had moved farther around toward the rear of the building and gone through a gap in the thick hedges, I saw a form lying facedown in the grass beside a briefcase, and knew I was not alone. Cropped head, meaty back straining the fabric of a jacket: it was Dave Brick. My euphoria drained off on the spot. Brick was stretched out disconsolately on the grassy slope where Mr. Robbin had summoned us all to look for the satellite. The ludicrously tight jacket was Tom Flanagan's. Brick had borrowed it because he had absentmindedly left his own at home two days before, and Flanagan was the only boy who had a spare in his locker. Brick was tearing up handfuls of grass slowly and methodically. When he saw me he began to rip out grass at a faster pace.

'You're early,' he said. 'Eager beaver.'

'My father had an early appointment downtown.'

'Oh. I always get here early. Get more time to study. Janitor's late this morning.' He sighed and finally stopped pulling up grass. Instead he rolled his face into it. 'It's going to start all over again.'

'What is?'

'The questions. The Gestapo stuff. With us.'

'How do you know?'

'I heard Broome talking with Mrs. Olinger last night when I left school. He wanted me to hear.'

'Oh, God,' I said, as much with impatience as with apprehension.

'Yeah. I almost stayed away this morning.' Then he lifted himself up onto his forearms. I feared for Tom's jacket. 'But I couldn't, because then he'd know why, and he'd come at me harder when I finally came back.'

'Maybe he'll leave you out this time,' I said.

'Maybe. But if he calls for me, I'm going to tell him this time. I can't take that anymore. And now it'll be worse.'

'I already told Thorpe, and it didn't do any good.'

'Because you didn't tell him I saw Skeleton too. That was nice. I'm, you know… grateful. But I don't care about Skeleton anymore. If Broome calls me out of Latin, I'm telling.'

'I don't think he'll believe you.'

'He will,' Brick said simply. 'I know he will. I'll make him believe me. I don't care if the whole school blows up.'

When the janitor appeared, I followed Brick inside with the feeling of walking into a maze where a deranged beast with the head of a bull crouched and waited.

Five minutes after the start of Latin class, Mrs. Olinger appeared with a folded note in her hands. Dave Brick looked at me with flat panic in his eyes. Mr. Thorpe groaned, restrained himself from bellowing, and tore the note from Mrs. Olinger's hands. He unfolded and read it and wiped a hand over his face. His reluctance was as loud as a shout. 'Brick,' he said. 'Headmaster's office. On the double.'

Brick was trembling so uncontrollably that he dropped his books twice trying to ram them into his case. Finally he stood up and blundered through the center of the classroom. He looked at me with a white face and raisin eyes. Flanagan's jacket made him look like Oliver Hardy.

Then I again had that sense of a secret life running through the school, beating away out of sight, humming like an engine. After Latin class, Mrs. Olinger was waiting outside the room. She looked uneasy, like all messengers with bad news. Mrs. Olinger touched Mr. Thorpe's elbow and whispered a few words in his ear. 'Blast,' Mr. Thorpe said. 'All right, I'm on my way,' and sped down to the headmaster's staircase. We went to Mr. Fitz-Hallan's room and found a note chalked on the board telling us that class was canceled and that we should use the free time to read two chapters in Great Expectations.

'What's up?' Bobby Holhingsworth asked me as we settled down and opened our books. 'I can't explain it,' I said. 'I bet they're finally getting around to throwing out Brick the Prick,' Bobby said happily.

I finished the chapters and went out to my locker for another book. On the way I passed the Senior Room and heard a voice I thought was Terry Peters' uttering a sentence with the word 'Skeleton' in it. I stopped and tried to hear what he was saying, but the door was too thick.

After I got the book from my locker, I looked down across the glassed - in court and saw Mr. Weatherbee rush out of his room and tear down the hall, moving in a kind of agitated scuttle. Mrs. Olinger moved after him.

Mr. Fitz-Hallan, Mr. Weatherbee, Mr. Thorpe - it was the cast that had heard my original accusations.

Out in the hall, a few older boys ran past, lockers slammed, bells went off at irregular intervals.