Shadowland

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.

18

The air of a general but unacknowledged disruption was still present as we trooped into the auditorium. Below the stage on which a piano faced a drum kit and a recumbent bass, the students were standing up in the aisles, moving into little talkative groups, breaking up again, calling to each other. Many of the morning's classes had gone teacherless. Morris saw Hanna and Brown standing to­gether on the far side of the auditorium, and went around to join them in waiting for an announcement. I saw Mr. Thorpe shake his head at Mr. Ridpath, then curtly turn away. His eyes snagged mine, and he pointed at a spot beside the door. Mr. Ridpath too glared at me, but Mr. Thorpe seemed far angrier.

    He reached the door before me and expressionlessly watched me come toward him. He looked like a gray-haired icicle — the Mount Rushmore of icicles. He waited a few seconds, making me sweat, before he spoke. 'Be in my office at three-fifteen sharp.' That was all he had intended to say, but he could not keep from releasing some of bis rage. 'You caused more trouble than you will ever know.' When I could not reply, he made a disgusted puffing sound with his lips and said, 'Get out of my sight until three-fifteen.'

    He was going to expel me, I knew. I went weakly to the first row of seats and sat down beside Bob Sherman. Most of the school was still standing and talking.

    'Boys,' shouted Mrs. Olinger. 'Be seated, please.' She had to repeat herself several times before anybody took any notice. Gradually the buzz of conversation died out, and was replaced by the sound of chairs scraping the floor. Then a few voices picked up again.

    'Quiet,' shouted Mr. Thorpe. And then there was silence. Morris, standing on the side of the room with the other members of his trio, looked crippled with stage fright.

    Only then did I think to look for Skeleton Ridpath: if he was in the audience, it would mean that he too would be in Thorpe's office at three-fifteen. I turned around and saw that he was not in the seniors' two rows. So perhaps Broome had already expelled him.

    From the podium before the stage, Mrs. Olinger was saying, 'We are privileged this morning to witness the first performances by our two clubs. To begin with, please give your full attention to the Morris Fielding Trio, with Phil Hanna playing drums and Derek Brown accompany­ing on the bull fiddle.'

    Morris smiled at her because of the old-fashioned term and I knew that he at least was going to be all right. The three of them filed up the stairs to the stage. Brown picked up his bass, Morris said, 'One . . . one . . . one . . . one,' and they began playing 'Somebody Loves Me.' It sounded like sunlight and gold and fast mountain springs, and I switched off everything else and just listened to the music.

    During Morris' last number I heard a startled buzzing and whispering. I turned around to see what had caused it. Laker Broome had just come into the audjtorium. He had one hand clamped on Dave Brick's shoulder. Brick was white-faced, and his eyes were swollen. Morris also turned his head to see what was happening, and then went determinedly back to his piano. I heard him insert a quote from 'Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here' into his solo.

    He was having, under trying circumstances, the best time he could, which is one definition of heroism; but looking at Laker Broome's rigid posture and assassin's face, I thought that the bomb I had been expecting all morning had just been tossed into the auditorium.

19

The headmaster applauded with everyone else when Morris nodded and stood up from the bench. Dave Brick had been parked on an empty chair far at the back of the room, apart from the rest of the students. Mr. Ridpath stared at him with loathing for a moment, then began to sidle toward Mr. Broome, hoping for one last word, but Mr. Broome looked straight into the center of his narrow vain face, and Mr. Ridpath froze solid to the floor. 'Attention, boys,' Mr. Broome called out.

    When we were all turned around in our seats to face him, he began speaking and walking up the side of the auditorium to the bottom of the stage, and we swiveled to watch him — it was a display of power. 'I hate to interrupt these interesting proceedings, but I want you to bear with me and share a fascinating story. I promise that this will only take a moment of your time, and then we can enjoy the second part of this excellent show. Gentlemen, we have finally been given the answer to the single greatest problem this school has faced since its founding, and I want all of you personally to witness the final act of that problem.' He smiled. By now he was at the podium, and with mock casualness, he leaned one elbow on the blond wood: he was tense as a whippet. 'Some of