Chapter 3
So how many boarding school teachers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? If they are Episcopalian monks, none—they just hold the bulb steady while God turns the world. In other words, they have all the time in the world to assign all the homework in the world. And I’d gotten it all. I couldn’t wait to get done with class and study hall, and I thought I never would.
After the entire morning of classes, we were actually required to finish all our homework during study hall. Oh, please. And study hall dragged on and on for me, as it was way hard to concentrate. My mind was full of questions—questions about band, questions about St. Rupert’s, but most of all, questions about Ms. Kent’s ex. I hoped the guys could answer them before I detonated. For instance, what was Ms. Kent’s ex-husband doing hanging around the school?
After the afternoon of study hall, we were allotted a little free time before dinner. I ran quickly across campus with the other new students and grabbed my gear from the Newby Dorm. After dragging my weary carcass back across campus, up two flights of stairs, and over to my new room, I slung my luggage on an empty bunk. Remembering what Ian had said, I stopped in the common room, hoping to catch a few of the guys. I pushed open the much-scarred door from the dark hall, into the light and warmth of the band common room. The whole motley crew was collectively dispersed around assorted furniture. Mort and Jerrod were checking out each other’s pipeware, which was spread out under the lamp on the large table at the far end. Brookie, with intense concentration, was quietly juggling in a corner, his head bobbing in time to the beat on his iPod, feet tap-tapping in rhythm to the beat only he could hear.
Without missing a single catch, Brookie looked up. “Whadaya know. Here he is at last. Hey, Ian, he didn’t run for the hills after all.”
Ian slewed one eye my way and nodded to me briefly, barely lifted a hand, and subsided back into the comfort of the old sofa. “Time for the meeting about the new kid to come to order,” he said in a languid voice. “Four p.m. at the Piper Hatchery of St. Rupert’s. Jerrod, take notes.”
About the new kid? Panic started to creep up my throat. Hazing? Painful initiations? What had Mom gotten me involved in?
“Chill. Don’t look so worried, MacDonough. He always talks like that.” Prakash had spared me a glance and then returned to using his computer. With a laptop balanced on his skinny knees, he was hunched with his long body folded into one of those rose chintz corner chairs that everybody’s grandma has. The ancient brass lamp behind him was tilted to keep the light from reflecting off his computer screen. Pete and Eric were poised awkwardly, looking over Prakash’s shoulder to watch the game he was running.
Ian rolled off the overstuffed sofa. He straightened and stretched, coming awake, and snatched one of the juggling balls out of the air mid-toss, letting Brookie know the meeting really had come to order. Brookie snatched it back with a scowl, but he did start paying attention.
“If this is a hatchery, I guess we must all be cracked to be here?” I said when I could control my voice again. My comment was met by a burst of raucous laughter.
“Ooh . . . touché.” Prakash put his laptop to one side. “He’s up to your standard, O Great-Witted One.” I couldn’t quite tell if Prakash was needling me or Ian.
Ian bowed toward Prakash. He turned to me and nodded in approval.
“Well answered, youngling. But it’s more like you can’t make a decent omelet, I mean a bagpiper, without breaking a few eggs.” He consulted a list, probably typed by Ms. Kent. “First order of business. Welcome to the Piper Hatchery, where we hatch quality pipers.” He spread his hands to indicate the room that was obviously much lived in, ancient furniture and all. “Here are your fellow hatchlings.” He drew back his head and raised his voice to address everyone.
“New person, Charlie McDonough, and all pipers of the St. Rupert’s Pipe Band,” Ian intoned, pointing at me. “Let it be known . . . that Ms. Kent has a rigid practice schedule. Gentlemen, to remind you, here is what it looks like. Five hours a week marching band practice, seven a.m.; daily chanter practice for twenty minutes before dinner; individual tutoring once a week, schedule to be announced. And of course, you need to practice on your own.” He turned to smile smugly at me. Was he serious?
“You guys are so young to be so twisted,” I said, shaking my head sadly.
“And no more twisted than we ought to be, MacDonough,” Ian responded sternly. He looked apologetic for a moment. “This is my last year to compete. I’d kind of like St. Rupert’s to win Area Championships this year.”
Ian turned his back to us as he looked out the large bay window, over the treetops silhouetted by the setting sun. He busied himself with the window. The cool evening air was begging to invade our warm den. I walked over and stood beside him.
“It must feel good to be about to finish school and break out of the big house,” I said, trying to make up for my crack about twisted pipers. Ian turned and smiled at me.
“All prison references aside, MacDonough, I really like this place. Senior year has opened endless opportunities for me. I get to fill out college applications, and no guarantees for the future.” We all pondered this for a bit, to the soothing sound of the game Prakash was running on his laptop. Ian gave a sigh and turned back to us before we had a chance to doze off.
“Business meeting over. Now I want to discuss Ms. Kent and her ex.” That made us all wake up, I can tell you. You could see everybody snap to attention like they were hooked to Ian with a rubber band. Nobody was going to miss anything.
“She’d kill us if she knew we were talking like this, instead of practicing,” said Eric, with a worried frown. Brookie pushed off the wall and put down his iPod and juggling balls, coming over to sit down on the floor. Pete moved over to make room for him.
“I don’t think so, Eric,” Prakash responded, using his long fingers to tap the keys on his laptop. “I think she’s worried about this business of her ex hanging around the student body, when the grounds are off limits to strangers, worried enough to let us know about it.”
Ian rolled his eyes at Prakash in disgust. “We wouldn’t have known about the ex at all if you hadn’t brought him up at breakfast, twit. Why would she want us to discuss her business instead of practicing?”
Prakash moved his laptop to the table and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, brown hands dangling. “The problem she didn’t mention at breakfast is that her ex is putting her at risk by being here. She wants to keep it quiet, deal with it herself. What are we going to do if she’s the one who gets in trouble and loses her job over it?”
“But wait a minute, Prakash. How would she get in trouble?” I asked. “I don’t understand. She’s not at fault.”
“If parents complain enough, about anything, teachers are in trouble, period. If their darlings are being exposed to uninvited strangers, they do what any concerned parent would do in this day and age. They sue or pull their kid out of the school or demand the headmaster fire anybody in their line of sight. The Head gave her this job as a favor, so she could have a place to live and still afford to finish her college degree. He might have to give in to parental pressure, if they were obnoxious enough.”
“We’re more likely to see this guy on campus and give her a heads-up, right, Prakash?” asked Eric excitedly. The other guys still looked a little doubtful about Prakash’s logic.
“How do you know all this, Prakash?” shot back Jerrod.
“Superior genetics and clean living, man,” said Prakash, giving Jerrod a withering glance. “Actually, I was in Ms. Kent’s band before she came to work at this school. So you could call her a family friend. I knew her ex while she was still married to him. He runs an art dealership, and I think she divorced him because he was a bad-un, you know, always on the edge of being legal. He may be hoping that she’ll help him with one of his shady art deals or something.”
Ian wiped the dust off his hands from handling the old window frame and turned to
stare at Prakash.
Ian cleared his throat a little uncomfortably in the morose silence. “Not good. I guess we’d better get organized and make sure this ex-husband dude gets stopped before he creates real trouble for us. We’ll circulate that picture.” He handed Brookie his cell phone. We all crowded around to see the photo. It was the same baldy we had seen from the athletic field. Ian took command.
“You, Brookie. Work with this picture Ms. Kent sent me and put it up on Rupertband.net for us.”
Brookie’s head bobbed up and down. “You mean like a ‘Wanted’ poster, right, yeah?” He held the iPhone and looked at it. “Wanted. One bald dude with an interest in expensive artwork.”
Ian gave Brookie a pained look and then looked around at Prakash. “You know what this guy looks like, too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, point him out to us if you see him lurking. Having a student report him trespassing, independent of Ms. Kent, especially somebody who knows him, should convince school security and St. Rupert’s Board that Ms. Kent is not responsible for his being here. Hey, what’s his name, anyway?”
“Harley Bevison,” said Prakash, idly.
Ian started to choke with laughter. “For real, right? Ms. Kent actually married somebody named Harley Bevison?” This caused mirth. Ms. Kent was cool. Harley Bevison was not a cool name. Ian finally stopped laughing and thought for a minute.
“You’re my Man, Brookie. Why don’t you be in charge of collecting photos? See if you can get proof he is lurking. You know, pictures, video. Give anything you find to Brookie, guys.” There was a meditative pause. I figured I’d get my questions in while I had a chance.
“What would an art dealer want with a monastery, anyway?” I was hoping nobody would notice that, new as I was, I was jumping in with both clumsy feet. All eyes did turn to me, but in a friendly, curious way.
Prakash made a sound that was a refined kind of snort. “St. Rupert’s has a kind of famous museum, Mac.” He shifted in his chair to stare at me, faux-scandalized that I didn’t already know about it.
“I never heard about any museum. What would a monastery have a museum for?” I asked in self-defense.
“Call it St. Rupert’s or call it St. Tax Shelter Academy, if you like. Either name works.” There was a burst of laughter.
“If you aren’t as cynical as young Prakash here, we say that people like to donate to an institution that appreciates culture,” said Ian, after he recovered from guffawing.
“Especially when the headmaster is a collector of everything,” noted Pete.
Ian turned and got a book from the shelf behind him. “Here’s a history of the school,” he said, waving the book at me. “And from what I’ve learned, a lot of people gave art during hard times just to give it a safe home.”
“. . . from their creditors, when dodging personal and corporate bankruptcy,” murmured Prakash.
This gave me a lot to think about. St. Rupert’s was giving me a real education. Practical things, like how to dodge your creditors in case of bankruptcy. If Mom only knew.
“Uh, aren’t you making kind of a leap, from trespassing to getting into the monastery museum?” I asked, stepping out on a limb again, now that I felt safe enough to try.
“I know the man, Mac.” Prakash grinned that annoying know-it-all grin. “If he so much as senses a profit, he’ll be knocking down doors to get to it. He isn’t trespassing to share light conversation with Ms. Kent, not if he thinks he can con the brotherhood into selling him something valuable for a low price. He probably wants Ms. Kent to get him into the museum, now that she works here, so he can appraise the art.”
Prakash’s information seemed to send Brookie way over the top. Sitting obviously didn’t agree with him, even on a good day. But now he was bounding off the wall, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I can see the headline: ‘Corporate Thieves Hiding Their Ill-Gotten Gains in Secluded Monastery.’ Way cool!” he shouted, pumping the air with his fist. “Mac and I need to check this place out!”
From the irritated looks I saw, Brookie was clearly getting on everybody’s nerves, not just mine. Ian took care of that by putting out a hand, and Brookie was on his back on the floor in a single gentle movement. Leadership skills. Ian held him down while he finished speaking. Brookie’s pink complexion turned pinker as he struggled to get up.
“Chill, Brook. The Welcome Week tour will happen on Friday. Mac and anybody else here can see the museum and everything in it then.”
Ian let him up, and Brookie dusted off his clothes to give himself time to recover his dignity.
“Why doesn’t The Bevison just ask Father Dell to let him see the museum—I mean, if appraising it is what he’s after?” asked Eric.
Prakash answered, “Maybe he did and Father Dell wasn’t interested. Maybe Bevison offered to buy something and ticked the Head off. Knowing Our Dear Headmaster as well as we do, maybe the offer of money is not enough to pry anything loose, whatever it is. If Father Dell believes the art was given in good faith as a gift, and he likes it a whole lot, he won’t part with it.” He turned to Ian. “Do you think ‘rabid collector’ describes him pretty well?” Ian nodded. “Well, Bevison isn’t giving up, then, even if he did get no for an answer. That’s for sure.”
I scratched my head as it swirled with so much speculation and added, “Well, I’d like to check it out at the tour, if Brookie doesn’t mind having me along. Help him with the questions and stuff?” I looked at Brookie, and he gave me a conspirator’s nod.
It was getting dark outside the windows as night settled in around the old buildings, and I was getting hungry, never a good time to think. So I asked the dumb question. Duh, yeah! “Harley must suspect something pretty valuable is in that museum,if he’s willing to go to so much trouble just to get through the door.”
“It’s always about the money, sonny,” said Prakash and gave us his man-of-the-world look.
“Sorry, but in this case it’s not, Prakash,” Ian said, bluntly. “I sure hate seeing Ms. Kent being harassed by her ex, and I’d hate to see her lose her job as our band coach.”
“And we don’t want her fired for helping the jerk just because she wanted him out of her hair,” chimed Pete.
“Or because some parent doesn’t like having some weirdo hanging around St. Rupert’s because of her,” added Eric.
“So, band, I assume we are in this together, find some clues so we can help stop the jerk?” asked Ian. He looked pleased when everyone started table drumming. “Right.”
“Rupert Band Rescues Small, Defenseless Pipe Major,” shouted Brookie, and we all cracked up because Ms. Kent was soooo not defenseless. Then with startling abruptness, the seven guys stopped and listened raptly as the distant clang-clang of the Refectory’s dinner bell reached their ears. Grabbing their jackets, they started out of the room.
Ian pulled me out of the way as everyone else stampeded for the door. “MacDonough, I’m supposed to talk to you.” I slowed down, a little cautious in case I’d done something wrong, maybe overstepped the bounds of newcomership. “As a band we get a lot of our classes together. So if you need any help because of our wicked schedule, let me or anybody else know. We’ll help you keep on top of the academics so that you’ll have plenty of time to focus on what really counts around here, if you know what I mean.” He looked up at a magnificent posed photo of the St. Rupert’s Pipe Band in full-dress uniform hanging on the wall over our heads. I got his meaning.
Then, at the urging of hunger, our fearless leader and fierce taskmaster Ian and I went to get something to eat.