Days Of St Croix

Seventeen

  "I don't know what she's up to, Mom," Tibby lied into her cellphone, "but Mills will be fine. Seriously, she's a sensible girl." She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the house rec room and winked at the reflection of Mills behind her. She didn't like lying to her mom, but Tibby knew she would understand. Actually, it wasn't really a lie at all; Mills hadn't told her what she had planned for that evening, or why she needed Tibby's mom to call the school and invite her out. That wouldn't last long, though. She wasn't about to let Mills get away with keeping secrets from her best friend.

  "That's great, Mom, thanks! I love you. See you in a few hours? I'll get a cab to the restaurant. Okay, bye!" Tibby turned around and gave Mills the thumbs-up. "All clear, babe. You're out with me and my mom all night. She's calling the school right now."

  "Thank you so much, Tib," Mills sprang up from the sofa and hugged Tibby, "I really, really appreciate it!"

  "Oh, don't mention it, babe." She paused, putting her phone away slowly. "So, uhh, what are you doing tonight?"

  "I told you, it's kind of a secret. I promise I'll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise."

  "Just give me a clue. Something I can tell my mom."

  "I can't! I told Jas that I'd keep it totally secret-" Mills trailed off.

  "Told Jas, huh?" Said Tibby, smiling broadly. "Hardly a surprise."

  "Well, it's just-"

  "No explanation necessary, babe. I am so excited for you! Just promise me you'll be careful, okay?" Tibby squeezed Mills tightly around the waist.

  "You know me," Mills grinned, "there's no chance I'm going to let any accidents happen."

  "Just making sure." Tibby looked Mills in the eye. She could sense the nervous anticipation, the excitement mingled in with the fear. She hadn't known Mills long, but she was a good judge of character, and she could read emotions like a book. People always said that about her. "And you know I'm going to hold you to that promise. Tomorrow lunch? You're telling me everything."

  "I've been on the telephone with Mr Vanbrugh all morning, and he's not happy. No, let me rephrase that: he's furious. He's been yelling at me for forty-five minutes, and he wants to know what I'm going to do about this. He used the word 'expulsion' a few times, let me tell you. I don't exactly know what Carlton told him, but whatever it was, he's now gunning for you big time. What do you say to that, Mr Brandeis?"

  Brand shifted his weight to the other foot and stared at a spot on the desk in front of him. The swim coach stood beside him, arms folded. Seated on the other side of the desk, in a large, ancient leather chair, sat Brand's housemaster. The three of them waited in silence. Eventually, the swim coach cleared his throat.

  "If I may, this looked largely like an accident to my eyes." He edged slightly closer to Brand, or maybe that was just Brand's imagination.

  "Hmmph." The housemaster grunted.

  "Carlton Van-" The coach continued.

  "I am well aware that Carlton Vanbrugh is a thug! And he's an idiot, too. I don't dispute these facts, but unfortunately the situation I find myself in does not allow me to take it into account. We have a boy with a broken nose who claims Mr Brandeis intentionally threw a water polo ball at his face. I wouldn't be surprised if we're sent a bill for the inevitable plastic surgery, and I needn't remind you that Mr Vanbrugh is a powerful man with no doubt expensive tastes in New York doctors."

  "If I may, I don't think Mr Brandeis deserves expulsion for this. He was provoked, and he over-reacted. Water polo is a passionate game, sir."

  "I agree." The housemaster looked at Brand. Brand tried to hold his stare. Relief was pouring over him. "We'll need an apology, of course. In writing. An admission that you behaved in an unsporting manner."

  "Yes, sir." Brand couldn't believe his luck. Writing a smarmy letter would be a breeze for a talented writer like him. Oh man, he'd write the smarmiest letter anyone would ever read. It would be a masterpiece. It would be the template for all future smarmy letters of apology. It would-

  "And," the housemaster continued, "shall we say three weekends of detention?"

  "Very fair." The coach slapped Brand on the back and smiled.

  "Starting this morning. Coach can devise some suitable punishment. You'll be under his supervision until tonight. Shall we say nine p.m.?"

  Brand sat down heavily on the bench outside the boarding house and stared into the distance. How could he be so unlucky? To have come so far, to the point of romantic success, only to have his chances snatched away from him, his hopes dashed at the last minute? It was so unfair! Surely the gods of reason were hammering their fists in fury at the profound wrongness of it all! What was he going to do? Against all the odds, Tibby Richmond had agreed to meet him for a drink, just the two of them together. Now he'd be spending the evening cleaning out the pool filter and scrubbing the shower stalls. Tibby would think he had stood her up unless he texted her, and if he texted her she'd think he'd gone cold on her. Or he could tell her the truth: that he'd smashed a ball into Carlton Vanbrugh's nose to teach him a lesson. Would that be any better? What would she think of him then? That he was no worse than Vanbrugh; an impulsive thug. It was hopeless. He had blown his chances. His long and happy future with Tibby Easton-Richmond was over before it had even begun. He was finished.

  No, he wasn't finished. He was fucked.

  He pulled out his phone and stared at it. His thumbs hovered over the buttons. A message formed in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to tap it out. If he canceled on Tibby, sure, she might understand, but she might just as easily tell him to go to hell. There had to some other way Brand could keep his date with her, without risking even more trouble.