“I took the bus,” I say, tacking on a hasty “sir” to the end.
His face pinches up. “Ah yes. I forgot. You won the contest, yes?”
The way he says it makes me want to reassure him that though I’m not Aston-Martin-for-my-sixteenth-birthday rich, it’s not like I’ve spent the first part of my life roughing it in the streets of Victorian London.
But since I’m already probably in enough trouble as it is, I just shove my pride even further down where the sun don’t shine and nod my head.
Before the vice-dean can say anything else, we’re interrupted by the muffled clatter of heels on the stone floor. A woman, so tall and slender that she towers above nearly everyone present, appears over his shoulder.
“Ah, Withers, I was wondering when we’d get to meet the scholarship recipient.”
Only I see the moment it takes him to compose the Dean’s face. For one brief moment, I see an intense hatred there. By the time he whirls around the greet her, it’s been replaced by a broad, welcoming smile.
Good to know I can’t trust him, anyway.
“Headmistress Robin!” he exclaims, holding out his arms as if he expects her to run to embrace him.
She maintains her position, only nodding her head slightly at him. ”Again, it’s Dean Robin. But so good to see you, too. The summers just seem to keep getting longer and longer, don’t they? I was just starting to think I’d never have to see you again.”
Dean Withers is about to respond, but then he pauses as the meaning of what she just said starts to sink in. She doesn’t wait for him to reply. Unlike Withers, she doesn’t try to hide the flicker of distaste on her features. Instead, she turns sharply back to me.
“Alex, isn’t it?”
She sticks out her hand, then thinks better of it when she sees the grime covering mine. She recovers nicely by clasping her palms together in front of her well-fitted pencil skirt.
“I’m the dean of the preparatory school across the valley,” she explains, for my benefit. “I helped Horace here sort through the scholarship applications. If it was up to him, I think he would have just picked out the one with the oldest-sounding family name and been done with it!”
Her tinkling laugh does nothing to cut the meaning of her words.
“Well, some of us actually have a proper school to run,” the dean grumbles.
“Anyway,” she says airily, brushing his words aside like a distracting gnat, “I just wanted to offer you my sincerest congratulations. Your essay was … remarkable. You just don’t often see that sort of raw emotional intelligence in a boy so young as yourself,” she says.
Normally, this kind of praise would go straight to my head. I’d be strutting around like a peacock for a week, trying to find any reason to bring the topic up in casual conversation. But right now, with Withers straight-up scowling behind this terrifyingly chirpy lady, I just find myself wishing someone else would smash an urn so I could slip into the dust and disappear.
But since no one seems determined to do that, I just manage a gravelly, “Um. Thank you?”
Dean Withers scowls more. I can’t have the dean hating me already. I don’t know much about this place, but I do know that.
So, I squint up at the woman and cock my head to the side. “Who was it you said you were, again? The headmistress of the girl’s school?”
I watch as a little part of her dies inside. She unclasps and then clasps her hands several times, her lips pressing into a tight line as her smile turns less than genuine.
Behind her, Dean Withers straightens back up and for a second, we share an understanding look. It worked. I might not have completely won over the dean, but I’ve avoided being branded an utter traitor on my first day.
Why then does my stomach feel so sour?
“Well, anyway, I just wanted to let you know you can come see me any time. I’m excited by this new direction Bleakwood is taking.”
“As are all of us,” Dean Withers says, loud enough to make it clear he’s announcing an end to her little interruption. “Now, unless you came all the way over here to say what could have been communicated in an email …”
He trails off with an all-knowing look.
“Of course not,” she says.
Dean Withers holds out an arm to usher her in the opposite direction. “And Rafael?” he calls over his shoulder.
I turn around to see Rafael freeze in the doorway, nearly having made his escape.