Dreamology(4)

Currently Frank is standing between the two stone pillars marking off Bennett Academy from the rest of the world—pillars that seem to say, Oh, no you don’t. Not in here. What they actually say, carved across their granite fa?ade, is HE WHO FINDS SOLACE WITHIN THESE WALLS, FINDS SOLACE WITHIN HIMSELF. I am skeptical of this statement.

I survey the student parking lot, chock full of sparkling Volvos and Audi SUVs, and then glance down at Frank. The only reason I am even standing here is due to a reciprocity program Harvard has with Bennett for the children of its professors. The handbook claims it’s because Marie Bennett, who started the school on her back porch in the 1800s, was the daughter of a Harvard president, and therefore a “relationship based on mutual respect” has existed ever since.

“Whatever that means,” I’d said when my father read me the description out loud over dinner last night.

“It means having the child of the chair of the Neuroscience Department as a student makes Bennett look good,” my dad explained. “And in return you get a top-notch high school education for free.”

“Are you sure?” I said, tilting my head to the side and twirling some angel hair pasta on my fork. “Because I’m pretty sure I got the scholarship for my athletic prowess.”

“Ah, yes.” My dad nodded, playing along. “It’s probably that trophy you won in the fourth grade. What was it for again?”

“Longest hula-hooper,” I reminded him, taking a big bite of pasta. “The highlight of my sports career.”

“That’s the one.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and winked at me.

Now I chain my bike outside the main administrative building, which looks more like the White House than a high school, and all but tiptoe down the sparkling marble hallway, because no other way seems appropriate. I rap on the door of the dean of students’ office for my nine a.m. “meet and greet,” a term that made me wrinkle my nose when I read it in my info packet last night.

“Come iii-iiinnnn.” The singsong reply surprises me, but I find nobody in the waiting area, so I wander into Dean Hammer’s office, avoiding the serious gaze of old portraits. It looks like the New York Public Library has been condensed into one little room—dark wood, brass lamps, and rows upon rows of books.

“So, what did you do?”

I whirl around so quickly at the sound of someone’s voice that I trip over the coffee table, landing flat on my back atop the cranberry carpet. I squint up at the figure now peering over me, grateful that I chose a pair of shorts instead of the tangerine sundress I’d thought about wearing this morning. All I can make out is hair. Lots of it, blond and unruly.

“N-nothing,” I finally answer, blinking a few times. “I’m just . . . new.”

“Well, my advice, run like hell,” the hair says, holding out a hand and pulling me off the ground. The face that comes into view bares a bemused look due mostly to large dark eyebrows that contrast strongly against his bleached surfer curls and bright blue eyes.

“So what did you do?” I ask, eyeing him warily.

“Me?” he says, placing a hand over his heart as though I had stabbed him. “What makes you think I did anything?” But something about the way his eyes sparkle tells me not to believe him. “Can’t a guy just take a nap in the dean’s office in peace? I like the smell of his leather-bound books.” The corner of his mouth rises in an almost undetectable smirk.

“Oh good, Oliver, you’re here,” Dean Hammer says as he shuffles in, removing his blazer and hanging it on the door hook. He’s stocky, probably midforties, but looks older, no doubt due to dealing with students like Oliver. He wears delicate wire-rimmed spectacles and perfectly pressed pants.

“Yes, sir,” Oliver-with-the-hair says, sitting down on the sofa and resting one arm casually along its back. “I missed you so much, Rupert, I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Yes, you could,” Dean Hammer says, taking a seat at a library table–sized desk piled high with papers. “You’re actually here because, by some amazing circumstance I have yet to comprehend, you are already in trouble, before the school year has even begun.”

“It’s a minor offense, really.” Oliver rolls his eyes.

“Paying another student for their on-campus car registration and sticking it on your vehicle because your own privileges were revoked at the end of last semester does not seem minor to me,” the dean says.

“Can you blame me?” Oliver pleads. “How am I supposed to get my lunch? Do you want me to starve?”

“Here’s a wild idea: How about the cafeteria,” Dean Hammer deadpans.

“Rupert, if I have to spend days—actual full school days—at this claustrophobic hellhole for my entire senior year, I won’t be paying for someone’s registration, I’ll be paying them to run me over.”

At the word hellhole, Dean Hammer bristles, suddenly aware of my presence.

“And who are you?” he asks.

“Alice Baxter-Rowe,” I say. “Though I’d prefer just to go by Alice Rowe, if that’s okay. I can wait outside . . .”

“Don’t move, Alice,” Dean Hammer orders. “You’re the one with the appointment. Welcome to Bennett, by the way. As for you, Oliver, I can’t suspend you because I know that’s exactly what you’re hoping for. Do not leave this campus for the rest of the day, or so help me God I will find a way to make you sleep here, too. I’ll be in touch about disciplinary measures once I’ve spoken with your parents.”