Just Deserts

CHAPTER ONE

WHAT WAS THAT SOUND, and why was it so loud? It felt like somebody was pounding on the inside of my head with a sledgehammer or—no … it was the door. Okay, now I had three questions: who was pounding on the door, why were they pounding so hard, and finally, was the person who was doing the pounding small enough that I could inflict serious injury on him?

The pounding kept coming, and it was getting even louder. Each crash against the door sent a corresponding pain shooting into my head, like a knife being plunged into my brain.

Ethan, open up!

The voice was familiar, although at that moment I couldn’t quite place its owner. All I knew was that I truly wanted to kill him … assuming I could do it really quietly.

Instead I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head, but the pounding came again, and the pillow was about as helpful as a Band-Aid on a shotgun wound. That’s what it felt like, as if somebody had shot me in the head. I would have almost welcomed that. One shot to the head to end the pain.

I really had to stop drinking. Or at least stop drinking so much—that was more realistic. I’d remind myself not to drink so much. Then again, if drinking killed brain cells, obviously I wouldn’t remember the reminder, so—

Ethan, wake up! the voice bellowed.

Why wasn’t he giving up? Wait, it was a different voice now. Either there were two of them, or they were pounding in relays.

There was only one way to make it stop. I’d have to kill him … them. On the bright side, it would be justifiable homicide. Pounding on the door of a guy who was suffering a blinding, head-splitting hangover was definitely asking for it. Or I could plead temporary insanity—the insanity of the person trying to wake me up!

He pounded again, and I rolled over and tried to jump out of bed. The sudden change of elevation sent my head reeling and my stomach lurching. I put a hand down on the night table to steady myself and looked at the clock. It was just before eight-thirty—eight-thirty in the morning! What sort of heartless, brainless idiot would pound on my door at this time on a Sunday morning?

I staggered forward and— Ugggh!

I looked down and lifted up my foot. Vomit dripped off my toes into a puddle on the floor. I could only hope that it was at least my vomit. Somehow that would make it a little less disgusting.

I dropped my foot to the carpet and dragged it along, trying to wipe off the vestiges of puke that clung to it. It wasn’t like it was going to do much damage to this carpet. It was worn, ugly and tasteless—like everything else at this school.

There was the sound of a key clicking against the lock—whoever it was, he was trying to get into my room. Saved me the trouble of staggering over to open the door.

Donovan, followed by Clive, poked his head into my room. I knew them, but that didn’t mean I liked them or would spare them from death or—

Are you all right? Donovan asked.

One of us is going to be fine, I snapped. Do you know what time it is?

It’s just before nine in the morning, Clive answered.

And don’t you think that might be a little early to be banging on somebody’s dormitory door on a Sunday morning?

Sunday? Donovan sounded confused.

"It’s Monday morning," Clive said.

Yeah, right, it’s Monday … quit screwing around.

No, seriously, it’s Monday.

It is, Donovan added. Honestly.

This isn’t April first, and I’m no fool, I snapped. Bad enough waking me up without trying to make me look like an idiot. "Go away and leave me alone, and don’t come back until it really is Monday."

"No, it is Monday," Donovan insisted.

He stepped back and pushed the door wide open. Beyond him, I could see that the hallway was filled with students in uniform, carrying books, on their way to classes.

I was shocked.

But what happened to Sunday? I gasped.

Sunday happened. You missed it. You must have slept through it or something.

Sleep, no. Something, yes. I remembered Saturday night, being out at a party and … I didn’t really remember getting home, but obviously I had. But zoning out all of Sunday? I’d passed out before, even forgot part of an evening, but to lose an entire day … that was different.

Either way, it didn’t really matter. Class was going to be starting in less than thirty minutes, and I’d already been warned that the next time I was late I’d be facing major disciplinary action.

So the guys hadn’t been harassing me so much as helping me. I could have thanked them, maybe, but … whatever. It wasn’t like they were my friends.

I’d better get dressed fast and get to class before—

No, you’re not supposed to go to class, Donovan said.

Now I was even more confused.

Headmaster McWilliams wants to see you, Clive explained.

In his office, Donovan added.

Why does he want to see me?

He didn’t exactly tell us, but he didn’t look particularly happy.

"Does he ever look happy?" I asked.

Never, Donovan agreed. But I’ve been around here for five years, and I’ve learned that keeping him waiting is not going to make him any happier.

Well, I guess he’ll learn that you don’t always get what you want, I said, trying to sound casual. Tell him I’ll be there when I’m ready.

They both looked shocked.

"You want us to tell him that?" Clive asked.

Don’t worry about it. He’ll figure it out when I’m not there immediately. Just go to class and I’ll take care of it.

I could tell by their expressions that they were surprised and impressed.

I need to get dressed, and I’m not planning on putting on a show, so you two have to leave, I said as I shooed them out, closing the door behind them.

I slumped against the door. Damn, this was serious. But how serious, and what was the headmaster upset about? It wasn’t that I hadn’t done anything wrong. The question was, what had he found out about? Drinking alcohol, on or off school premises, was a big deal if you got caught. It was very definitely against the rules, so that could be a problem … and I guess whatever happened on the day I couldn’t remember. But really, other than vomiting, I’d probably just slept Sunday away.

In any event, what I needed to do was to get to his office as quickly as possible, looking as together as possible. Unfortunately the two things worked against each other. I had a choice: be fast or be presentable. I’d at least have to be in uniform, have my tie on straight—he was a fanatic about fixing people’s ties. I thought it had to do with the fact that he liked to wrap his hands around people’s necks, like he was choking the life out of them—that was something he really enjoyed doing.

I’d wash my face, throw on my uniform, fix my tie, but first … I ran off to the washroom, practically tumbling over but staying on my feet. I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and hurled! My whole body convulsed, but nothing much came out. I still wasn’t sure what I’d done the day before, but I could safely assume that eating wasn’t a big part of it.

I put a hand against the toilet and pushed myself up. I needed to at least rinse out my mouth or brush my teeth or— I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink. Very funny. There was a large black moustache drawn on my face.

I grabbed a face cloth and rubbed soap on it, and then started to scrub my face. I lathered it up good and then rinsed it away. The soap was gone. The moustache remained. This was going to take time. Time I didn’t have. But it wasn’t like I could show up to see the headmaster with this thing on my face. Especially since it looked suspiciously like his moustache.

CHAPTER TWO

I SAT THERE on the very uncomfortable fauxantique chair, pretending not to look at the headmaster’s secretary as she perched behind her big desk just outside his office, faking work. The dark, important pictures on the walls—like the furniture, and everything else in the room—were just a clumsy attempt to make a statement. It was all intended to create the impression that our headmaster was a significant person, a person of substance. In truth, though, the accoutrements in our family’s chauffeur’s quarters were more impressive. If this office was supposed to be intimidating to students, it wasn’t working on me.

I touched my upper lip with my finger. It was tender. After a quick but brutal scrubbing, the drawn-on moustache, along with a layer of skin, had gone, leaving my skin red and raw. I didn’t know who had done this to me, but when I found out, they were going to pay. They thought this was so clever. I’d show them clever. No, scratch that, I’d show them mean and nasty.

On the wall behind the secretary’s desk, noisily ticking away, was a big, ornate clock. I’d been sitting here for over twenty minutes. It was almost reassuring to be kept waiting. It probably meant that whatever the headmaster wanted to see me about wasn’t really that important and that the two clowns who’d woken me up—who were, unbelievably, afraid of him—had misinterpreted the whole thing.

There was only one other possible explanation. Perhaps he was keeping me waiting as a form of payback, just to establish his status as the alpha dog. That was so pathetic, so juvenile. But whatever, it was fine with me. I had no desire to be the alpha dog in this place. I had no desire to even be in this place.

It wasn’t as if this was the world’s best private school. It wasn’t even in the top echelon. It was simply the best school that would accept me under the circumstances and on such short notice. The best schools weren’t so willing to consider me as a candidate for admission. I had to admit they did have some cause, but I’d never done anything really that serious. What self-respecting, thinking person wouldn’t defy the rules from time to time? And as far as I was concerned, respect had to be earned, and none of those prissy teachers had done that. There had been graffiti and some vandalism, but it wasn’t that significant and it wasn’t as if restitution hadn’t been given to cover the damage. And who didn’t drink underage? I guess the sin was in being caught.

Apparently even schools that charge exorbitant tuition fees weren’t willing to accept just anybody or any behaviour. I’d pushed beyond those limits. After numerous sanctions and suspensions, I had been asked to leave by several of Europe’s finest institutes of high school education, and several more had been offered the distinction of having me as a student and declined. In the end, a deal was struck between this school and my father’s bank account. Everybody and everything had a price, and they’d finally arrived at one they could both live with.

The new athletic centre, construction already underway, would bear our name: the Chambers Gymnasium. I don’t suppose my father had to pay for all of it, but I’m sure it was a hefty percentage of the total cost. Amazing how much he was willing to shell out to keep me in school, or at least to keep me on the other side of the Atlantic, away from him. I tried my best to see the whole thing as amusing, although I don’t imagine he was laughing. It was a small revenge, and maybe petty of me, but I did get enjoyment out of his having to spend a prince’s ransom to keep his son away.

The ticking of the clock seemed to be getting louder. Even that was echoing painfully in my head. Just how much had I had to drink? I only hoped that whatever the headmaster had to say to me, he’d say it quietly. Yelling would be cruel and unusual punishment.

Now every ticking second sounded like the clock’s announcing that I was being put in my place, made to wait. I got up.

Is it going to be long? I asked.

I would imagine it will take as long as necessary, the secretary replied.

Is there somebody else in there with him?

There is not.

Is he on the telephone?

She looked taken aback. As if she was so far above me or my questions that she was shocked I’d even dared to talk to her.

I don’t really know, but I certainly don’t think it is any of your business to ask! she snapped, trying to sound official, officious, important and—

We both turned at the sound of the headmaster’s door opening. McWilliams stood there, filling the doorway. Of course he was in his tacky suit and a perfectly knotted school tie. He wore a serious expression on his bloated, reddish face, and his walrus moustache was practically smothering his upper lip. Even my drawn-on version looked better than his real one.

I couldn’t help thinking that his reddish face matched the colour of my painfully scrubbed upper lip, but perhaps if his tie weren’t so tight, he’d have a more normal complexion. I’d always wondered if he looked that way because he secretly drank. I know I’d have drunk myself into oblivion if I’d ended up like him, just trying to forget that I was stuck in this hell-hole. It would be terribly ironic if he was a closet alcoholic and was going to give me grief for drinking.

Hold all my calls, he said to his secretary. As if any call to him could be that important.

I’d heard all the talk about what he’d done for a living before coming here, first as a teacher and then as the headmaster. Apparently he used to be some sort of special forces soldier with the British army, trained in weapons and martial arts and … that must have been a long time ago. There wasn’t much that was special about him now, and probably the only thing he could wrestle to the ground was a crumpet.

Come, he said in his clipped English accent, motioning to me before disappearing back inside his office.

One-word commands were the norm for him, as if we were all trained collies. Or I guess soldiers under his command. There was something so irritating about somebody so obviously my inferior being in a position to give me orders and enforce them … or at least try to enforce them.

I hesitated for a second—a small protest against being ordered about by somebody like him—and then walked ever so slowly through the open door. I wanted him to know that even if I was doing what he’d requested, it was by my own choice.

He was already sitting. His head was down, his eyes aimed at his desk, focusing on some tremendously important task. It was as if he was making the point that although he’d invited me in, I was of so little importance that he’d already forgotten me in the seconds that had elapsed between calling me in and my arrival.

I walked over and stood in front of his desk, beside the chair that faced him. I knew the routine well enough to know that I wasn’t supposed to take a seat until I’d received that order as well. I wondered how long he’d leave me standing. I wondered even more if I should just take a seat and see his reaction. No, that would be plain stupid, and I didn’t want to have to deal with the consequences if I was asked to leave this place, too … No, wait, that wasn’t going to happen. Any thought that he’d kick me out was ridiculous. The guarantee of my continued enrolment was being constructed as I stood there, and there was no way he’d risk losing that. I could expect some sort of discipline for whatever it was I’d done, but it wouldn’t be more than a slap on the wrist. That way he could save face with the other students and staff, and we could all pretend that he actually had some control over me and my behaviour. As long as I didn’t spill the beans as to how minor the consequence had been, nobody would be the wiser.

I had a pretty good idea about the range of punishments I might receive. After all, this wasn’t the first time I’d been caught drinking. The whole place was so provincial, so puritanical, so Victorian era, so stuffy, so British. They all acted as though they still had an empire. That was long gone, and they should have lost the superior attitude along with it. After all, we were in Europe, and people in Europe took the occasional drink or two. It wasn’t as though there was really even a drinking age here in France, and even if there was, the