S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller (13 page)

“Now
that’s
what I’m talking about!” Banjo shouted as a Wellington slammed a fresh bottle on the table. “You a bourbon boy, Cody?”

“Dunno,” Cody slurred, as shots were poured all around. His arm felt good as new, and it was hotter and louder in here, and it was very smoky but he didn’t mind, and he raised his shot glass with everyone as a group of Kilts by the bar counted to three.

•   •   •

Brad Pitt and Fergie came to do a live performance of
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
outside in Burwell Garden, but it was poorly rehearsed and awkward, and they soon gave up to chat with the students. Brad Pitt flirted with the freshman girls, which was creepy since he could be their father. Fergie wore the same black dress with the slit up the leg from the poster and was archly beautiful. She looked Cody straight in the eye, and he told her how much he liked “Salt.” She smiled and rubbed his arm and went to get in the fountain. He ran to warn her that the fish might bite, but she slipped down the drain and disappeared.

•   •   •

A warm, wet nose woke Cody to Nesta with concern in her big brown eyes.

“What you find, girl?” Fletcher asked nearby. Cody was lying curled in the middle of Abbo’s Alley in last night’s clothes. It was still dark on the edge of daybreak, and the ground was only slightly damp. Nesta licked his face and backed away, tail wagging, proud of herself. Fletcher saw Cody, nodded and smiled, and kept walking, jangling a zookeeper-size ring of keys.

“Heh-heh.” Fletcher continued across the field toward University Avenue. “Haven’t seen
that
in a while!” He stopped to watch Cody stagger to his feet, silent in his confusion, leaving a shadow of crushed daffodils and sweet clover. “Why, good
morning
, son.” Fletcher bowed, almost a taunt. Cody’s legs and feet were sore, like he’d been sprinting without stretching, or maybe like he’d been sleeping on the ground all night. His mouth was thick and tasted like smoke.

“You’d best be getting home,” Fletcher called back as he ambled on. “It’s going to be a beautiful day! C’mon, Nesta! C’mon, girl!” He slapped his thigh, and Nesta bounded happily toward him. She was playful and obedient this morning, a dog transformed who heeled at her master’s side.

Cody walked unsteadily toward Rebel’s Rest, silent in the predawn darkness. Across University Avenue, Nesta abruptly halted on the edge of the Quad and backed away from Shapard Tower, even as Fletcher unlocked the doors. He called and slapped his thigh and finally walked toward her, but Nesta, hearing or smelling or sensing something the way dogs mysteriously do, froze and wouldn’t budge. She wasn’t going there.

“S
o what’s her name? Who’d you deal with?” Banjo badgered him again, and again Cody answered, “I didn’t hook up with anybody.” The trio crowded the bathroom, showering, shaving, teeth-brushing.

“So what’s up with your French exit, dude?” Banjo pulled his razor upward, against the grain. He was meticulous. “You just disappeared.”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Dude, you were gone,” Elliott dogged, toweling off from the shower beast. He and Banjo both seemed proud of their loose-cannon hall mate. “I looked over and your eyes clicked off. Like a zombie. How much bourbon did you drink?”

“Whatever you guys did,” Cody answered, although he didn’t feel hung-over. Maybe Dr. Quack was right about the vaccine and drinking. He rinsed with Listerine to nuke the foul, smoky taste from his mouth, and his spit was thick and dangly.

“You don’t remember anything?” Banjo asked in earnest, following Cody to his room. Outside his window, dozens of bees gently shopped the purple blooms that crawled up and over Rebel’s Rest. “What time did you get back?”

“This morning sometime.” Cody shrugged, not giving them more ammo with his waking up in Abbo’s Alley. He was already getting enough flack. There was a slight ringing in his ears because last night’s music was loud and he’d been sitting near the speakers.

“Dude, you missed out,” Banjo continued. “We planned our prank. It’s all set.”

“What’s the prank?” Cody asked, distracted, putting all his weight on one foot to head off the charley horse that threatened his calf. At least his arm was back to normal, except for a slight dull throb.

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Banjo said. “It’s not that big a deal, but the Wellingtons thought it was good. They helped us.”

From downstairs, Pearl bellowed, “Who’s been tracking mud through this house?” She muttered something to herself, and then she bellowed again: “Please leave all muddy shoes outside on the front porch!”

Cody changed into khakis and a button-down shirt and his one pair of loafers. He snuck his wet and muddy Nikes downstairs and put them outside the front door. He’d knock them clean once the mud had dried. There was no rain, and the ground was dry, and Cody hurried because he was running late.

•   •   •

At least he now knew what an alcohol-induced blackout was like: just a magical gap in time, missing hours gone for good and never to be recalled. It was, in a way, sorta cool and ultimately harmless.

Now he also knew what déjà vu was like, because he had been here, in this very living room, looking at the same man with the same golden retriever in front of the now dormant fireplace. Cody might as well be the cameraman for the S’wanee DVD, framing this identical shot.

“I trust you’re getting settled into this wonderful place,” the silver-haired man in the tapestry chair said with a warm, confident smile.

By chance or apparent luck of the lottery, Ivan Apperson, the dean of students, had been assigned as Cody’s academic adviser. He was the Big Dog, the man who ran it all, and his official residence was a large, richly appointed sandstone mansion just around the corner from Rebel’s Rest. The floors creaked, and it smelled like fresh flowers, and it was the lushest showplace on campus. It was called Cravens Hall.

“Yes, I am, sir,” Cody said, sitting up straight. “I’m sorry I missed yesterday. They sent me over to the…” Dean Apperson smiled with his lips closed and waved him off.

“Rules, rules,” he said with a husky, resonant voice that carried far with apparently little effort. His eyes were ice blue and almost childlike, and his face looked younger than his hair, and he had smile wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He was probably in his early sixties but had the curious, eager air of a young boy. He looked and sounded like he used to smoke, a lot.

“We try to have as few rules here as possible,” Dean Apperson continued. “Few limitations, few constraints, and almost no barriers. Our only requirement, which is more of a request, is that you explore, experiment, and expand.” He was impeccably dressed in a subtle, multicolored plaid summer tweed jacket, a very thin blue-striped dress shirt, and what must have been the official S’wanee tie: purple and embroidered with dozens of repeating school crests. He wore light-gray heather trousers and brown leather shoes with brass side buckles, no laces. There was something both rugged and dandy about him. He sipped tea from a china cup and seemed genuinely delighted to spend time with his young advisee.

“My door is always open to you, Cody, and I hope you’ll use it. Come to me with any questions, concerns, complaints, or even just for a glass of sherry, or whatever your poison. I probably have it.” He smiled and indicated his very well-stocked bar by the window. “Any hour of the day or night, but preferably before eleven p.m., as I’m an early riser. As you can imagine, it’s a rigorous, challenging, and rewarding job I have here.” He had the polished air of a politician, as well as the habit, in speech, of repeating and subtly expanding his points with synonyms, to drive them home. It was slightly hypnotic.

“I will personally monitor your academic and personal progress, which I hope will be swift, steady, and ever upward. If you hit a snag along your journey here, we’ll work through it together. I’ll be watching.” Beneath his warm smile lay a benevolent warning.

“Yes, sir,” Cody said, wary of his own teacup, since it looked so delicate, and he thought his hand might tremble.

“Please. Ivan. Or Dean Apperson, if you prefer. But not ‘sir.’ Makes me feel old, decrepit, irrelevant.” He abruptly stood up, and his golden retriever took notice. At that moment, Ross came into the living room from the hallway, carrying a leather saddlebag.

“Good morning, Ross,” Dean Apperson said brightly. “I was just getting acquainted with our charge, our project.”

“He’s doing just fine.” Ross beamed his megawatt smile. “Apparently had an adventurous night last night.” Cody tensed in embarrassment, but Dean Apperson diffused it immediately.

“Well, I should hope so.” He laughed. “Boys will be boys. Or at least they should be while they can.” He took the leather saddlebag that Ross held, assistantlike. “Okay. So much to do.” As he donned the black Harry Potter gown slung over his chair, his old retriever struggled to her feet and sniffed at Cody, wagging her tail expectantly.

“Meet our new friend, Beverly,” Dean Apperson said to the dog, and then he said to Cody, “Beverly likes you. She doesn’t stand up for just anybody. She
can’t
.”

“Good girl, Beverly.” Cody stroked her happy head, savvy enough to befriend the Big Dog’s dog. “You could teach Nesta a thing or two; couldn’t you, girl?”

“What’s wrong with Nesta?” Dean Apperson perked, his deep-set blues twinkling. “You mean Fletcher’s dog?”

“She’s just young,” Cody backtracked, and thought, “
And mentally ill
.”

“Those rescues.” Dean Apperson shook his head, slinging the saddlebag over his gowned arm. “You never know what they’ve been through. They gravitate here from all over the town, fleeing their negligent, sometimes abusive owners. We hate to destroy them.” He took one last sip of his tea and cradled the cup in its saucer. “But if anyone can tame the savage beast, it’s Dog Whisperer Fletcher. Nesta will be docile and civilized and quoting Thoreau in no time.” Ross laughed, and then Cody laughed, even though he couldn’t pinpoint the joke.

“We’ll see you at the Signing?” Dean Apperson asked rhetorically, holding the front door open. “Have a great S’wanee Day!” He chuckled at his own use of the silly phrase and then shrugged amiably, like it hit the spot anyway.

“Exceptionally fine day,” Cody heard him declare as he marched off past a magnolia tree. “Even finer than yesterday…”

•   •   •

“I envy each one of you, for the adventure, the journey, the
odyssey
you are about to begin,” Dean Apperson orated from the podium, gown flowing. “I once sat in those very seats, at this very ceremony, in this God-favored spot, and what I would give to experience it all again, fresh and new and innocent. Well, maybe not
so
innocent.”

Hundreds laughed appreciatively, in unison. Cody laughed with them, again struggling to isolate the punch line.

All Saints Chapel was glorious, glowing, and packed. It was the jewel in S’wanee’s ornate crown, and today it was burnished and polished for maximum sparkle. Sunlight electrified the stained-glass windows that surrounded all sides and traced S’wanee’s history from the laying of the cornerstone, through various wars and expansions, to tributes to many of the school’s long-dead luminaries. The windows literally wrapped the audience in the rich heritage of the Domain.

This was the moment: the focal point of the week and official gateway to his S’wanee life. The chapel overflowed with freshmen in blazers and ties and floral dresses, grouped together by section, Rebel’s Rest right up front on the left. Across the aisle sat two rows of black-gowned professors, some holding purple folders. In his section, Cody sat between a yawn-stifling Elliott and a solemn-looking Banjo.

“But for all the wondrous gifts that S’wanee will bestow during your time here, we make a few demands in return.” Dean Apperson continued, bracing his hands on the podium, as if for balance. Behind him, a white-haired organist, likely the same goofball who played Top 40 up in the tower, sat at the ready,
Phantom of the Opera
–style. “We demand your curiosity, your willingness to expand and experiment, your constant growth and personal evolution. And, most of all, we demand your honor.”

Movement caught Cody’s eye, and he looked over to the stoic Banjo, mock wanking himself in boredom. Just beyond, Cody noticed how unusual the towering stained-glass window was. It was a scene of a campus building on fire and students running in all directions through the snow, and there were purple-spotted Alice-in-Wonderland mushrooms scattered about and a red Volkswagen Bug sitting upside down on the altar of All Saints. Rebel’s Rest sat smack in the window center, serene, purple pendulums and all, right above the numerals “MCMLXXI.” The window looked both panicked and gleeful, and it was hard to tell if it commemorated a tragic event, or just a very wild party.

Another movement caught his eye, and Cody looked behind to Pearl a few rows back, dressed splendidly in a flowered hat and sitting among the other housemothers. She winked and pointed to his outfit and gave him an “A-OK.” That morning, Cody had realized, in panic, that he’d forgotten to pack a coat and tie. “I’m sure I can find you something,” Pearl said, whisking out a too-big navy blazer and whale-embroidered tie. The labels said “Vineyard Vines,” and now Cody looked as spiffy as the others. The Signing demanded everyone’s finest.

“By signing your name to our ancient register,” the Big Dog went on, his voice rising, “you agree, without hesitation, to our codes, our traditions, our history. Make no mistake—the S’wanee Registry is a pact, an official contract, affirming your permanent and lifelong commitment to our values, our goals, and our heritage. Consider it carefully, for once you sign, there is no turning back.”

Dean Apperson looked over the crowd in pointed silence. The door in the back creaked loudly, and Cody turned. The Girl hurried in, late and unapologetic. She wore, amazingly, a navy pinstripe man’s suit, tightly fit. She wore a white dress shirt and a silver necktie. From her breast pocket flowed a gauzy pink silk square like a puff of magic smoke. She was stunning, and her cross-dressing finest put all the other girls to shame. Her clicking high heels echoed through the silent chapel as she sought out her section midway down the aisle and slipped in.