The House of Grey- Volume 1 (18 page)

Oh crap!
thought Monson as he ducked behind a tree. Luckily, the girl turned away from him.  She must not have noticed him standing there. Something odd crept over him. A feeling, the murmur of a heart pulsating within him. It brought up images of faces and places he did not recognize. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he saw was a tree-covered mountain that seem to call to him from a distance.

The girl stopped singing and the sight vanished. Monson opened his eyes and chanced a look, hoping to see the girl’s face. He wanted to know who she was.

“What are you doing?”

Turning quickly, Monson slipped and fell hard on his rear end. It hurt.  Embarrassed, he twisted to see the boy in the wheelchair staring at him with mild interest on his face. Monson recognized him immediately and cringed, thinking about their earlier encounter. The boy had dirty blond hair, light blue eyes, and soft features, which gave him a somewhat feminine appearance. Monson made a mental note not to say that.  Beyond this, his eyes projected strength, and Monson comprehended a single dominant feature emanate from the boy’s countenance: 
Intelligence. Overwhelming intelligence.

As he looked into the boy’s eyes, Monson’s vision blurred, which forced him to blink. The boy’s eyes did not so much as flicker, but Monson sensed a certain degree of remorse. Remembering the girl, Monson spun on his feet hoping to get a glance. She was gone. Monson turned back towards the boy and finally answered the question.

“Yeah…that wasn’t what it looked like.”

The boy smiled at this. “So you weren’t spying?”

Monson thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “OK, maybe it was exactly what it looked like.”

“At least you picked a cute one.” The boy looked close to laughing.

Monson shrugged. "I wouldn’t know. I didn’t see her face.”

“Too bad for you. Shall we go?”

The boy turned abruptly. Moving his chair with amazing speed. Startled by the sudden end of the conversation, it took Monson a moment to recover, by which time the boy was already quite far in front of him.  Monson scrambled after him ignoring his clothes, thoroughly disheveled from falling down. They moved quickly up the path toward the front door of the building. As they neared the entrance, Monson hesitated, not knowing if the boy would accept his help this time. Monson decided it did not matter and rushed forward, catching the door handle and swinging it open right as the wheelchair rolled through it.

“Nice one, Grey.” The boy continued rolling down the hall.
“Thanks,” Monson muttered, stepping through the door himself. He rushed after the boy and caught up to him halfway down the hall.

“You’re really fast on that thing,” Monson stammered this through puffs of air as he struggled to keep up with the wheelchair.

“Have to be,” answered the boy. “They don’t give us very long between classes, do they?”

“That's certainly true. I think I’ve been late to almost every class.”

“Well, spying on girls doesn’t help.”

“Shut up.”

They entered the classroom.

Chapter 11 – A Teacher Like None Other

The bell rang as the two entered a very large room. It did not look like a traditional classroom, but was long and rectangular, almost like a lodge of some sort. The deeply stained polished wood floor gave the room an ancient feel.  The same brick Monson saw on the outside of building was inside as well, giving a clear indication of the building’s age. Windows draped with ivy outside lined the wall and bathed the students in an earthy ambiance. It was nice, but he wondered why the building was here at all. Everything else on campus was new. Why keep this?

As a boy bumped into him on his way into the classroom, Monson suddenly remembered he was late.   He scanned the room full of older students still milling around, chatting idly. A large group congregated near the front of the room around someone he could not see. He spotted an empty seat in the back corner and started for it, glancing over his shoulder at the boy in the wheelchair. The boy smiled and nodded, indicating that Monson should continue. Monson made a beeline for the seat.

How uncomfortable. He could actually feel the eyes of the older students sitting around him, many gazing at him in distaste. The boy in the wheelchair was looking at him from across the room. Monson smiled and the boy nodded back, and then shifted his chair forward.

Crap
, thought Monson, letting his attention trail off. He had forgotten to ask the boy his name, though he should not be too hard on himself; their conversation was not exactly extensive.  Monson felt pleased by the boy’s change in attitude from when he tried to help him earlier. Monson stopped as something occurred to him.  The boy had said “Grey” in the hall. That could not be right. Monson did not remember telling him his name. How did he know?   He racked his brain trying to remember if he had seen him at the assembly or the reception. Consequently he found the chattering of the students very annoying.

A creak sounded as Mr. Gatt entered the room carrying a large box. The sound caught Monson’s attention and he looked up towards the door.   Mr. Gatt looked as slick as ever in the same dark blue three-piece suit. He placed the box on the table and opened it, still not speaking, not even looking at the class. Most of the chattering died down as the students became interested in what Mr. Gatt was doing. After the box was open, he reached inside and fiddled around with some unknown objects. He pulled out two glossy sheets that looked like posters and set them facedown on the table.  Monson tried to get a look at them but Mr. Gatt moved too quickly.  Monson had an inkling that he did not want the class to see. The teacher smiled a toothy grin as he surveyed the class.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome to my class.” He looked excited, almost buoyant. “We should start with the roll. I don’t know all your names; the class is bigger than I expected.”

There were far more people than Monson had anticipated as well. He looked around counting, although his back corner seat made it difficult to see everyone. As far as he could tell, there were at least thirty students, probably more. That was odd.  What normal, healthy, high school student wants to take a class in analytical history? Monson finally looked to the seat beside him. He gawked. 

“Were you always there?”
A pair of deep green eyes sparkled as they peered into his. “No, I saw you sit down and thought I would come and keep you company.”

Monson’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Now why would you do that?”

She smiled her wicked smile. “Why do
you
think I would do that?”

Monson had no idea. This girl could not be interested in
him,
could she? No, of course not.  He blurted out without thinking, “I don’t know, my
dashing
good looks?”

She laughed but did not answer. She simply adjusted herself in the chair, a very innocent look on her face. She then gave her wholehearted attention to Mr. Gatt, which annoyed Monson a great deal; he hated being ignored.

Monson spied on the girl sitting next to him: Taris Green. Green eyes, long, strawberry blond hair with soft, creamy skin.  She was smoldering, like just being near her could overpower you. Her looks, her flowery perfume, her temperament; it was all very appealing.  And everyone thought so. This was the current “It”
girl. The daughter of some famous Hollywood actor, Taris' popularity as
the
teen idol was quickly gaining momentum as she appeared in movies and on television and gained recognition as a singer. Many of the guys on the campus had never even seen her in person, despite living in the same city and attending the same school.  Taris Green was one of the truly elite and until now opted to take private lessons from tutors. Her reasons? Unknown. But regardless, the girl was known to be kind and gentle, the perfect balance of supermodel and Mother Teresa.

This information was all new to Monson, of course. He happened to overhear a conversation about her in the hallways and even saw a rather risqué poster of her pulled up on someone’s laptop. Monson blushed crimson at the thought of it and then immediately scolded himself for blushing. He sighed. Monson was well aware of his appearance and less-than-desirable social status.  So why would this girl go out of her way to talk to him? He just did not understand it.

Monson forced himself to abandon his surveillance activities when the tap of chalk hitting a chalkboard became too distracting. Mr. Gatt was beginning his lecture. Wait; Mr. Gatt said he was going to take roll. Did Monson miss it? Monson hoped fervently that Mr. Gatt didn’t count him absent.  He looked to the board and saw three words written in a neat scroll:

Fact. Truth. Belief.

“I want all of you to take out a piece of paper,” Mr. Gatt said, turning towards them.

They did so with a great deal of shuffling. 

“Is everyone ready? Good.” He looked at the class and, grabbing one of his posters, turned his back to them again, saying, “Write the definition of these three words.” He pointed at each.

Fact, truth, belief. Huh?
thought Monson, studying his own paper where the three words were written.
What do those words mean?
If he was being honest with himself, he had never really thought about what those words meant. He just knew.  Monson looked at Mr. Gatt. A poster was now hanging from the top of the chalkboard. It looked like a reproduction of an oil painting. An old one, probably 17
th
century, though Monson couldn’t say for sure. He had recently watched a History Channel special about painters through the ages, and this painting reminded him of some of the works on that program from that period. Monson looked closer, leaning as far forward in his chair as he could.  The picture depicted an older man standing pleasantly in his frame. He was wearing a funny pointed hat that was midnight blue and accented with golden trim. A long white beard with streaks of silver hung to mid-chest and contrasted nicely with a star-covered robe of the same color as the hat. The man leaned against a wall with a very serene look on his face.  Monson heard Taris breath out of the corner of her mouth.

“He looks like a wizard.” She looked amused.

Monson did not say anything but scrutinized the picture more closely. It did look like a wizard, however, Monson was saved the trouble of guessing further when Mr. Gatt spoke.

“Mr. Peter Shaarin.” Mr. Gatt spoke softly but it sounded like a command. “Will you tell me, perchance, what you wrote down for the word
fact
?”

Monson heard a boy with a heavy accent speak but was unable to make out the words. Monson was not the only one. Other people in the class must have missed it as well, as many looked confused.   Monson strained his ears listening to the boy named Peter speak again, louder this time.

“A fact is something that actually exists. Something observable, you could say.”  He spoke with a thickly accented voice. Wanting to place a name with a face, Monson actually stood up slightly hoping to see Peter, but to no avail, as the boy’s back was to him. This problem solved itself when Mr. Gatt next spoke to Peter.

“Excellent! That is as good as any definition I have heard. Will you come and write your answer on the board?”

As Mr. Gatt held out a piece of chalk, Peter reluctantly stood and walked forward, taking the chalk. He wrote his definition in neat curlicue handwriting under the word
fact
. He handed the chalk back and returned to his seat. Monson recognized him instantly. He was one of the boys who had held him up in the halls earlier that day. Monson felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. This could be bad if some of those other boys were in here as well.

“Derek,” Mr. Gatt gestured towards the middle of the front row of students. “What about you? What is your definition of truth?”

A smoothly arrogant voice shot out from the rows of students. Monson grimaced; he knew that voice. Derek was already answering.

“I think truth is a relative concept; there is no absolute truth or fact. But if I had to come to a real definition then I would say truth means
conformity
with fact or reality. To follow truth is to follow fact or reality.”

Monson gaped at the answer. It was deep and insightful. Derek had come across as such an idiot back in the hallway. It was quite obvious that he was not. Mr. Gatt also looked pleased with the answer.

“Interesting answer, Mr. Dayton. Will you write that on the board?”

Like Peter, Derek moved to the board and wrote out his answer.  He turned back toward the students and started to walk to his seat, his eyes scanning the room. He stopped suddenly, almost comically, as he gazed upon Monson. His gaze flickered and an angry flush washed over his face. Monson’s gaze dropped and he focused on Mr. Gatt’s voice.

“How about you, Miss Green? Please round out our definitions.”

The mention of Taris’ name had noticeable effect on the room, as the students tensed. Taris either did not notice or did not care, as she appeared unruffled, her expression playful, a sassy smile continuing to the edges of full lips. She stood up and moved to the front of the classroom, well aware that every boy in the room was staring at her with hearts in their eyes, while the girls did their best to maintain their self-confidence in the midst of royalty. She took the chalk from Mr. Gatt smiling, giving him a full blast of her charm. He smiled but rolled his eyes slightly. She wrote one word on the board.