A couple of hours later, Mary was following Conklin down the stairs to the basement of Main where the students' files were kept, trying not to gape as he led her down several twisting, concrete corridors and, finally, to a large metal door. It looked like the entrance to a vault.
"The students…well, they try to break in here every so often," the vice principal elucidated as he bent down to peer at the lock. Licking his lips, he started turning it, "and often they succeed. Amazingly, no one has ever tried to torch the files we keep, but they have no compunction about stealing them. Always a bit embarrassing when the FBI or the CIA comes calling for former student's files and we discover no trace." He shrugged, twisting the dial of the lock, leaving Mary to ponder his casual mention of the CIA and FBI as if they were regular visitors. "Still, we do our best. I change the lock combination every month, with the help of a locksmith who comes up special from Springfield, but even so, there is a lot of, shall we say, talent amongst some of the kids," he looked at Mary as she heard the last tumbler fall into place and the sound of the lock being released inside the massive iron door, "as you will soon see."
Gripping the iron bar holding it in place, Conklin shoved downwards, then pulled, opening the door with a whoosh of well used hinges and revealing a large room filled with what appeared to be dozens of filing cabinets.
"The file room," he smiled, sweeping an arm out to indicate she enter. Mary raised her eyebrows in response, then did as she was bid, stepping into the room.
In the center, a lonely, small wooden table and accompanying wooden chair sat, decorated only by a cheap lamp. Surrounding it on all sides, and stretching back in narrow stacks all the way to the walls, were the filing cabinets, each about four feet tall and containing four sets of drawers. Mary quickly surmised based upon the labels, that they were organized by year, and then alphabetically by student. The most recent years were closest to the table, then stretched back from there.
She chose a year at random, the current juniors, and the letters L-M. Conklin stood patiently next to her, letting her explore the system as she rifled through them. He smiled slightly when he saw her face grow puzzled at the fact that there were two different colors of folders. The bulk of the folders were manila, but, occasionally, one was red.
Mary withdrew the first red one she found—she didn't have to go very far.
"Larabee, Christopher," she said, looking at Conklin as she held it up. "Why is his folder red?"
"The red files indicate students who are chronically in trouble, or who have issues beyond our control. It usually means the child is close to expulsion." He indicated the folder in her hand with his chin, "And you have the luck of picking one of the most insubordinate students currently at the academy. Go on," he eyed her again, and she didn't like the amused glint in his eye—clearly this was a student Conklin paid close attention too. He sneered, "take a look at our famous Mr. Larabee's file."
Mary grimaced, then, gripping it more tightly, turned and walked over to the small table. Flipping on the light, she sat in the wooden chair and opened the file, finding it fairly thick with paper and notes. As she did so, Conklin walked over to some of the other cabinets and pulled out other red files, bringing them over and placing them on the table just to the left of Larabee's file. By the time he'd finished, Mary was already engrossed.
Inside the folder was a picture of a tall, square chinned young man with a shock of light colored hair, green eyes bordering on hazel…and holding a name plate.
It was a mug shot.
Her lips slightly parted, Mary skimmed the boy's rap sheet, attached to the back of the picture, copied from a police file. Assault, battery, grand theft auto, assault with a deadly weapon….
"Nice boy," she whispered, amazed at the fierce pride she could see in the boy's eyes.
"His father is a very powerful, very rich man who hates scandal. Chris Larabee is here instead of in jail because his father wanted him buried and away from the public eye. Interestingly, he sent the boy's best friend with him as well, as Chris refused to come unless Larabee senior got Buck Wimington off as well." Conklin slid another of the red folders towards Mary, who opened it. Inside was another mug shot, but, unlike Larabee's, the boy in this picture was smiling broadly, even in profile. Long, wavy brown hair topped this boy's head, and blue eyes filled with laughter added to an appearance of genuine good-naturedness. Mary lifted up the picture to read the rap sheet—it was just as long as Larabee's—except it lacked the assault with a deadly weapon. She then tilted her head when another picture slipped out of the file, one which showed Chris sitting on a rock and staring out calmly on over a mountain lake while Buck Wilmington sat near him, smiling broadly for the camera. They appeared to be about 10 in this picture.
"Been together a while, have they?" she smiled thinly, tilting her head.
"Years, undoubtedly. The two boys arrived together when they were 14, as freshman. Chris turned 17 over Christmas, and Buck will turn 17 in a couple of days."
"They did all this before they were 14?"
"No, the grand theft auto…was last summer. They stole one of the teacher's cars—Mr. Preston Wingo. He taught English and poetry—had an odd habit of quoting Robert Herrick poems wherever he went—and he had a cherry red Mazda Miata. Anyway, Chris, Buck and two more boys thought it would be a blast to borrow it during the summer session, without permission of course."
"I see."
"Mr. Wingo has quit, as you may have guessed, which is why he wasn't on the roster I sent you. And the boys didn't go to jail because, once again, Larabee senior shelled out the money to put them on probation instead. I also understand Mr. Wingo has a nice set of diamond cufflinks now and a new car. Amazing really."
Mary hummed, looking back at Chris's folder. She pushed a few papers aside, noting with interest that the boy had very good grades in English and history, but that his math and science grades were low. Glancing over at Buck's file, she noted that his grades were about average all around.
She flipped past a few more papers, then paused as she found the personal history.
"Oh my," she whispered, seeing the short description of Chris's family history. His mother, Sarah, and his younger brother, Adam, were both killed in a house fire when Chris was 12. There was suspicion that arson was involved. Chris would have been there, and likely killed as well, but he had snuck out to go to a monster truck rally with Buck Wilmington. Larabee senior had also snuck out—to be with his mistress.
"They say Chris Larabee's problems began with that fire," Conklin supplied, sounding more and more like a gossipy fishwife, "that he started to go after people his father worked with, accusing them of trying to kill his father and his father's family—which is where most of the assault and battery charges stem from. He also has never stopped wearing black since that day. Buck Wilmington's convictions, by the by, are most likely because he was often with Mr. Larabee, though, knowing the boy as I do, I can't really imagine him instigating anything. In fact, I've often seen Buck trying to calm Chris down when he gets angry. He is usually the only one who can."
"I see," Mary said, her voice soft. She looked at the other red folders he had place down. "And who are these others?"
"The rest of Larabee's gang," Conklin said. He glanced at the top file, then placed it down on top of Chris's.
Mary opened it, and frowned.
"A freshman?" she looked up at Conklin incredulously. "You're joking. He hangs out with boys younger than him?"
"And older, though there is no question as to who the boss is amongst their little group. But, before you start judging the children based upon their ages, Mrs. Travis, you must remember that most of the children here have seen more in their short lives than I hope to ever see in my lifetime. That one," he looked at the folder in Mary's hands, "for example, is a very old 14 year old boy," Conklin sighed, looking a little sad for the first time Mary had seen him. "His name is Vin Tanner. He is here because his grandfather, maternal grandfather, can't stand the sight of him."
Mary frowned, looking at the picture of a boy standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon, looking out into the distance. There was something very lonely about the shot. "Where did you get the picture?"
"We ask that all students supply a picture. Chris's father provided the one containing both Chris and Buck, assuming it would do for both. Young Tanner doesn't like having his picture taken, so this was all his grandfather could supply."
Mary frowned, discovering yet another mug shot and rap sheet, this one including burglary, battery and reckless endangerment.
"He is a very accurate shot with a rifle," Conklin said, seeing her pause on the last crime. "He reportedly went to a horse show in Oklahoma, his home state, and used a pea shooter to knock people's hats off. You know those grand hats women wear to those things…?"
Mary's eyebrows perked, trying not to show that the notion made her want to smile, "just their hats?"
"Just their hats. He probably would have gotten away with it, since most folks probably thought it was just the wind, but he was using a sight and some cop caught its glint. They thought he was a sniper. Cleared out the whole stadium because they thought it was a terrorist."
Mary's half smile vanished completely at Conklin's use of the word that was now a synonym now for rampant, unchecked fear. Oh.
"He probably would have been sent to a detention hall, but his grandfather pulled strings. Tanner was sent here instead."
"How did he join up with Larabee? Seems odd that a Junior would think to hang out with a Freshman."
"Ah, well, that's an interesting story, and one that involves this boy here." Conklin pushed forward another red folder. Mary opened it, surprised to see a rather sweet looking young black man smiling back at her. There were only a handful of papers in the folder, and no rap sheet this time. Mostly, it was just a list of grades, ones she could see were very high in science in particular.
"Nathan Jackson," she said, reading the name on the folder. "I do not see anything particularly dangerous in this file, to warrant it being red, Mr. Conklin."
"Not that you can see, no. But plenty that can be inferred, Mrs. Travis." He licked his lips and settled on the edge of the table, "Nathan Jackson has what I would call an unhealthy interest in our infirmary. Now Belinda…you met her upstairs, short, brown haired woman? Her husband, Stephen--the tall man with blond hair and a ruddy face—is our chemistry and botany teacher…." At Mary's nod, he continued, "Yes, well, Belinda Greene is our nurse. She runs the infirmary. Now, Belinda, she likes Nathan. She says he wants to be a doctor and so she lets him help her out in the infirmary." He snorted, "In my opinion, she's a very naïve woman. Jackson is not the first boy who has used the infirmary to gain access to the medicine cabinet, if you know what I mean, but Belinda is new here….she'll learn soon enough not to trust the students here." He shook his head, ignoring the furrowing of Mary's brow at his dismissive attitude. "Frankly, just spending as much time there as he does warrants Mr. Jackson a red file, well, that, and is connection to Larabee."
Mary looked at the boy's picture again, seeing nothing but innocence in his face. She wondered what had happened to bring someone like Nathan Jackson here. She was about to ask when Conklin started talking again.
"See," Conklin was fingering one of the two last unopened file now, "on the day that Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington arrived here, one of the other gangs—Lucas James' and his crowd, you'll read about them soon enough—had decided to have some fun with Jackson. Nathan is, as you can tell from his grades, a smart boy. Too smart for this school, really, and when the other students find out you're smart, they don't like it. They ambushed Jackson at the infirmary, when one of them pretended to be sick, then dragged him out the back and towards the track fields." He frowned, agreeing with Mary's bleak expression. "They have a knack for avoiding the teacher's eyes, Mrs. Travis. You'll soon learn that. Going out the back of the infirmary was pretty clever, considering Lucas James' lack of imagination. Anyway…" he looked down at the folder of Larabee again, "Larabee was out for a walk, exploring I suppose. Buck was not with him, goodness knows why. The two are usually a matched set, unless Wilmington spots a pretty girl…but that’s another story. Larabee came around the back of the school just in time to see Jackson pulled from the infirmary. At the same time, the other boy," he tapped Vin Tanner's folder, "was returning from a walk in the woods, where he used to disappear to when he first got here. Now, from the way I heard about it later from the James' gang, Tanner and Larabee approached them together. Tanner had picked up a big stick, and Chris Larabee just had his fists. Between the two of them, they fought all six of James' cronies—putting two in the hospital, by the way, which is where Tanner's battery charges come from—and got Jackson out of there. The three of them have been stuck together ever since."
"Were any of them punished for this?" Mary asked coldly. "I do not like the idea of these boys taking matters into their own hands, Mr. Conklin. One of them should have gone to fetch an adult."
Conklin pursed his lips, not quite meeting her eyes. "Well, yes, obviously, they were punished. Larabee and Tanner were put in detention for a month, and Jackson was prohibited from helping out at the infirmary for a month."
Mary waited for the rest, then frowned.
"And Lucas James and his 'gang' as you put it? What punishment did they receive?"
"Oh, well, some of the boys got detention as well, and others confined during their dorms during free time for a month." Conklin was looking down at the folders again, still not meeting her eyes.
"And Lucas James himself?"
"Well, now, see," Conklin licked his lips, "Mrs. Travis…." He sighed, "Mrs. Travis, Lucas James is Stuart James' nephew." He stopped talking, as if this explained everything, looking up to meet her eyes.
She frowned further, "So?"
"So…we have an understanding with Mr. James about Lucas. After all, Mr. James is one of our most influential trustees…," he shrugged and looked away.
When he didn't elaborate further, Mary leaned back in the chair. After a moment, she nodded. "I see," she said quietly.
Conklin's shoulders relaxed, obviously believing her words to mean that she wouldn't attempt to stir anything up.
"I also understand a little better why Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner felt it necessary to take matters into their own hands," she added, her voice even softer. Conklin looked up, not liking the underlying menace he heard there. His face looked pained.
"Now see here, Mrs. Travis, sometimes we have to do what is best for the school…."
She held up a hand at his annoyed tone, "Save it, Mr. Conklin. I would rather not hear excuses right now." She looked at the two unopened files, "Now, who are they?"
Conklin's face had reddened, but the pink lessened somewhat at the mention of the two unopened files. He nodded, "Ah yes." He pushed the first to Mary, and she opened it.
"Josiah Sanchez," she read, looking at the picture of a long faced, but smiling young man sitting Buddha-style on a Chinese style black bench. He had light brown, close cropped hair and vivid blue eyes, "another junior. He's 18 already? A little old for a junior," she looked up curiously.
"Sanchez's father was a missionary. The boy was home schooled for many years while they moved from continent to continent, but not in, as it turned out, very traditional subjects. He is very well read, something which I believe to be a result of his own initiative, but his knowledge of mathematics and, in particular, the sciences, were severely lacking when he came here at 14, and this put him back a grade when he was tested. His father explained to me, when he dropped Josiah off here, that, in his opinion, the only science was the bible and that he did not want his boy taught any of the pagan religions of," Conklin smiled slightly, "biology, chemistry, physics and, hell, western civilization prior to Christ's birth."
Mary arched an eyebrow, "Are you serious?"
"Josiah himself, however, is a voracious reader. And, frankly, Massachusetts law requires science classes. Now, of course, we do our best to meet each parent's requirements for their children, but the law is something else. So we worked out a deal with his father--Josiah attends the science classes, but we do not test him in them, so the boy does not have to learn anything if he doesn't want to. We, of course, also allow him to do anything he wants on his own time, including studying the sciences, but the school is not officially affiliated with it." He gave a small smile, "He is currently studying for the Biology AP exams, and Stephen Greene tells me that Josiah is one of the hardest working boys in his class. It’s a shame, though, that he is not as interested in math. He tends to just do poorly."
"So odd!" Mary said, looking now at Josiah's grades. She noted the "P" next to the science classes. She also noted the low grades in the math classes, and the nearly perfect A's in English, history and other classes. She also noted he was on the school's wrestling team.
"We do not mention the wrestling to Josiah's father either," Conklin said softly. "Not that it really matters anymore."
"Oh?" Mary looked a little deeper in the file. She stopped when she got to the personal pages, and, with more understanding, whispered another "Oh."
Josiah's father had been committed to an insane asylum a year ago, for nearly killing his daughter, Josiah's sister. Hannah Sanchez was also in the hospital…another mental institution. Mary took in a shaky breath as she read a little of the young girl's history. Josiah's mother, meanwhile, had died five years previously, while the family was in Bangladesh—arsenic poisoning from drinking the water.
"Lord," she said, "what a sad story."
"Yes, well, I'm afraid most of the students here have sad stories, Mrs. Travis."
Mary nodded, sighing. "So how did Josiah get linked to…."
"Through Nathan. The two of them became friends on Nathan's first day here. Nathan has a habit of getting on people's bad sides—in part because he can have a very scathing tongue filled with self-righteousness. Josiah, like Chris and Vin, got Nathan out of a scrape, and the two have been close ever since. When Nathan hooked up with Chris and Vin, Josiah became part of the group as well."
Mary nodded, sliding the folder to one side and shutting it. She gathered the other open files together, put them to one side, and looked at the last folder in front of Conklin with raised eyebrows. Conklin slid it over, opening it to reveal another freshman, only slightly older than Vin Tanner.
"Well," Mary said, looking at the photo, "this is different."
It was a publicity shot—the boy in the picture was leaning forward over a chair, a smirk on his face, which looked to be all dimples. He had light brown hair and very clear green eyes, the color of prism glass. They seemed to be looking right through Mary, and she looked up at Conklin.
"Flip it over," he suggested. Mary's eyebrows lifted again, but she did flip it over. The other side had the boy's "credentials."
"Ethan Sargent, 10 years old, film…film?....film credits include…." Mary read the short list, frowning slightly at the names of movies she had never heard of. Following it was a list of TV credits. And then a handful of theater credits. "Goodness," she said, "remarkable. He appears to be a little celebrity."
"It's all false."
"What?" Mary looked up, confused.
"Look at the name on the folder."
Still bewildered, Mary tilted her head to read the name on the folder. Her lips pursed.
"Ezra Standish," she read.
"Keep looking," Conklin prompted.
Mary grimaced, opening the folder and flipping past the "publicity" shot. There was another photo, this one from a newspaper clipping, but this one was of "child genius Edward Stevens, son of Marjorie Stevens, winner of the New Orleans gifted children award." Right beneath it was another clipping, this one for "Evan Strong, winner of the Commonwealth of Virginia short story award for grades 3-5, with his mother Margaret." Rifling deeper, Mary found more notes and clippings, including several marriage notices for a blond woman, and in each one the names were different, albeit always the same initials.
"Simpson, Spencer, Smith….," she read off slowly, the light dawning, "how exactly do we know that his name is even Standish? Or even Ezra?"
"Well, the last name is a question, since we're not certain, but it is the name we were given for him at the time. However, with respect to the first name, we do have this...." Reaching over, her, Conklin flipped to the back, where an old faded piece of paper revealed a small photo. Sitting in it was the same blond woman holding a baby, and a man standing over them who's face was turned downwards to look at the infant in the blond woman's arms, and the caption: "Patrick and Maude welcome little Ezra to our community, making our population now 2,501."
"Where is this from?" Mary asked curiously.
"No idea. Maude, his mother, had this in a pile of papers when they arrested her two years ago in South Carolina for fraud. Her husband at the time, and Ezra's current reluctant benefactor, as part of the divorce settlement and in return for Maude's promise to keep his name out of the papers, let her off the charges and shipped the papers and the boy up here. He has agreed to pay for his tuition, room and board until he graduates or is expelled, whichever comes first. The mother disappeared."
"Ah."
"He's very intelligent, excels at all his subjects, particularly math, which he clearly find boring most of the time. When you meet him, you'll also learn that he talks like a Harvard professor and dresses like he's posing for GQ. He's a snob, rude, recalcitrant, obnoxious, and, generally, very few of the students like him. Most hate him."
Mary was watching Conklin, "except, I suppose, for Chris Larabee?"
"Oh no, most of the time Larabee can't stand him either," Conklin chuckled, "but he's also fiercely protective of the boy, as he is of all of the boys I've shown you. No, Ezra is a part of his group, albeit reluctantly, because Vin Tanner and he are joined at the hip."
"Tanner?" Mary looked over at the folder, recalling the scruffy clothes, the long hair, the loner appearance…and the rap sheet. "What on earth would…."
"Honestly? All I can tell you is that the two of them seem to fit together. Everything Tanner is not, Ezra is, and everything Ezra is not, Tanner is, like yin and yang. They arrived here on the same day, starting 8th grade together, and, through no reason that I can understand, they became instant friends. About the only thing that they have in common," and here Conklin's expression soured, "is that they have the same sense of humor. They're both pranksters—two of the best in the school. Trust me," he sneered, "they're very good at it."
Mary arched her eyebrows at the comment, then frowned. "Might they throw a stinkbomb into my office?"
Conklin snorted, "No. That'd be beneath them. That was probably done by…someone else."
"Like Lucas James?" Mary asked, sensing the omission.
Conklin just shrugged. Mary's lips pursed, but she did not press the issue, looking down again at Ezra's folder. She noticed the nearly straight A's across the board, and then the notes written by exasperated teachers regarding disruptive behavior, rudeness, and the like. She shook her head.
"Well, is that all of them?" She arched an eyebrow, "six boys?"
"For now," Conklin's expression darkened, "Though there may be a new boy – a 7th grader who has attached himself to Buck Wilmington. So far he has done nothing that I have seen to involve himself in the gang's usual shenanigans, but I don't expect that to last."
Mary nodded, "His name?"
"John Dunne, though he goes by JD. Scrawny boy with long black hair that covers his face and a history of hyperactivity and bouts of kleptomania." He snorted, "its interesting that we have medical terms for thieves and hysterical children now, isn't it?" His smile fell at Mary's bland expression. "Anyway," he straightened his tie, "JD's parents are dead, and it is a great aunt who sent him here, unable to deal with his…problems. She's an old woman who lives about forty miles from here on a large estate with no company but her butler. Sending JD solved the problem of needing to keep him close…as he has an inheritance she would like to cash in on…and not having to actually care for him. Naturally, she's donated to the school to see that he does…well, as well as a child like him can do."
"Mm," Mary shook her head. "Glad to know you're willing to give the boy a chance, Mr. Conklin."
Conklin sneered, not liking this woman already. "Well, I haven't built him a red file yet, if that's what you mean."
Mary just shrugged and looked around at the filing cabinets. "Well, so much for the Larabee gang," she looked up at him again, "How about showing me Lucas James's folder now?"
+ + + + + + +
Hiram Nechaus sighed, standing up from the wooden chair behind the desk, and looked down at his charges. There were twelve students in detention today, all of whom were serving their last day. He could see them shifting and watching him in anticipation, waiting for the word that they would be free.
All but one.
Chris Larabee sat near the window, his feet propped up on the air conditioning unit that, obviously, was not in use. The tall junior's eyes were staring through the frost covered glass at the sports fields, looking no more ill-at-ease than a napping old man on the deck of a cruise ship. The window was rimed with ice in leaf-like patterns, and Chris was as much staring at the window as he was the scene he could see through the cracks in the ice.
Hiram sighed, looking up at the clock above the door to the classroom, then down to the other end where his wife sat, reading a book.
Sensing his eyes on her, Annie looked up, pushing wisps of blond hair back behind her ears. She glanced up at the same clock, then nodded at him as it clicked 5:00.
"All right kids," Hiram intoned, "penance is over. You can head back to your dorms."
Cheers and whoops assailed him, as the students all bounded up out of their seats, slapping notebooks shut and smiling at each other. Annie shifted out of the way as they quickly ran out of the science room door, acting like reprieved prisoners. Well, since detention over the holidays meant they slept in the field house as well as stay here all day, perhaps the analogy wasn't too off.
With a sigh, she stood up and looked back at her husband.
Hiram was watching Chris Larabee.
The boy was still sitting very still, watching the outside.
"Mr. Larabee," Hiram spoke the name quietly, "it's time to leave. You're free to go."
Chris's eyes shifted to meet Hiram's, and the older man squinted a little at the darkness that shrouded the boy.
"You mean I've graduated?" Chris asked quietly.
Hiram gave a crooked smile, then shook his head. "Get out of here, Larabee. Go find your friends, and see if you can't avoid bruising your knuckles for a few days."
Chris stared at him a little while longer, then offered a half smile in return. Moving extra slowly, the boy stood up and nodded to both Hiram and Annie. Pulling his long black wool coat over his arms, he then grabbed the notebook he'd been using, and slid out of the room.
Annie blew the air out of her cheeks, unaware until that moment that she had been holding her breath. Chris Larabee made her nervous. She chuckled when she saw Hiram rubbing the back of his neck. She wasn't the only one.
"Two days until Winter Session starts," she said softly. "You ready?"
"Like a deer in headlights," Hiram replied cheekily. "Come on," he reached a hand towards her, "let's go home."
+ + + + + + +
Chris pushed through the double doors to the outside, eyes smarting at the whiteness of the snow and his cheeks stinging from the bite of the wind. Frowning, he stood a moment to get used to the change in atmosphere. As the doors slid shut behind him, he had to smile.
Buck walked forward, holding out a pair of sunglasses. Chris took them gratefully and put them on.
"Jake," Buck greeted quietly.
"Elwood," Chris replied, just as quietly.
"So what does that make me?" Josiah grinned, standing over to one side. He and Buck had come to meet Chris, while the others stayed back at the dorm, waiting for the pizza they'd ordered.
"Mr. Fabulous?" Buck grinned, then started to laugh. Patting Chris on the back, the two boys flanked him on either side as they walked back to the dorm.
"Okay," Chris said, not looking at either one of them, "I either expected all five of you, or none of you. When it's just the two of you, I get suspicious. What's up?"
Josiah's smile faltered slightly, while Buck huffed.
"Josiah's been thinking," Buck said quietly.
"Has he now," Chris said. "About what?"
"About the future," Josiah replied.
"Yeah," Chris nodded, turning his head to show he was looking at Josiah behind the sunglasses. "After you gave Nathan that anatomy book for Christmas, somehow I thought you might be."
The End
Continues in Seeking Solidarity
