The Finalists, page 7
Emily exhales a short breath. “And the police can’t really hear or see us, can they?”
I see her point. Which is a bit unsettling. “Chief said he’d keep an eye on things.”
“Will he, though?” Emily asks. “I mean, he’s so far away. It’s almost like he wants us on our own in here. He didn’t even step inside. He seemed happy to lock us in.”
“Do you want to come to the dining room?” I ask.
I know I sound like I’m speaking to a small child, but I’m continually struck by how young and vulnerable the students seem. It’s always a mistake on my part to look at them and assume they’re living happy, carefree lives. They have pressures too, ones I need to be aware of.
“Yes,” she says. “Okay.”
“Try to block out the stuff about the Hyde family and their past,” I say. “And if you don’t like one of the other students, focus on this opportunity.”
“Yeah, that’s what I want to do.”
We go into the dining room, and Emily takes the last open seat at the far end of the table.
The students are still discussing their primitive writing implements. All except Natalia. She stands at the front of the room, talking to Nicholas Hyde. I should say, she stands there listening to Nicholas Hyde. He’s explaining something to her, ticking points off by touching the index finger of one hand against the fingers of the other. Natalia is scowling, her large eyes narrowed and her cheeks flushed, but she stands in place while he talks.
Just as I start over, Natalia turns and goes to her seat, saying, “Why should that matter?” She continues to scowl, and no one says anything to her once she’s sitting.
“I can’t even read my own handwriting,” Duffy says, and the others laugh.
“That’s okay,” Nicholas says. “I’m the same way. We’ll manage.”
“Are we able to get up and use the restroom?” Milo asks. “That tea . . .”
“Of course,” I say. “Everything is carefully controlled but not sadistic.” I laugh, but no one else does. “The restroom is out in the hallway near the kitchen. At the back of the house. There’s another near the front.”
I expect Milo or someone else to avail themselves of the facilities, but they don’t. They remain in their seats, pens in hands, faces eager and tense.
Nicholas places his briefcase on a marble-topped side table. He opens it and reaches in like a magician, bringing out a stack of papers and the book of bylaws. He opens the book and scribbles something in the back of it, his jaw set hard while he writes. Should he be writing in that book at all, other than signing his name? Isn’t it like defacing a Bible?
Then again, it’s his Bible. And I suppose there’s something powerful about a book being passed from one generation to the next, about everything being written down in plain pen on paper. I can’t name a single one of my great-grandparents, let alone go back a century and a half.
When he’s finished writing, he grabs the stack of papers and turns to the room, saying, “Every year the Hyde family writes a new prompt for the exam to reflect our ever-changing world. This year’s prompt is a simple one.” He clears his throat and squints at the page. “ ‘Please write an essay in which you explain your feelings on the future of education in twenty-first-century America. Give specific examples of technologies you think might play a role in future learning processes.’ ”
“Technologies?” Sydney says like she’s never heard the word before.
Captain Stephenson’s hand is up. When Nicholas nods at him, he asks, “Sir, how long is this essay required to be?”
“As long as it takes to make your point,” Nicholas says.
Captain Stephenson looks unsatisfied with the answer. Emily’s face scrunches as well. She shakes her head. Milo’s mouth is twisted like he’s trying to solve a vexing puzzle. Duffy taps his pen against the table.
“Are there other questions before you begin?” Nicholas asks.
Natalia raises her hand. “We may refer to other works or sources we know about, but because we don’t have them with us, we can’t utilize the correct citation. Will we suffer a penalty if we can’t precisely cite the source?”
Milo’s mouth twists even more.
“Don’t worry about that,” Nicholas says. “We understand the constraints you’re working under.”
“So we have to use outside sources?” Sydney asks. “I’m not sure I’m clear.”
“No,” Nicholas says. “Just do your own thing. And write your best essay.” He quickly moves on before anyone else can ask a question. “Great. Why doesn’t everyone get started?”
He looks at his watch, and his eyebrows go up when he does. Is it later or earlier than he thought? “It’s now nine eighteen. Lunch is served at noon, so you have more than two and a half hours to write. Make the best use of that time. Okay? And you’re off.”
13
THE STUDENTS BEGIN TO write.
The sound of pens scratching against paper fills the room.
I allow myself a sigh of relief. The process has started. Events are underway. All the other stuff—the protestors, the brick, the tensions among the students, Ezekiel Hyde’s ugly war record—fades away.
Nicholas slides his papers and book back into his briefcase, shuts the clasp, and spins the lock. He leaves the briefcase on the sideboard and comes over to me. His speechifying is finished for the moment. He has performed his duties on behalf of the Hyde family. Year number 152 of the scholarship is underway. Shouldn’t it all be downhill from here?
But his lips are pressed in a tight line as he walks over. He scratches his head with his pale fingers.
“I need to go get some more tea,” he says. “I expected it to have cleared away my cobwebs by now, but it hasn’t. You want anything?”
“I’ll go with you.”
Nicholas checks the scribbling students. “Are we . . .”
“They’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t think the bylaws say we have to watch over them every second. Besides, your dad and I used to slip out for some tea when he ran the show.”
“Oh, really?”
“Sure. Call it another tradition.”
Nicholas shrugs, his face slightly irritated by my desire to tag along. Can I get a moment of peace? he seems to be thinking.
His father is dead, so no one can catch me in the lie I just made up. Ted and I never went out for tea during the written part of the process. But I’m fighting for my job—and the college’s life—so I’m willing to try anything.
ABC. Always be closing.
I let Nicholas lead the way. The students barely raise their eyes as we leave the dining room and go back to the parlor. Dirty teacups litter the area around the tea service, so Nicholas reaches for a clean one and hands it to me. He offers to pour again, and I accept, the liquid still steaming as it comes out. Then he pours for himself and reaches out for one of the remaining cucumber sandwiches and stuffs it in his mouth. He chews methodically, his mouth slightly open, his lips making a mild smacking sound. I hate cucumbers with a passion and settle for one of the cookies.
“Well,” I say, lifting my cup, “here’s to a successful start.”
“Cheers,” he says. “I guess we’ll still do our bourbon shot later. I wanted to have already drained one.”
“That’s right. Buffalo Trace. A Hyde family tradition.”
Nicholas stuffs another sandwich into his mouth. A smear of butter clings to his upper lip.
“Was Natalia okay?” I ask. “You two seemed to be having quite the conversation.”
“Who? Oh, her.” He shakes his head. “She’s quite the little firecracker, isn’t she? I had to set her straight about a few things.”
“Was it the war-criminal stuff?”
“Among other things. Do you know her very well?”
“Not really. I don’t get to know the students as well as I did when I taught.”
“These kids.” He waves his hand, dismissing a whole generation not much younger than himself. “They’ll learn. Maybe the hard way, but they’ll learn. That’s the thing, though. You want the right kind of person to win the award.”
“ ‘The right kind’?”
“Well, it’s a big honor. The person represents the college. The family. Someone like that Sydney, you know? She seems like the real deal.”
“The students are all impressive.”
“Sure, but some are more impressive than others.”
“Speaking of those kids . . . I just wanted to use this time to remind you about the One Hundred More Initiative. We talked about it back in the fall, and the whole administration is really excited about it.”
“The what?”
“The One Hundred More Initiative.” I wait for recognition to interrupt his chewing. It doesn’t. “The scholarship program designed to bring one hundred additional students from underrepresented groups to campus. Our enrollment is currently just under one thousand as a college. If we could add one hundred more students and if they were from underrepresented groups, then the college would win on multiple fronts. More students. More diversity. We’d probably get a lot of positive national attention, and then the number of students applying would grow. It would all feed on itself. Plus, it would be the right thing to do.”
“The right thing to do?”
“To try to bring about greater equality of opportunity.”
Nicholas swallows but doesn’t wipe the butter off his lip. And I desperately want him to. I decide it would be poor form for me to reach out and do it like I’m his mother.
“Sounds good to me,” he says.
A speck of food flies out of his mouth when he says this and goes over my shoulder. Better than dodging bricks and bottles.
“Great. I’m glad you feel that way. President Chan is really eager to meet with you about it. She told me she’s free for dinner tonight or anytime you’re in town this weekend or next week.”
He takes a big swallow of tea and picks up yet another sandwich. But he doesn’t throw this one into his mouth. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Those protestors outside, what do you think of them?”
I drink my own tea, hoping to buy time. I sense I’m being tested. And I’m not sure of the right answer.
“Well,” I say, “they’re young, as you pointed out. They’re passionate about their causes, and they want to express themselves. Hyde College has always believed in educating the whole person and encouraging students to think for themselves.”
“Critical thinking, right? That’s one of those education buzzwords.”
“Right.”
He points to me with the hand holding the cucumber sandwich. “It’s different if it’s your family being protested against. I mean, how would you feel if someone lobbed a brick at your relative’s house? Or your own house?”
“I see your point. Of course I’d obviously be upset. But those protestors are a very small minority of our student body. Look at those six students in there. They’re the best and the brightest of Hyde College.”
“Would you give money to the people who lobbed a brick at your relative’s house? See, that’s the position I’m in.” He continues to gesture with his sandwich. And he continues to have the butter smear on his lip. “I’m in charge of the family now that Dad is gone. And I’m inundated with letters and e-mails and calls from charities and worthy causes. And this is the only place where they throw bricks at me. It’s the only place where one of the employees—and now one of the students—is calling my great-great-great-great-grandfather a war criminal. So maybe the college doesn’t want our money anymore.”
I manage to keep my grip on the teacup steady, even though everything is loose and shaky inside. Comportment. I try to manage my own comportment.
I nod, putting on the sympathetic look I break out for recalcitrant donors. The nod says, I hear you. I see you. I understand.
“These are certainly tough times for everyone. Economically. Socially. We live in a complicated world. That’s why a legacy like Hyde College matters so much. It’s built out of solid rock. Like a granite mountain.”
Nicholas’s eyes narrow. He isn’t sure how to take me. Am I putting him on? Or am I making a sincere sales pitch?
Both, I think. It’s always both.
“Your name is on this college. Your family’s name.” It’s my turn to point. “And you are going to be the guy to guide your family through the bulk of the twenty-first century. That’s your personal legacy.”
He studies me for a moment. Mercifully, he lifts his index finger and swipes the butter off his upper lip. Did he know it was there the whole time? Was he leaving it there to torment me? To distract me?
“I understand what you’re saying,” he says. “I do. And I know how much this place meant to my family . . . to my dad anyway. I get it.”
“I figured you would.”
A measure of relief passes through me like a cooling wave.
Nicholas extends the finger that wiped the butter off his lip in my direction. “But I don’t give a good goddamn about—”
Something crashes to the floor in the dining room.
We both spin.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Sounds like a chair broke.”
“Just—let me go—”
I take one step, and Duffy’s at the parlor door.
“It’s Milo,” he says. “He’s on the floor. He’s having a seizure or something.”
14
I SPRINT INTO THE dining room first, and Nicholas is right behind me.
Milo is on the floor, his body seizing. His legs kick, and his torso spasms.
Captain Stephenson is kneeling next to him. He’s tilted Milo’s head to keep his airway clear.
The other students stand back, giving them both room and air. Sydney has her hand to her mouth, tears in her eyes. Natalia stands next to Emily, her arm around Emily’s back.
I drop to my knees. “What happened, Captain?”
“We were writing—he jumped up, grabbed his throat. Then he went to the floor. Seizing.” The captain lifts Milo’s wrist. “He’s not wearing a medical bracelet or anything like that.”
“Do any of you guys know? Does he have a medical condition?”
My eyes land on Sydney, since she and Milo walked up together. She shakes her head. “No, he was totally healthy.”
“No, he wasn’t.” It’s Natalia. “He passed out in sophomore seminar one day. Just out cold on the floor. Somebody said he had an irregular heartbeat or something like that.”
“He what?” Sydney asks.
“Is he high?” I ask. “Did he take something?”
Sydney shakes her head again. “Milo doesn’t do drugs. I know that.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” It’s Nicholas. He comes closer, stops on the other side of Milo, looking down at the captain and me. “What happened to him? He was perfectly fine. We were talking. . . .”
“It’s a seizure of some kind,” I say.
“Maybe . . .” Captain Stephenson is leaning closer to Milo, whose breathing is becoming more labored.
“Oh, no. Look,” Duffy says. “His face . . .”
I see it too. Milo’s skin is changing color, slowly becoming blue as his eyes roll back in his head. His lips move as a wet, choking sound comes from his throat.
“He’s dying,” Emily says.
“No.” It’s Sydney. “No no no no no no.”
Frothy white liquid starts to come out of Milo’s mouth. The movement of his chest slows . . .
And slows . . .
. . . and then stops completely.
Captain Stephenson leans forward. He places his hands on Milo’s chest, one on top of the other, and starts compressing.
I lean in as well. I slap Milo’s cheeks, one side and then the other. Harder and harder.
“Come on, Milo. Come on. Stay with us, okay, buddy? Stay with us.”
I slap and I slap.
“Can you hear me? Milo, say something. Can you hear me?”
I don’t know how long the captain compresses Milo’s chest. Or how long I lean over him and try to revive him.
At some point, Nicholas hands me a glass of water, and I dash it into Milo’s face, trying to shock him back to life.
Like we’re in a movie.
If only we were in a movie . . .
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. How did this happen?”
The captain keeps going. Sweat beads on his face, a drop running down to the tip of his nose and falling onto Milo.
Onto his body. Because that’s what he is now.
A body.
There’s no more movement. No choking or breathing or gasping.
His eyes are half closed, the whites showing.
“Milo, come on,” I say, but my voice is faint. Empty.
“Damn it all to hell,” Duffy says.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”
The captain finally stops. He leans back on his heels and lets out a deep breath of resignation. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, like he’s just run a race.
“I’m sorry, sir. We’ve lost him. I tried . . . I wish . . .”
Milo is so young. So promising. As they all are. Not much older than my own daughters. Could his life be extinguished before our very eyes like that?
My eyes start to burn with tears. I think about Milo’s parents. His family. His friends.
What will they do when they hear the news? What could devastate a parent more than this? They’ll be broken.
But I need to take control of things. I need to be the strength here. The leader.
The students need me.
I wipe my eyes and prepare to stand.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I think we have a problem. I mean, a bigger one than just this young man dying.”
