Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
It goes on like that for several minutes. I’m an asshole, so I’m struggling not to laugh at his plight. The poor dude even leaves at one point and comes back to give it another go. Until Silas, either out of pity or boredom, finally gets everyone to shut up long enough for the housefather to say his piece.
“Seriously?” I whisper to Fenn, as Roger Swinney recites a list of rules. “Eleven o’clock curfew on weeknights?”
“Nah, it’s more like a loose suggestion. Just don’t get caught.”
“What about the headmaster? I’ve got a meeting with him later.”
If Mr. Swinney is any indication, the faculty around here doesn’t have a firm grip on the inmates. More like a truce.
“He’s not a pushover, but not like a hard ass, either. He’s the type who wants to be everyone’s guidance counselor.” Fenn rolls his eyes before his expression turns serious. “The only real rule—stay away from his daughters. He’ll have you on a spit if you go anywhere near them without his permission.”
When the locals grow restless, the housefather gives up trying to keep their attention and dismisses us all.
“Dinner out tonight?” Lawson offers as we head back to our rooms. “Announce ourselves to the townsfolk in proper fashion?”
Why do I get the impression for him that means nailing the blacksmith’s daughter on the church steps?
“Pass,” I tell them. “Maybe next time.”
“Remington is antisocial,” Fenn informs his buddies.
No, Remington just has research to do and would prefer some privacy.
But I keep that revelation to myself. These guys don’t need to learn I’m about to unearth their deepest, darkest secrets. What they don’t know can’t hurt ’em, et cetera et cetera.
Well, unless I decide to hurt them with whatever I discover.
Either way, it’s time to get a closer look at my cellmates.
Chapter 6
RJ
I’ve never been offered tea from a man in a cardigan before. The headmaster invites me into his office and we sit in a couple of high-back leather chairs while he crosses his legs and holds the cup and saucer like he’s Mr. Fucking Rogers or some shit. Even at nearly nightfall it’s still gotta be eighty degrees outside, but he looks like he’s ready to cozy around the fireplace with NPR.
“We’re pleased to welcome you to Sandover, Mr. Shaw. I understand you don’t care to be called Remington.”
“RJ’s fine.” If he calls me Sport, I’m outta here.
“As you wish.” He takes another unbothered sip, eyeing me over the rim of the prissy teacup. “What would you say your goals are this semester, RJ?”
“Goals?”
“How do you intend to spend your time with us? What do you hope to accomplish?”
I’m pretty sure this is a mind game, even if I don’t know its purpose yet.
“Graduate, I guess. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“At minimum, yes. But I’d hope you could find other ways you also might enrich your experience here. Make the most of this opportunity. Have you considered where you’ll apply to college?”
“Can’t say I have.”
College was never something that was high on my priority list. If I’m being honest, it seems like a complete waste of time and money. Considering where my interests lie, I can’t see what college would have to offer that I can’t manage to figure out on my own.
“I’d encourage you to investigate some of the many extracurriculars available. They do tend to keep our students out of trouble,” he says with that polite pointedness that somehow makes it ruder.
“I’m not much of a joiner. Clubs aren’t my thing.”
“So I understand.”
Ha. If he thinks getting a look at my records is a threat, he underestimates me. As if I’d ever go into any new interaction completely blind—I started my homework weeks ago. Oh, yes, I’ve been reading up on Headmaster Tresscott. Father of two. Wife deceased. Suffers from an incurable hero complex. The man fills the void of his soul by trying to save the wealthy wayward youth who get stashed here like boxes of winter clothes in the attic. He doesn’t scare me, and his boring speech does nothing to pump me up.
“We maintain a high academic standard at this institution. Sandover sends our graduates to elite universities and ensures they’re well-prepared for the rigors of higher education. This isn’t a place to simply pass the time.”
I don’t know. Seems to me the reputation of “elite institutions” is based on the hollow shell of legacy admissions and wealth. It’s just a bunch of fancy people getting together to perpetuate the myth for the protection of their own image. If I threw on a Harvard sweater, no one would know the difference.
Still, I smile and nod because mouthing off on day one makes me an enemy, and I don’t need the extra scrutiny.
“So we’re clear…” he says, setting aside his drink. “Hacking, or any other type of invasive and duplicitous activities, won’t be tolerated here. We expect our students to embody our values of dignity, respect, and honesty, without exception. Sandover is a second chance. For many, a last chance.” His dark-gray eyes sweep over me. “What you choose to do with it is up to you. As long as you’re here, you will abide by our rules.”