“You gotta be nuts if you leave your son here. This is not a good place for kids.” He looked down at the box he carried, and when he spoke again, his voice broke. “Trust me on that.”
“Excuse me?” Teri said, but before the man could say anything else, the woman took his arm and drew him away.
“Leave her alone, Gordy,” the woman whispered. “Let’s just go home.” As Teri and Ryan watched uncertainly, the man hefted the footlocker into the backseat of a car double-parked in front of the school, got into the driver’s seat, and drove away before his wife had time to fasten her seat belt.
“Wow,” Ryan breathed as the car disappeared around the corner. “What was that about?”
Teri shrugged. “I have no idea, honey,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, even though she suddenly wanted to turn right around and take her son home and keep him safe in his room.
Forever.
Which was, of course, ridiculous.
Steeling herself against the irrational thought, she led Ryan on up the steps to the impressive carved oak front doors of St. Isaac’s School.
By the time Brother Francis opened the door to the boys’ dormitory, Ryan McIntyre’s brain felt almost as exhausted as his aching body. The mass of forms he’d had to fill out this morning had been only the beginning. Then Brother Francis had given him a tour of the school, but after the first ten minutes of making their way through the maze of hallways and staircases, Ryan had been sure he’d never be able to find his way around without a map. Then he’d had to try on one set of the school uniforms after another—which for some reason didn’t seem to be marked with sizes that conformed to the ones on his regular clothes—until he found an assortment of blue blazers, sweaters, trousers, and shirts that fit, along with a tie that wasn’t completely threadbare. Then there had been the schedule for his classes, along with a list of rules he was apparently supposed to memorize by tomorrow, and abide by starting today.
Everything looked old and worn, but not grubby and covered with graffiti like Dickinson High. The woodwork was all dark mahogany and walnut, every light fixture looked at least a hundred years old, and there seemed to be stained glass everywhere. But no graffiti. And no dust—not so much as a speck—which had told him even before Brother Francis enunciated the policy, that any infraction of the rules would undoubtedly lead to hours of cleaning the school.
“You’re in room 231, with Clay Matthews,” the monk said as they came through what Ryan hoped would be the last pair of huge oak doors he’d have to open for a while. They climbed to the second floor and walked halfway down a long corridor, where Brother Francis knocked softly on a door then turned the knob without waiting for a reply from within.
The room was empty, half of it barren.
His half.
The monk set his duffel on the floor next to the bed. “My office door is always open,” he said. “I’ll leave you to settle in.” Then, as he headed back out the door, he turned and smiled. “Welcome to St. Isaac’s.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said, trying to keep a sigh of resignation out of his voice. As the door closed behind Brother Francis, he set his bundle of uniforms on the empty desk and surveyed his half of the room.
At least his bed was closest to the big windows that looked out over the courtyard. He stretched out onto the bed for a minute, hoping some of the aching in his body would ease before he had to start unpacking.
A few minutes later he was just struggling to sit up again when the door opened and a boy about his own age came in, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Hey,” the boy said. “I’m Clay—” The words died on his lips as he got a good look at Ryan’s face. “Wow, man, what happened to you?”
Ryan shrugged, trying to act as if he hurt a lot less than he did, but decided there wasn’t any point in telling his new roommate anything but
“Excuse me?” Teri said, but before the man could say anything else, the woman took his arm and drew him away.
“Leave her alone, Gordy,” the woman whispered. “Let’s just go home.” As Teri and Ryan watched uncertainly, the man hefted the footlocker into the backseat of a car double-parked in front of the school, got into the driver’s seat, and drove away before his wife had time to fasten her seat belt.
“Wow,” Ryan breathed as the car disappeared around the corner. “What was that about?”
Teri shrugged. “I have no idea, honey,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, even though she suddenly wanted to turn right around and take her son home and keep him safe in his room.
Forever.
Which was, of course, ridiculous.
Steeling herself against the irrational thought, she led Ryan on up the steps to the impressive carved oak front doors of St. Isaac’s School.
By the time Brother Francis opened the door to the boys’ dormitory, Ryan McIntyre’s brain felt almost as exhausted as his aching body. The mass of forms he’d had to fill out this morning had been only the beginning. Then Brother Francis had given him a tour of the school, but after the first ten minutes of making their way through the maze of hallways and staircases, Ryan had been sure he’d never be able to find his way around without a map. Then he’d had to try on one set of the school uniforms after another—which for some reason didn’t seem to be marked with sizes that conformed to the ones on his regular clothes—until he found an assortment of blue blazers, sweaters, trousers, and shirts that fit, along with a tie that wasn’t completely threadbare. Then there had been the schedule for his classes, along with a list of rules he was apparently supposed to memorize by tomorrow, and abide by starting today.
Everything looked old and worn, but not grubby and covered with graffiti like Dickinson High. The woodwork was all dark mahogany and walnut, every light fixture looked at least a hundred years old, and there seemed to be stained glass everywhere. But no graffiti. And no dust—not so much as a speck—which had told him even before Brother Francis enunciated the policy, that any infraction of the rules would undoubtedly lead to hours of cleaning the school.
“You’re in room 231, with Clay Matthews,” the monk said as they came through what Ryan hoped would be the last pair of huge oak doors he’d have to open for a while. They climbed to the second floor and walked halfway down a long corridor, where Brother Francis knocked softly on a door then turned the knob without waiting for a reply from within.
The room was empty, half of it barren.
His half.
The monk set his duffel on the floor next to the bed. “My office door is always open,” he said. “I’ll leave you to settle in.” Then, as he headed back out the door, he turned and smiled. “Welcome to St. Isaac’s.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said, trying to keep a sigh of resignation out of his voice. As the door closed behind Brother Francis, he set his bundle of uniforms on the empty desk and surveyed his half of the room.
At least his bed was closest to the big windows that looked out over the courtyard. He stretched out onto the bed for a minute, hoping some of the aching in his body would ease before he had to start unpacking.
A few minutes later he was just struggling to sit up again when the door opened and a boy about his own age came in, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Hey,” the boy said. “I’m Clay—” The words died on his lips as he got a good look at Ryan’s face. “Wow, man, what happened to you?”
Ryan shrugged, trying to act as if he hurt a lot less than he did, but decided there wasn’t any point in telling his new roommate anything but
Similar Books
