The Initiation by Ridley Pearson

properly.”
    â€œYou can’t go into the girls’ dorm,” James said, suddenly sounding interested.
    â€œIt’s a matter of negative water pressure, my dear frerrrr—” Sherlock caught himself from using the term of endearment that his roommate abhorred. “If my calculations are correct—and when are they not?—a simultaneous flushing ofthe boys’ toilets and urinals, from the upper-level restroom, should result in an expulsion of sewage on the floor below. It’s a venting problem. With too little vent air available, the downstairs plumbing will pull from the drains, and thus . . . Disgusting, but effective, I should think.”
    â€œI don’t need your help. I didn’t ask for your help. You are strange to the point of annoying, Sherlock. Keep to yourself and stop bothering me. And change your socks or do something about your feet. I can hardly enter our room without gagging.”
    â€œI didn’t expect a personal attack,” Sherlock said, dismayed. “I’ll forget I heard that.”
    â€œPlease don’t,” said James, bumping Sherlock intentionally and spilling the boy’s tea, soaking and disintegrating his pita sandwich.

CHAPTER 12
RUNNING LIKE COLD HONEY

    A SECOND DAY PASSED WITHOUT THE B IBLE’S recovery, meaning a second night of all-school study hall and curfew. The gods of the Main House had extended the curfew by thirty minutes, allowing us to check mail or phone home before returning to our rooms. This was intended as a form of leniency when in fact it only served to remind us students that we remained on a tight leash.
    Somewhat friendless, expecting no mail, and having no one to call, I headed to Samantha’s room to borrow her calculator. Samantha and I shared math and science. (My calculator had disappearedinto my backpack, which at times resembled a fabric beast with a constant appetite; it remained unfound.) The stop included a sample of something called gooey butter cake, sent to her by an aunt from St. Louis, which lived up to its name by coating my fingers in a layer of a viscous, sugary substance that no matter how many times I licked, would not leave. I headed to the girls’ room. I ran into a field hockey teammate, Latisha. Her dark, creamy complexion was the envy of all the girls, including me.
    â€œYou know,” I said, the two of us engaged in our mirrored reflections, “if I were Hannibal Lecter I’d just skin you and wear your face around so I could be seen with skin like that.”
    â€œWho? That’s gross.” Latisha looked at me and I realized I’d frightened her. I was learning the hard way that conversations James and I might have had did not work at Baskerville. It turned out that one’s sense of humor is a personal thing; James and I shared a love of the grotesque. Not so apparently with Latisha.
    â€œA serial killer. The Silence of the Lambs ?”
    â€œI’ve heard of it. Never saw it. You can have my skin.”
    â€œI wish.”
    â€œNo, you don’t. It’s black, in case you didn’t notice.”
    â€œIt’s gorgeous.”
    â€œIf you are black at this school you are considered either a charity case, or the daughter of a professional athlete.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious?”
    â€œBelieve it or not, my father is not a rapper, nor is he an artist. He happens to be a three-star general in the army. He’s at the Pentagon now, but my parents and I chose Baskerville to get me away from our home in Virginia. My father’s mother is living with us and she’s out of her mind—like, literally, stark raving mad —and I just couldn’t handle it anymore.”
    â€œThat’s hard.” I considered bringing up my lack of a mother, my lack of any contact with grandparents, but kept it to myself.
    â€œMy father went here. So did my uncle. My father’s on the board or something. He comes here a