Old School Bones Read Free Page B

authority and privilege unknown to her own people and her gender. She prefers to stand. Let the weird old man rant.
    “Sit, I say, Dr. Patterson.” The baritone voice commanding.
    Awasha winces. The posh English lilt, an accent descended from ten generations of Eaton dons. An accent polished by advanced degrees in letters, in British Romantic literature, in theatre. At Oxford. A tall, thin man who wears his black academic gown like a royal robe. Both students and faculty call him Bumbledork behind his back, a rude twist on the name of the folksy titan who rules the school of witchcraft and wizardry in the Harry Potter novels.
    “Over here, Awasha.”
    She follows the voice, its familiar female tenderness. Blinks. For the first time since she has crossed the threshold she realizes that she is not alone with her boss, with Bumbledork. Denise Pasteur is settled into one of the three armchairs circling a baronial fireplace where an immense oak log burns.
    “Yes, Dr. Patterson. Come. Sit by the fire. Let it do what it can to melt our pain.”
    She can feel Denise looking at her with deep blue eyes, telegraphing a sense of urgency. A need for company. For an ally.
Like swallow a little bit of your pride, girl. Sit by me.
    In spite of the fire the room feels freezing to her. When she sits, she has the urge to reach out with her fingers for the warmth of her ally’s hand.
    Sufridge, looking lost in his own thoughts, a player searching his brain for his next line, settles into his throne, a faded orange Windsor chair.
    “We should be hugging each other in grief right now … but there are things we must talk about. Things that we must do first for the greater good of our school, our students, and all of us who serve them.
    “I know this is hard for you, Dr. Patterson, but for the sake of the school, I need you to support me here. This morning our minority students certainly, but truly everybody, at the all-school meeting will be looking to you for reassurance. You are our belle weather.” Sufridge gets up from his chair. He is ready to end this meeting.
    “But, sir. My girls need me. They are devastated. We are like a family…”
    “This is not up for debate, Doctor. This morning shortly after nine o’clock the three of us will stand in the front of the chapel before the students and the faculty. We will lament the foolish choice of Liberty Baker to end her life. We will sing our hymns of sad farewell, we will say our prayers of forgiveness. We will offer counseling services for those in need. Then we—”
    “Sir!” She rises from her chair to face Sufridge, tossing her hair out of her eyes. Something fierce, defiant, Indian has come over her. “I beg you … don’t close Hibernia House. Don’t separate the girls and me.”
    They jut their jaws at each other. Tall vs. short. Headmaster vs. director of minority affairs. Europe vs. America. White vs. Indian. Man vs. woman. Employer vs. employee. She feels all of the old rivalries, the classic tensions. The bullying. And she looks to Denise Pasteur for support.
    The dean of the Academy gets to her feet. Standing as tall as Sufridge, she rolls her shoulders beneath her woolen turtleneck sweater. Ever the athlete. “Can I say something here?”
    Sufridge turns away from the women, away from the confrontation. Stares at the fire as if commanding it to roar. “I should dynamite Hibernia House. If it were not such an historic building … I would wipe it off the face of the earth. This used to be such a happy school!”
    “It will be again, Malcolm. I’d like to make a suggestion: Awasha’s girls need her.”
    Sufridge continues to stare into the fire, runs his fingers through his hair. “We will be sending out our acceptance letters for next year’s class in just a few weeks. If we let the emotions surrounding this senseless death fester, it has the potential to devastate our yield, and the trustees have—”
    Awasha throws her hands in the air. “I’m not really