Trophies Read Free Page A

Mum said, it still rankled that I wasn't going anywhere
interesting nor any further from home. Mum, I knew, had wanted to
send me to Eton, which might have been brilliant. Father had opted
for the local school at Corwald, the same school William had
attended, and of course he won. Their compromise, that I board
rather than commute, pleased no one, least of all me. If I was
going to bother adjusting to a new environment the least they could
offer was Outer Mongolia, rather than here where the family was so
well known and I would have to compete against the memory of
William's perfection. As much as I loved him, in a small-brother
sort of way, having him around was an awful bore.
    "For God's sake," Mum said again.
    I glanced up from my scuffing feet, which
were leaving new-shoe black streaks on the steps. She was already
at the car with the driver's door open.
    "Why can't you be more like William?"
    Three months ago I would have apologized.
Even a week ago I might have wheedled. Now there didn't seem any
point. I clambered into the rear seat of the Lancia, fastened the
belt, and passed the silent trip watching the Wiltshire downs roll
past. The furious lump in my throat refused to go away.
    The Corwald School had started as some rich
fool's impression of a medieval monastery, although its multiple
wings looked more like snakes sprouting from a masoned Medusa's
head than anything truly reverential. I loathed its grey stone and
elegant lawns on sight, although the swimming pool, tennis courts,
and well-trodden soccer field to the rear didn't seem all that bad
even to my jaundiced gaze. That day, the front was crowded with
families seeing off their outcasts, and Mum double-parked rather
than back and fill into a spot.
    A compact man with a cheerful babble helped
Mum lift my trunk from the boot. His sandy hair was tousled beneath
his Tudor bonnet and he wore a black master's academical gown and
white hood although he didn't seem much older than William.
    Mum drove off leaving us standing on the
steps. I didn't bother to wave.
    "Cheer up, Mr. Ellandun." Even his voice
smiled with him. "We're going to have a lot of fun this term. My
name's Hardenbrook, by the way. Drama, literature, and soccer."
    I hadn't spoken all day and took the
precaution of clearing my throat first. "How do you do." That
seemed a stark response to his attempted kindness, so I added, "I
like Shakespeare."
    "Do you?" The way Hardenbrook said it, I was
the first student he'd ever met who did. "You know, I taught your
brother William when he was here."
    If that had been intended to reassure me, it
fell flat. After all, once he got to know me and compared me to
William, I was through. On the spur of that moment, I decided not
to like him nor anyone else there.
    Not far away stood a family of five, parents
and two small girls seeing off a boy whose high rounded forehead,
small chin, and anxious expression made him look rather like an
egghead, although I supposed he couldn't help that. His father, a
leathery-looking sort wearing a light summer suit, draped a long
arm about the boy's shoulders as if afraid to let him go.
    "We're starting term with A Midsummer
Night's Dream, " Hardenbrook said. "You've read that one, of
course?"
    To test drive my new unfriendliness, I glared
at one of the little girls. She stared back, her blue eyes in a
similar face giving her a resemblance nearer the delicacy of a
Fabergé egg rather than anything from a farmyard. As we matched
stares, hers became more and more indignant. I wondered if she'd
cry, but instead she yanked at the hem of her mother's floppy cloth
coat.
    I turned away. "Yes. Of course, it's one of
my favorites." Although I felt more in common with King Lear, the
lucky sod.
    Hardenbrook glanced down as I glanced up. His
chin tilted and his smile faded. Then suddenly it was back, bigger
than ever. "You know, every year the school performs A Midsummer
Night's Dream for Parents' Night in the spring and first-years
can try out."