*clears throat* Hello. How you all doin'?
I am SO SORRY that it's taken me forever and a day to get around to continuing with this story! Especially since I promised after posting the last chapter that I wouldn't take as long to write the next one.
*makes a mental note not to make promises that have no guarantee of being kept* But, hopefully, knowing that I also have Chapter 17 complete (and ready for posting, just as soon as I've done a proper proof-read/edit, which should be finished by next week) will make up for my extended hiatus. I hope you guys are still interested in reading this story, as I have every intention of completing it, even if it takes me another six years (the same length of time it took a friend of mine to write one of her fanfics, LOL). Again, I'm very, very sorry for taking so long to continue
Training Days, and I promise to do my best not to fall off the writing wagon again. ^^''
Chapter Sixteen
By two o’clock, the first-year students were packed together in the rows of seats like sardines in a can. Unlike the day of the entrance exam, Jerome and Esmé were now gathered with their friends near the front of the auditorium before the stage. Elizabeth, who had accepted Kit’s invitation to join the Snickets and their friends, was blatantly ignoring Bertrand’s feeble attempts to get her attention. Elizabeth’s indifference both surprised and confused Jerome, whose first impression of Bertrand had been that he could have any girl he set his focus on. Why Elizabeth was treating Bertrand so frigidly made Jerome feel as though the group had been transferred to some kind of alternate reality.
However, their current circumstances provided Jerome with little time to dwell on Elizabeth’s raison d'être. Glaring down from the onstage platform at the students was the tall, brooding figure of Vice Principal Steerpike. At his side with their head lowered and their hands shoved into their pockets was his unassuming son. Gathered around the duo were several people Jerome had never seen before: Two men and three women. The youngest of the men and two of the women occupied the area nearest Steerpike, while the last woman was positioned closest to Nero. With them was Al Funcoot, who stood alongside Nero.
The woman next to Steerpike was sitting down, and the explanation itself was patently obvious: For she was bound to a wheelchair. She was very pretty, with curly blond hair styled attentively around her pearl-studded ears. Her wide, blue eyes sparkled in a way that reminded Jerome of his mother in photographs, taken before Cora had married Maxwell and secured the shattering of her innocent spirit. The woman’s slight pink lips appeared to have been set in a timeless smile, and her small hands were folded neatly together in her lap. She wore an ankle-length gown of mostly foam green taffeta, with wide sleeves reaching to her elbows. The pleated white bodice was cut just low enough to reveal a trifle of cleavage.
To the woman’s right stood the younger of the two men. The corners of his full, pale mouth were turned up into a smile that was both affable and welcoming. He had dark brown hair that reached almost to his broad shoulders. Jerome thought the man’s most striking feature was his eyes, which were, of all the eye colors that existed, purple. Jerome assumed the man wore contact lenses, for no one was born with purple eyes. The man was dressed in an oversized tweed vest of deep brown with small, wooden buttons down the middle. Underneath he wore a loose-fitting black shirt, and knotted slackly at his throat was a pale pink, almost white, scarf. Decorating the scarf was a pattern of red eyes, similar to Al Funcoot’s tattoo. The young man’s black cotton trousers were double-pleated and hung freely around his long legs.
Beside him stood a stern-looking woman, whose auburn locks were cropped so short that for her to use a brush or comb would have been unnecessary. She was tall for a woman, Jerome speculated, but quite pretty, with high cheekbones and hazel eyes. She was dressed accommodatingly in a fitted black vest over a white blouse with a frilly neckline. She donned a pair of tan trousers that were free of creases, and wore what looked to Jerome to be a pair of white fencing boots. It was difficult to tell for sure, though, since only the lower halves of the footwear were visible.
Standing next to Nero was the eldest of the gentleman. His thick, bushy hair was mostly white, but some patches of gray still remained; especially in the lower corners of his Old Dutch beard and mutton chops. Sewn in gold thread onto the left breast of his navy blue blazer was the image of an anchor, its shape matching the pendent Elizabeth wore around her neck. The legs of his trousers were pressed down to the cuffs, and his black shoes appeared to have been recently polished. He was tall and gangly, and stood with hands folded behind his back.
To his left was the last in this assemblage of unfamiliar people. This person was a woman, who was easily the youngest amongst her peers; for she looked no older than her tweed-vested colleague. Her face was covered in white foundation, and her large eyes framed by long lashes in heavy black mascara. A few inches away from the lower corner of her right eye was painted (or was it tattooed?) a yellow smiley face. The outer corners of her lips were lined in dark red, while the insides were painted a slightly lighter shade. Her eyes were a cloudy blue, but shone with the sort of light suggesting she still believed in things like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. And her hair! Her hair was
certainly something to see: It was styled high in two long, thick pigtails whose edges curled up softly against her pink cheeks. Her hair color itself was equally bizarre, for it was not just
one color. It was tinted in thick streaks of brown, yellow, orange, and a highlight of red that Jerome knew for a fact could only be found in boxes of hair dye. The combination of colors reminded him of the leaves that scattered the ground in autumn. The woman’s petite stature combined with her appearance gave her the distinctiveness of a little porcelain doll. This thought was merely amplified by the addition of her strange outfit, which consisted of a black corset on top of a white peasant top with short sleeves. She wore three brightly colored tutus of pink, blue, and green over a pair of red and white striped stockings. When Jerome looked at her feet, he saw that she sported one pink sneaker and one blue sneaker.
“Whoa,” quipped Bertrand, as his eyes fell across the uncannily dressed woman. “Get a load of Ms. Super Freak up there, will you? I wonder what subject
she teaches.”
“I’ll bet it’s one of the electives,” insisted Lemony, whose arm was around Beatrice. “She looks like an art teacher to me.”
“Maybe she’s a music teacher,” Beatrice suggested. “Art teachers aren’t the only people who can dress uniquely and get away with it.”
“Well,” said Kit, who had planted herself in between Elizabeth and Bertrand in an attempt to keep the peace between her two friends, “music
is a form of art. So, technically, your two theories count as one.”
Elizabeth leaned over Bertrand and whispered to Kit: “That’s my grandfather up there.” Elizabeth indicated with a wave of her slim hand to the elderly gentleman onstage.
“Good afternoon, fellow volunteers,” boomed the voice of Vice Principal Steerpike. “It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to your first year as students of the V.F.D. Training School.” His voice sounded even
more threatening through the microphone! Although he was shaking, Jerome couldn’t help but be pleased as Esmé huddled closer to him. His arm was already around her, but he tightened it in an effort to stop his own trembling. His move earned him another of her charming smiles, to which he responded by pressing his lips tenderly to her forehead. As of yet, it was the most daring move he’d made with her, and he was surprised by just how natural it felt.
“Before I explain what the academy expects from you,” Steerpike continued, “let me begin by saying that we hope you have all arrived under the very best of conditions. We realize that many of you must travel great distances, and that such journeys are not always effortless. But Superintendent Anwhistle has been doing his best to improve upon such conditions.” Steerpike paused briefly to gaze across the stage at Elizabeth’s grandfather, who nodded a greeting at the students. “If his plans go accordingly, then I think you will find your return passage at the end of the final term most comfortable.”
“Andrew will be happy to hear that,” whispered Jacques, who was sitting just behind Jerome.
“Andrew?” Esmé repeated. “Isn’t that your little brother?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“He puked his guts out on the drive up here,” Jacques confirmed before Jerome had the chance, “all over the interior of his father’s car.”
“Oh!” Realizing how close they were to the stage, Esmé threw her hands over her mouth. She lowered her voice and said to Jerome, “How dreadfully unfortunate for Andrew.”
Bertrand tilted back his head and stared at the ceiling. “Y’know, I’m not sure
who I feel sorrier for: Jerome’s brother for having to endure limited humiliation, or everyone in the family for having to endure what will probably end up being an eternal stench.”
Sighing irritably, Elizabeth looked Bertrand straight in the eye for what Jerome swore was the first time since they’d all sat down together. “Do you always find it necessary to make jokes at other people’s expense?”
“Who’s making jokes? All I did was express my sympathies for a family who’ve met with ill-fated circumstances. Since when is that a crime?”
“It is if you insist on turning those circumstances into something funny.”
“I wasn’t
trying to be funny! I was simply saying that—”
“Ssshhh!” Kit hissed. “Will you two pipe down? Steerpike is barely twenty feet away. If he hears us—”
“Then we’ll
all be doomed,” Lemony groaned. Then, in a warning tone, he added, “So shut up, Bert, and quit testing Elizabeth’s patience.”
“Hold up, Lem.” Leaning his elbow on the armrest facing Elizabeth, Bertrand placed his chin in his palm and observed her. “Hey, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this before, but…you’re awfully pretty when you’re angry.”
Elizabeth, whose attention was now absorbed in a paperback copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Treasure Island, responded jadedly: “Yeah sure great whatever thanks.”
“Wow, Bert,” Jacques said, and gave his friend a playful slap on the back. “I think she really digs you!”
“Cram it, Jackie Chan.”
“Kit’s right,” Dewey whispered. He was sitting directly behind Kit and right beside R. “You’d better tone it down now, or else we’ll all be in a heap of trouble.”
“Being only a few years shy of becoming full-fledged adults yourselves,” Steerpike was saying, “you’re well aware of what your elders expect from you; both as students, and as individuals. Think of this academy as you would not only your former places of education, but as your second home. Work hard, and do your best to get along with your fellow schoolmates. You will be spending more time with them these next nine months than you will with your own families. Consequently, it is very important that you find ways in which to be compatible.”
“Who’s your roommate, Jerome?” Bertrand asked.
“Jacques. Who’s yours?”
“Dewey, and a kid named Bruce. I haven’t met Bruce yet—he hadn’t arrived yet when Dewey and I left the dormitory for orientation. As for Dewey…” Bertrand continued to speak in a low voice, to keep everyone but Jerome and Esmé from overhearing. “Don’t get me wrong—he’s a nice kid and everything—but maaaan is he weird! When I arrived in our room earlier, I found him color coordinating his shirts!” Bertrand shook his head in disbelief. “Who color coordinates their shirts?!”
Jerome blushed, for he was known amongst his close friends and family to do the same thing with his collection of neckties. “What’s wrong with someone color coordinating their shirts?”
“Nothing. It’s just that…well…don’t you think that’s kind of odd? I mean, do you know anyone else who does stuff like that?”
“Kit did mention that Dewey’s parents were very attentive to organization before they died,” Esmé pointed out. “Maybe it’s his way of keeping their memory alive.”
Bertrand shrugged. “I guess. I just hope he doesn’t get on my case about being organized. As long as my stuff’s not hanging out of drawers and my closet closes, I don’t much care how my clothes look.”
“Organization isn’t such a bad thing,” Jerome said. He thought of his bedroom at home; how everything had its own special place—and how nothing was ever out of place. It was one of the few benefits to having obsessive-compulsive-disorder. He had been diagnosed with it at the age of eight, shortly after his father had caught him ironing his underwear. It was Jerome’s most embarrassing moment, if only because he had been made to feel a fool over something he had always thought of as perfectly normal. “You could probably learn a lot from Dewey, if you give him a chance.”
“Are you always this optimistic about everything?” Bertrand asked.
“Hah! Are you kidding?” Jacques cut in. “Jerome’s as pessimistic as they come! When we were in middle school, he couldn’t even go to the mall with us due to his fear of mannequins without heads.”
“Jacques!” His face already burning, Jerome threw his hands over his eyes, ashamed by the exposure of his secret.
“What?” Jacques’ question was that of authentic confusion. “It was a long time ago—I thought you’d laugh about it. Don’t tell me you still dream about the decapitated mannequins scouring the necktie section of the department store, Jerome.”
“You’re afraid of mannequins?” inquired Esmé, her tone filled with concern.
“It’s only the headless ones that freak him out,” Jacques elucidated. Jerome felt ready to climb into a hole and stay there for the rest of his life. “When we were in the sixth grade, we had gone to try on swimsuits for my sister’s pool party. We had just walked through the front doors of the store, when we spotted this mannequin with no head. Where the head should be was a baseball cap. Jerome was so scared that he ran right out of the store. He didn’t set foot through its doors again until August, when our parents brought us to be fitted for our school uniforms. Anyway, let’s just say that Jerome and I were the only two guests at Kit’s birthday party that summer who swam in their biking shorts.”
“Don’t worry, Jerome,” said R. “Everyone’s got something they’re afraid of. Take me, for instance. I’m afraid of sleeping with the window open at night, because I’m afraid of being kidnapped. So, before I go to bed, I always make sure to check and see that all of the windows in my room are locked.”
Jerome could hardly see how a fear of being kidnapped from one’s bedroom was anything like a fear of inanimate objects. But, being the sort of person who hated arguments and thus avoided them at all costs, he simply nodded politely at R. Seeming to sense his disinclination to respond, she smiled kindly before settling back into her chair.