Chapter Seventeen
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Jerome[/i] had estimated Steerpike to be the type of person who loved nothing better than to hear themselves talk. In all the minutes the young Squalor boy and his compatriots had been participating in their own private discussions, the vice principal had not once given any indication that he had taken notice. The only person who seemed even vaguely interested in the students’ conduct was Nero. While maintaining his mandatory position at his father’s side, one could easily assume that the younger man was positively bored. Jerome had caught Nero several times raising his hand to stifle a yawn, during each break between the vice principal’s vocal clauses.
“This afternoon when you depart the auditorium,” Steerpike concluded, “to the right of the entrance you will see a list of each student’s name and that of their assigned homeroom teacher. After you have taken note, you are to gather downstairs in your assigned homerooms. You will then collect your schedules from your teachers. Although classes will not be in session until tomorrow, I advise you to take the hours between lunch and dinner today, and familiarize yourselves with the campus. Tardiness at the Training School is deeply frowned upon, and will not be tolerated. The first time a student arrives late to class shall result in a warning. If the offense is repeated, then you will receive a detention. If less than a week passes and you are again late, then the consequence is an in-dorm suspension. You will not be permitted to leave your room unless it is an emergency. Meals and all other necessities shall be delivered to you personally.”
“God,” Bertrand muttered. “What a hard-ass.”
Elizabeth, who had not glanced up once from her book since she and Bertrand had last exchanged words, elbowed him in the ribs.
“Well, what would
you call someone who abuses their power like that?”
“Someone who’s even
more capable of punishing people than the Lachrymose Leeches,” Elizabeth replied, “so you’d better watch your back.”
Bertrand feigned an innocent grin. “Are you sure
you wouldn’t like that opportunity instead?”
“Positive.”
“So I guess a romantic dinner by candlelight is out of the question.”
“Yup.”
“What about dinner at a fast-food restaurant and a movie at the drive-in?”
“No thanks.”
“You’ll see, Elizabeth. I’ll show you that I can be a stand-up guy like Lemony and Jerome, and then…well…you won’t be able to resist me!”
Elizabeth flipped to the next page of her book. “That’s a nice dream, Bertrand. I suggest you keep right
on dreaming, because dreams are as far as you’re ever going to get with me.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jacques observed. “If she wasn’t diggin’ him before, then she sure is now.”
“Isn’t it a bit cruel of your brother to be making light of Bertrand’s misfortune like that?” Esmé asked Kit.
“Not at all. Once you’ve known Bertrand as long as my brothers and I have, you’ll realize that he’s the type who can get any girl he wants. The thing about Bertrand Baudelaire is that he doesn’t
want girls who throw themselves at him, or come willingly. He likes them best when they’re a challenge—which is why he’s so persistent when it comes to Elizabeth.”
“What happens if she agrees to go out with him? Will he get bored and dump her like he did his other girlfriends?”
Kit shrugged. “Who knows? But I don’t think Bert’s efforts are going to prove to be much of a success.” Then, lowering her voice, she whispered to Esmé and Jerome, “I was speaking with Elizabeth before the two of you showed up. It turns out she’s been set in her ways since the sixth grade, back when the first guy asked her out.”
“I wonder why that is?” Jerome thought.
“She claims it’s because she doesn’t feel like waiting around for boys to mature,” Kit elucidated. “But I think it’s more than that. She’s just refusing to say what it is.”
“Oohh! So Elizabeth has a secret, does she?” Jacques hissed, putting his elbows over the back of Jerome’s chair and leaning forward. “What do you think it could be?”
“I don’t know,” Kit said, “and neither will you. It’s her own business whether she wants to share the details with us or not. Until that time comes—un
less that time comes—then we’ve no right to interfere.”
“Hey! I’ve got no intention of raking through her business, O.K.? Not when I know what an ace she is with a sword.”
“We don’t know that for sure, Jacques,” Beatrice reminded, “and so there’s no reason to panic
just yet.”
“Well, Elizabeth is captain of the fencing team,” Lemony added. “And she
does seem to confide a lot in Kit.”
“Has she mentioned anything weird to you, Kit?” Dewey asked. “Any plans concerning the take-down of my brother?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kit said. “Elizabeth isn’t planning to use her sword against Ernest any more than I’m planning to use my
pencils against him. So you guys can just put all that petty worrying out of your minds.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the stage. “Now, hush. Steerpike is getting ready to introduce the teachers, and I don’t want to miss a single word. As new students, it is indispensable that we understand our new instructors’ personalities. After all, we want to be able to present to them notable first impressions of ourselves.”
“And now,” Steerpike heralded, “allow me to welcome five of the finest and most respected educators that the V.F.D. Training School has ever had the pleasure of employing.” With a magnificent wave of his huge, hairy hands, the vice principal gestured to either side of the stage.
The woman in the wheelchair was the first to speak. As she did, her eyes fell across the throng of students gazing attentively up at the stage. “Hello, boys and girls—or would you prefer I address you as young men and women?” Her greeting earned her chuckles from several students, and she gave a shy little laugh. “My name is Virginia Winfield, and I teach Code Class. In addition, I also host two of the academy’s extracurricular activities: Art Class and the Literary Journal.”
“Well, what do you know, Jerome?” Jacques said. “She’s in charge of at least
one of the things you excel in.”
“Have you signed up yet for any activities?” Beatrice asked Jerome.
“Just the Cooking Class.”
“You should join the Literary Journal, too,” Lemony urged, “and submit some of your poems.”
Jerome shook his head adamantly. “Uh-uh; no way.”
“You write poetry?” Esmé asked.
“You bet he writes poetry,” Jacques said. “And, man, is he good! Go on, Jerome. Tell her about that one poem you wrote about the flower.”
“You wrote a poem about a flower?”
“It was a long time ago,” Jerome replied, his face turning three shades of red at once. “I don’t know what happened to it…”
“Didn’t your mother put it on the refrigerator?” asked Jacques. “I think I remember seeing it the last time I visited.”
Jerome was grateful when the time came for the next teacher—the young man with the purple eyes—to introduce himself.
“My name is Titus Peake,” he began. “Like the rest of you are about to, I too began my career as a volunteer at this very school. Although”—and here he paused to laugh amusedly—“I was quite the opposite of what you’d call a star student. Until my senior year, I rarely completed an assignment on time, and failed tests on a regular basis. I was often spotted sneaking out of my dormitory late at night and…” He broke off, as the harsh, piercing eyes of Vice Principal Steerpike shot him a glare of admonition. “I also teach Latin,” Mr. Peake added hastily. He dropped his head so low that his long hair shielded his exquisite purple eyes.
Jerome heard Jacques gulp uneasily. “Oh, wow,” Jacques said. “Even our
teacher is afraid of old Steerpike.”
“Need I spell it out for you?” Bertrand asked. “The man is A MENACE TO STUDENTS. You can’t get any more specific than
that.”“And teachers,” Dewey quipped. “Don’t forget about the teachers.”
Bertrand held up the back of his hand, and Dewey high-fived him.
“Did you see his eyes?” R asked. “How purple they are?”
“He’s probably wearing contacts,” Dewey said. “Nobody’s eyes are that color.”
“Actually,” Jerome said, “there
are people born with purple eyes.”
“How do you know?” R posed.
“Well, my cousin dated a guy whose eyes were purple.”
“Which cousin?” Beatrice inquired.
“Tiago.”
“Are they still seeing each other?” asked Jacques, who had had a crush on Tiago Squalor since the sixth grade. Jacques never liked hearing about the newest relationship of his best friend’s second eldest cousin, and was always secretly pleased when it ended.
“Don’t worry, Jacques,” Jerome reassured. “It was a long time ago. The guy turned out to be a creep, so Tiago called it off.”
Jacques gave a satisfied smile tinted with relief.
“Your cousin’s got good taste, Jerome,” Elizabeth stated, impressed. “No scurvy sea dog is worth hanging onto if they’re not willing to give back what they take.”
“But isn’t that what pirates are known for?” Esmé asked innocently. “Taking things that belong to other people?”
“Some; but there have been other pirates who have simply sought back what was stolen from
them.”“Where did you learn that?” Dewey asked.
“From all the books I’ve read and studying I’ve done on pirates,” Elizabeth replied matter-of-factly, “of course. Plus my grandfather was associated with a band of pirates back when he still traveled the seas.”
“No way!” Jacques differed. “You’re making that up—you’ve got to be! Pirates have been extinct for hundreds of years.”
“Extinct!” Dewey slapped Jacques on the back, as though attempting to awaken Jacques from his state of confusion. “They aren’t dinosaurs, Jacques. Besides, there
are modern day pirates.”
“I’m not talking about modern day pirates,” Elizabeth argued. “I’m talking about
pirates—the kinds who roam the high seas searching for ships to highjack and people to join them on their quests for buried treasure. The pirates my grandfather encountered were on a mission to rescue the captain’s daughter, who’d been kidnapped by an enemy ship. She was being held hostage in exchange for her father’s loot. That’s pirate talk for treasure,” she added, with a simper of pride. “The trouble was, the captain and his crew had buried their treasure on a faraway island, and the waters they were traveling in were unfamiliar. Lucky for them, my grandfather, uncle, and aunt also happened to be venturing through those same waters with their crew and submarine. They met up with the pirates, who promised not to feed them to the sharks if they agreed to help rescue the captain’s daughter.”
In the minutes Elizabeth had spent speaking, Esmé had not taken her gaze off the other girl. Esmé’s eyes had grown as blue and as wide as that of the ocean waters that Elizabeth’s family had supposedly traveled. “And did they rescue her?”
“You bet. My family even helped the pirates to defeat their enemies. As a reward, the captain presented my grandfather with his very own sword. A sword that will, one day, belong to me.”
“You know what I think, Elizabeth?” Kit asked.
“What?”
“I think you read too many stories about pirates.”
“Whether you choose to believe me or not is up to you. But I assure you that every word I’ve just told you is true—just ask my grandfather.”
“I believe you, Elizabeth,” Esmé said, her sweet voice adorned in honestly. The smile Elizabeth distributed was composed of an uncharacteristic softness, and lasted longer than Jerome would think possible for someone so cynical. Abruptly, the sound of someone clearing their throat sliced through the air like the sword of the pirate captain in Elizabeth’s story. Only then did the eyes of Esmé Salinger and Elizabeth Anwhistle unlock and turn to face the stage.
The woman whose no-nonsense expression made Jerome wonder if she was a relative of Steerpike’s was the next to step forward. Her hand, which was placed in front of her mouth, lowered to her side. She then announced in a very clear, almost condescending tone that reminded Jerome very much of Elizabeth, “I am Sally Sebald. If my name strikes a corn of familiarity in any of you, it is because my brother is the renowned filmmaker, Gustav Sebald. As well as teaching Note Taking Class, I am the instructor of the academy’s fencing team and head of the entire sports department. Although I have been accused by every student I have ever taught of being too harsh, I assure you that I was never once unfair. In order to turn children into successful adults, an instructor must be willing to establish a little austerity.” She smiled tersely. “Something I can promise you will have come to appreciate by the time you graduate from this academy.”
“Whoa,” Dewey said. “And we thought
Steerpike was tough.”
“They say that Sally Sebald has quite a reputation,” R clarified. “Not so much for being the sister of a prominent filmmaker, but for being the strictest grader in the entire academy. I’ve heard she’s even made several of her students cry—including the third-years.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Beatrice agreed. “As soon as I saw her, I immediately knew she was the type you don’t want to cross.”
“Sally and Gustav Sebald are close friends of my family,” Elizabeth informed the group, a note of pride in her voice. “They even produced a documentary about my family’s travels aboard their submarine.”
“Is that how Sally got her job teaching?” Bertrand asked.
“Of course not! She got it because she’s qualified.”
Soon enough it was time for the young woman donning the multiple layers of tutus to introduce herself. She initiated her opening with what appeared to be a pirouette across the stage. The hands of everyone but Vice Principal Steerpike and Sally Sebald beat together in an impressed round of applause. The tutu-wearing entertainer then performed a regal bow and, her chin still aimed at the floor, grinned contentedly up at her audience. “Thank you,” she said, and Jerome was surprised to find that she spoke with a conspicuous Russian accent. She repositioned herself so that she stood once more with her back straight. “My name is Melora Autumn. When I am not teaching Disguise Training, or overseeing all that goes on in the art department, I can often be found sitting in the courtyard, practicing the cello. In closing, I would like to say what a pleasure it is to see so many interesting faces. I’ve always lived by the belief that you can tell a lot about someone just by studying their face. It doesn’t matter if they don’t speak. If any of you are the sort of person who prefers to listen rather than talk, then don’t worry. As the year progresses, I can guarantee that I will get to know each and every one of you most intimately.”
Jerome smiled to himself. For the past eleven years, he had struggled with teachers who had pushed him to and beyond his breaking point to be more vociferous. All of which had ended in tears and, when he was older, anxiety attacks. It was a comfort to know that Melora Autumn wasn’t the type of teacher to force a student to talk when they were clearly listening, or to judge them on their amount of vocal input.
“Well done, Kit,” Lemony congratulated. “It seems you were right about Melora Autumn. Her jobs are as multiple as her tutus.”
Kit whipped her head around to smile self-assuredly at her brother and Beatrice. “Told you, Lemon-head.”
When the occasion arose for the elderly gentleman to commence with his greeting, Elizabeth closed her book and sat up straight. She waved to the man, beaming when he returned the gesture. “Greetings, young scholars,” he declared. “I am Edgar Anwhistle, the superintendent of the V.F.D. Training School. It is always a delight to meet the next generation of volunteers, who will one day help defend innocent citizens from the perils of the world.
“It was many years ago, when I was first recruited into the academy. Although my days as a student are far behind me now, my days as a volunteer are not yet finished. Many of my business associates are the same close friends I made during my years as a V.F.D. Training student. They say that we often find within ourselves the people we will grow up to be during our childhoods. I believe the same to be true of the friends we make. The bonds we form as children with others are the strongest we will ever have with anyone. For childhood is the time where innocence and ideas rally to create the way we will forever see ourselves and the world around us.
“Because my residence is located quite a distance away in Lake Lachrymose, my inspections of the academy are scheduled for only twelve days out of the year. Each of these inspections shall take place on the first of each month. However”—Superintendent Anwhistle paused to impart a smile onto the unyielding face of Steerpike—“you can rest assured that I leave all of my students in only the most capable of hands.”
“Right,” Bertrand commented. “Hands capable of choking us all if just one person steps out of line.”
Elizabeth whirled on him. “Hey! Are you questioning my grandfather’s judgment?”
“No. I’m questioning Steerpike’s willpower.”
“Oh, will you two give it a rest already?” Kit snapped. “You’ve been acting like children ever since we sat down, and it needs to stop. Elizabeth, don’t take everything Bertrand says so literally. And Bertrand, just because Steerpike is overly strict, it doesn’t mean he’s going to lose his temper.”
“Yeah,” Bertrand agreed, “yeah…I guess you’re right. I guess I’m just too weary for my own good, huh, Kit?”
Jerome had been so busy listening to and observing his new teachers, that he had nearly forgotten that Al Funcoot was one of them. Only when Superintendent Anwhistle signaled with his hand to his student’s former tutor then were Jerome’s memories of those hot summer days in his parents’ parlor rekindled. “Just as each of you has come to us fresh-faced and uncertain this year, so has one of your instructors.” Taking a moment to smile in the direction of Virginia Winfield, Superintendent Anwhistle went on to say, “Young men and women of the V.F.D. Training School, please—put your hands together and welcome Mr. Al Funcoot: Acclaimed playwright and the newest member of our administrative family.”
Mr. Funcoot strode confidently across the stage, and the students applauded loudly. It was while everyone else’s attention was elsewhere that Esmé turned to whisper something in Jerome’s ear that prompted him to turn and stare at her in bewilderment:
“That’s him; Count Olaf Grigori Rasputin—my guardian.”
The jagged leer of the man otherwise known as Al Funcoot hovered before the audience of youngsters like the fangs of the deadly leeches that beleaguered Lake Lachrymose. “Why, hello there, children,” he proclaimed in a voice that, for reasons Jerome had not yet begun to understand, sent chills up the boy’s spine. “What a pleasure for me to finally make your acquaintance… And how fortunate for you to have me as your new acting teacher…”