Greetings, all.
I'd just like to point out for future reference that I made a slight change to the last chapter. Rather than have Miss Winfield be the Cooking Class instructor, I decided to have her be the instructor for the Art Class instead. It just seemed to better suit her character, since the person who inspired her had a talent for art as well as for writing.
I must now be off, as I have a dentist appointment to get to. How fun!
Chapter Eighteen
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Even[/i] with orientation complete, Jerome and his acquaintances continued to remain in their seats. All were waiting patiently for the aisles to clear, so as to make their way to the doors of the auditorium. Bertrand indicated with his thumb to the stage, where a few of the administrative staff still lingered. Steerpike and Nero were assisting Miss Winfield off the stage, while Rasputin stood to the side, smoking what looked like a cigarette. “What do you mean that guy up there is your guardian?” Bertrand demanded of Esmé. “Is it even
legal for a student to attend the same school their parent works in? Or for a teacher to smoke on school grounds?”
“Of course it’s legal,” Kit clarified before anyone else could arbitrate. “If it wasn’t, then how do you explain Elizabeth’s relation to Edgar Anwhistle? As for Rasputin’s smoking, I expect he has gotten permission—as filthy a habit as it is.”
“She’s got you there, Bert,” Dewey said.
“Leave it to our sister to explain the unexplainable,” Lemony quipped, “eh, Jacques?”
The second eldest Snicket sibling nodded bluntly.
“At any rate,” went on Bertrand, his attention still directed at Esmé, “since your guardian is a member of the administrative staff, maybe he’ll go easy on us.”
Kit rolled his eyes. “We didn’t come to V.F.D. to be
slackers.”“Typical adolescent male behavior,” Elizabeth remarked shrewdly, holding her pendent up to the light to admire it. “They expect to pass, yet they insist on doing as little work as possible. It just goes to show how much better equipped the organization would be if it were run by women.”
“Then maybe you should leave school and join up with some female Finnish pirates,” Bertrand suggested. “Everyone knows V.F.D. was founded by a man.”
“Damien Winfield,” Kit supplemented, “to be precise.”
“Winfield?” Esmé repeated. “Does that mean he’s related to
Virginia Winfield, our teacher?”
“He
was her father, and the former vice principal of our school.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died in a fire some thirty years ago.”
“The same as my uncle,” murmured Jerome, recalling the unfortunate event that had claimed the life of Seymour Squalor.
“How do you know all this, Kit?” Beatrice asked.
Lemony threw back his head and let loose an uncharacteristic roar. Beatrice, who was just as taken aback by her boyfriend’s response as everyone else around them, stared. Although Lemony’s shyness and reluctance was not quite on par with Jerome’s, it was still conspicuous. Naturally, the last thing anyone had expected from the adamant Snicket adolescent was for him to abruptly break out of his mold.
“What’s with you?” Bertrand inquired. “Have all those nights sitting at the typewriter finally seized control of your sanity?”
“You
would think that, wouldn’t you, Bertrand?” Lemony beamed. “But no; I simply find it funny that one very obvious conclusion wouldn’t occur to someone claiming to know Kit so well.”
“Oh?” Dewey replied cynically. “And what, pray, might that conclusion be?”
Lemony shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe Dewey’s opacity. “That she spent the entire summer engrossed in the pages of books relating to the history of V.F.D.”
“Of course!” Dewey raised his hand and slapped his forehead.
“That’s sad,” Jacques taunted, “when your girlfriend’s brother knows more about her than
you do. You should be ashamed.”
“Girlfriend?” For the first time in several minutes, Jerome’s gaze drifted from Esmé’s face to that of someone else: In this case, it was Kit Snicket’s face he chose to focus on. “You mean, you and Dewey are a…”
“A couple?” she concluded, smiling as her delicate hands coiled possessively around the triplet’s skinny arm. “Uh-huh—for about a month now. We started dating a few weeks after the exam. Didn’t you know?”
Jerome shook his head. “No one told me.”
Kit’s embarrassment by this bit of news was evident; both in her tone of voice, and the scarlet flush that rose in her cheeks. Those acquainted with her—whether it was a little or a lot—knew her to be a strict perfectionist. Thus, the possibility that something she had assumed to be fact when it was actually fiction did not sit well with her. “Really? I could’ve sworn I mentioned it the last time I saw you.”
“Relax, sis,” Jacques comforted. “You can’t be perfect
all the time.”
“Yeah,” Lemony agreed. “And look on the bright side: You won the bet.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot!”
“What bet are you referring to?” asked R.
“Right before we entered middle school,” Lemony began, “my siblings and I made a bet on which of us would be the first to get a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Whoever won would be exempt from doing household chores for the rest of our lives. I’d known Beatrice for two years; not long after my brother, sister and I made the bet, Beatrice and I started dating. That left Kit and Jacques to compete against each other for second place. She used to tease him by saying he’d have to give up on Tiago first if he ever expected to win.”
“But he never did,” Kit said, a hint of admiration in her voice. “Give up, I mean. To Jacques, being true to yourself and the one you love has always been just as essential as first impressions.”
“Needless to say,” Lemony concluded, “Jacques is still doing the chores of three people around our house, even after four years.”
Kit was quick to defend both herself and Lemony, before any criticisms could be cast their way. “We help him out, though.”
“Yeah,” Jacques agreed halfheartedly, “when you’re feeling generous.”
“Hey!” For the first time since sitting down, Lemony withdrew his arm from around Beatrice. He leaned forward in his seat and nudged his brother in the shoulder. “Just what do you think birthdays are for?”
Lemony’s words won him a vast round of laughter from everyone, including Jacques. Not long after their voices had descended into the silent air, the group glanced around the room. They were pleased to see that their patience had paid off: For the aisles were now clear enough for them to make their way easily to the head doors. With his hand holding securely to Esmé’s, Jerome rose with the others and headed up the aisle to the exit. Just before the couple stepped out into the hallway, Esmé squeezed his hand in a way that made him pause and turn to stare at her. “I hope they put us in all the same classes,” she whispered hopefully.
Such a desire, Jerome felt, was sure to remain as unfulfilled as that of a fatherless girl who wishes to have her parent back. Yet he couldn’t help but share in Esmé’s optimism. He smiled, once more able to disregard the insecurities surrounding his teeth. “Me, too.”
With a shrill little laugh that made Lemony and Beatrice turn their heads and smile from the hallway, Esmé threw herself into Jerome’s arms. Cupping his face in her hands, Esmé looked deeply into Jerome’s eyes. Her small oval face with its pale freckles had taken on a look of earnestness that challenged her previous mirth. “Besides becoming a world-renowned actress,” she began softly, “the only thing I aspire to as a student of this academy is to know
you.” A profound blush had risen from the collar of her blouse and settled in those delightfully dimpled cheeks. Jerome could just as easily have let his eyes fall to the bodice of Esmé’s blouse, where she had left three of the top buttons undone. But he paid no attention. He was much too taken in by her eyes, and the way they seemed to have hypnotized him into remaining where he was.
“You, Jerome David Squalor, are nothing like the other boys…”
The last time Jerome had heard those words was during a conversation with his father. He was being reprimanded for failure to take part in the group activities of other six and seven-year-olds on the school playground. It wasn’t so much that Jerome didn’t
want to play with the other children—it was more a question of not being able to. His coyness was so acute that, until the third grade, he had often spent the entire day sitting at his desk, struggling with a word or math problem. The idea to ask for help had occurred to him many, many times. But to actually go about the task caused him so much anxiety and stress that he preferred everyone think him stupid if it meant avoiding the task of talking to people. As a result, many of his peers and even a few of his less sympathetic teachers came to refer to him as ‘dim-witted’ and, occasionally, ‘the dim-witted Squalor boy’.
But Jerome was no longer a prisoner of such harsh misconceptions, let alone his shyness. To no further extent did he find himself walking amongst the shadows of loneliness. After sixteen years, his search was finally over: A search that had ended in the cerulean pools of Esmé Salinger’s tender eyes. Jerome felt the nail of her right index finger caress his left cheek, gently tracing the curve as her hand moved to the back of his head to ruffle his hair. “You are
special,” she murmured, almost to herself, her tone marked with the sensation of the most romantic dreams. “Like a purple rose in a bed of crimson ones.”
Such poetry Jerome had never known to exist beyond the pages of the books that lined the shelves of his bedroom back home. Esmé’s ability to articulate with fervency such beauty was as admirable as it was impressive! For Jerome himself was almost always too shy to verbalize his own thoughts and feelings, even through poetry. He preferred to keep them as one would a precious secret: Wrapped in colorful paper and ribbon and stored inside a heart-shaped box atop a high shelf. He was preparing to ask Esmé if she liked poetry and, if so, who her favorite poet was, when the voice of Bertrand Baudelaire called to them through the doorway: “Hey, Jerome, Esmé—get out here! There’s something that’s going to make you two love birds very happy…”
Jerome felt himself blush, just as Esmé let go his face to seize his hands in hers. “Come on,” she urged, tugging him toward the exit, “and let’s see what has everyone so excited.”
“You’re the ones who are going to be excited,” Jacques corrected, “when you see whose homeroom you’re in.”
“Just as long as it isn’t Ms. Sebald’s,” said Jerome, and shivered at the memory of the stern woman onstage, “then I don’t care
which teacher I end up with.”
“Oh,” remarked Kit, a hint of mystery in her soft voice, “I think you’ll care in a moment…”
A final yank on Jerome’s arm had him standing with Esmé before a cork board on the wall just outside the auditorium. Jacques and Bertrand had positioned themselves in front, their arms crossed over their chests as they blocked access to much of the information posted on the board. Like two imperial officers guarding the gates of a castle they parted, smiling as Jerome and Esmé stepped forward.
The list of students and homeroom teachers was displayed for all to observe in the center of the board. While Jerome went to retrieve his reading glasses from the case he kept stored inside his top pocket, Esmé let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. Not only was he startled by its clamorous sound, but its ability to pierce the air like a blast from an outlaw’s pistol. Were it not for the protective leather casing of his glasses, Jerome feared his first letter home would have included a request for a new pair of eyewear. He squatted down to recover that which had fallen to the floor. As he was straightening back up, his eyes came in contact with those of Esmé. Her smile corresponded all too well with the earlier mystery present in the voice of Kit Snicket.
Slowly Jerome slid his glasses out of their case and put them on. Tucking the case back inside his pocket, he asked, “What is it, Esmé?”
Her additional laughter simply added to what was a most lovable and, in many ways, child-like personality. When at last she spoke, her tone was suggestive of one who has been so overcome with emotion that their ability to express their feelings has been temporarily seized. “Something wonderful. Something that’s…totally out of this world.”
Rather than ask exactly what was so fabulous—for, given the clues provided by those around him, he could easily guess —Jerome got up and peered closely at the cork board. His eyes scrutinized the list of names, which were all arranged alphabetically according to each student’s surname. When he came to the name of Esmé Salinger, whose homeroom teacher was Virginia Winfield, relief charged through him like a racehorse. Esmé, with all her sweetness and sensitivities, would have had little hope of starting out each day on the right foot if she’d ended up in Ms. Sebald’s class. Thank goodness Miss Winfield seemed to enjoy teaching, or at least enjoy being around children. His heart pounding, Jerome scrolled through the remaining S’s, until he spotted his own name. He placed his finger on it and then, ever so slowly, trailed it briefly across the paper. He stopped when he came to the name of the instructor in whose classroom he would sit each morning for fifteen minutes for the next nine months.
“Miss Winfield,” he declared, his subdued answer prompting a grand bout of cheers and applause from his friends. The amount of relief he felt upon eluding Ms. Sebald was so great that he failed at first to grasp the impact of his luck.
“Isn’t it smashing, Jerome?” exclaimed Esmé, whose thrill for the fulfillment of so small a wish proved just another enchanting aspect of her character. “We’re going to be sharing the same homeroom—oh! I wonder if Miss Winfield will let us sit together?”
“Well,” Kit interjected cheerfully, “she is supposedly the most benign of all teachers at this academy…especially when it comes to the female students. Once she sees how inseparable you two are, then I’m sure she’ll agree to your request.”
“You mean she plays favorites when it comes to boys and girls?” R questioned.
“Not exactly; she just has a soft spot for girls. Or so I’ve heard.”
Elizabeth Anwhistle smiled contentedly. “Sounds like my kind of teacher.”
Bertrand expressed his annoyance with a loud snort. Whatever further opinion he was considering making he kept to himself.
“Whose homeroom are
you in, Elizabeth?” Esmé inquired.
“Sebald’s,” the blonde replied. “Which doesn’t surprise me, since she’s well acquainted with my family. I suppose placing me in her class is my parents’ way of making sure I stay out of trouble.”
Jerome was beginning to notice a pattern with Elizabeth. While her tolerance for boys like Bertrand Baudelaire and Ernest Denouement was non-existent, she clearly enjoyed the company of girls. But it was Esmé who seemed to embody the power with which to melt the iron-clad heart of the would-be pirate. For Elizabeth’s entire attitude changed each time she addressed the pretty, soft-spoken native of Paltryville.
“Are you often in trouble?” Esmé prodded.
“Actually…” Seeming to hesitate, Elizabeth wound her finger through one blond curl. Just what was it about Esmé that would cause an otherwise hard-hitting girl like Elizabeth to resort to such behavior? “I have been kicked out of several schools, if that indicates anything.”
Although her eyes became windows to her shock, Esmé delivered her next question with care and sympathy: “Why were you kicked out?”
As if to dismiss her former suspensions as mere trifles, Elizabeth shrugged and answered with an air of indifference: “For fighting.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Bertrand muttered. His belated remark earned him a spontaneous jab in both ribs, courtesy of the Denouement cousins and their gaunt elbows. “Owe!”
Out of everyone in the group, it was
Elizabeth who appeared not to have heard Bertrand’s comment. It was either this lack of attention, or that she had simply chosen, for once, to ignore him. Yet such answers were impossible to determine; Esmé’s affable laughter saw to that. But this wasn’t the most important detail. Such importance belonged to how Elizabeth’s attention to Esmé was still as sharp as it had been mere moments ago.
Jerome wouldn’t discover until much later just how crucial this detail would prove.