Hey, guys!
It's been a while, but I'm back now, with plans to resume this story, which I never really stopped writing. Expect to see a temporary lack of gap within the coming weeks.
One thing I'd like to point out is that I've made a slight change to the character of Steerpike. He wears a mask now, similar to the one worn by the title character in Gaston Leroux's
The Phantom of the Opera. It's nothing that affects the story's current position, but is something that shall become significant later on, and that I couldn't make fit anywhere else. Typically, I refrain from making major changes like this to a fanfic I've already begun posting, but felt that doing so would add more to the story, as well as create a stronger link between my character and the one on whom he is based. The edits aren't worth going back to re-read, as I didn't add very much. But for the sake of reference, I'll note that the altered chapters are Eleven and Sixteen.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Greetings and salutations, young ladies and gentlemen! What’s your pleasure?”
Together with Esmé and their friends, Jerome turned to address the speaker of the voice. There, standing behind the counter, he saw two men, neither of whom he recognized. They were large, jovial gentlemen, both with smiles as wide as their middles. Their white aprons and chef’s hats reminded Jerome of a set he’d owned as a child. Although their bodies were nearly identical, the men possessed their own compilation of conspicuous differences. While one was tall and bald, the other was short, with a head of thick, lustrous hair the color of oil. It was the bald man Jerome presumed to be the older of the two—though by how many years, he could not say.
“Adam, you fool!” taunted the older, less comb-worthy man. “What else have we got to offer these kids besides prime rib?”
“Well, if they don’t want prime rib,” the man referred to as Adam retorted, “then we can always stick a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread and slap
that on the grill.”
“Oh? And what if they prefer a more unadulterated kind of cheese?”
“Then we won’t grill it.”
With a long sigh, the man whose name Jerome and his compatriots had yet to learn rolled his eyes. “Really, Adam. It’s that lack of creativity that makes me wonder how you can call yourself a chef at all. I swear
half the time that brain of yours prefers your mouth to your head. How many times have I told you that if something looks good, eat it?”
“What are you saying, Anderson?” The tone of defense in Adam’s voice was evident. “That the only way you’ll end this argument is if I allow you to insult my cooking?”
“What cooking? You’re talking about putting a piece of cheese inside two pieces of bread! For goodness sake, Adam—even a five-year-old is capable of that!”
“Ah! But what five-year-old is as skilled as I when it comes to operating a stove?”
With a sweep of his chubby hand, Adam produced from somewhere behind the counter a pair of tongs. Expertly he swung them through the air and plunged them into a tub of dark gravy. Snatching back the instrument from which now dangled a dripping slice of meat, he thrust them both at Anderson, who immediately rebounded, as if the tongs held a poisonous snake rather than that which is fit to be eaten. He backed up into a display of pots and pans suspended from a rack just above his head. His action resulted in a catastrophic crash, as several items of crockery dislodged from their hooks and fell to the floor. Anderson screamed, while Adam staggered back against the counter, clasping his belly as he roared with laughter.
“Hah!” he jeered. “It serves you right! Ever since we were kids, you’ve gone out of your way to prove to me and everyone else that you’re number one—all on account of your flair for exotic dishes. Well, that’s over now, bro. ‘Cause I finally found an area I can outshine even
you in.”
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Anderson glared Adam straight in the eye. “Oh, yeah? And just what, exactly, is this area in which you consider yourself such an expert?”
“You mean it isn’t obvious?” Adam readjusted himself into a standing position. “Comedy, of course.”
“Riiiight. At
my expense.” Turning away, Anderson lowered himself to his knees and began to collect the fallen pieces of crockery. “Nice try. But I think we both know you wouldn’t stand a chance in that line of work.”
“Oh, really? And just what, pray, do you mean by
that?”Keeping his chin level with the floor, Anderson threw Adam a contemptuous smile. “That without me to serve as the brunt of your jokes, you’d be out of a job before you even had one.”
“Huh-eh! I don’t need you to make me look good, O.K.? I’m funny enough on my own!”
“Sure.” With a sarcastic chuckle, Anderson retrieved a frying pan from the floor. Raising it high above his head, he shook it threateningly at Adam. “If by that you mean funny-
looking.”“Why, you—! Why must you
always go out of your way to embarrass me?”
“Who says I’m trying to embarrass you? I’m just telling it like it is. Besides,” Anderson added in a tone whose smoothness sharpened the trace of snake oil there, “wouldn’t you prefer the truth come from me, instead of some stranger on the street?”
“First of all,” Adam argued, “we aren’t on the street. We’re at work. And secondly, did it never occur to
you that honesty isn’t always the best policy?”
Jerome could certainly vouch for that. If there was one thing he always made sure to consider in another human being, it was their feelings. Next to cooking and writing, pleasing others was, characteristically, his finest asset. Unfortunately, it had proven on countless occasions to be his greatest downfall as well.
“You’re a nice boy, Jerome,” Kit had observed one afternoon in the cafeteria at Blue Melody. She and Jacques had just witnessed Jerome give the dollar he’d been planning to spend on an ice-cream cone to another boy. A boy who was neither an intimate friend nor even a casual acquaintance. He was just so polite and pathetic in his request, that Jerome had been unable to turn him down. “You’re also what most would call
too nice. Do you have any idea who the father of that kid you just gave your last dollar to is?”
Jerome shook his head.
“He’s president of the city’s most prestigious academy for young performers. That story about his having no money for lunch was all a great big lie.”
As an afterthought, Jacques added, “You’re my best friend, Jerome, and I love you but…you’re a doormat the way you let people walk all over you.”
Jerome, despite looking as though he was about to cry—which he did, in the privacy of the boys’ lavatory five minutes later—in response to his friends’ criticisms, could not deny the truth in their words. He
was a doormat, given the way he so willingly surrendered to the impulse to always please those around him.
“You’ve got to stop worrying so much about disappointing people,” Kit went on, “and give a little more thought to what
you want. Honestly. Do you think I got to be class valedictorian by accepting every social invitation I was offered?”
Her perception filled Jerome with a sense that his situation was not unlike one she herself had both faced and conquered. He’d give away his finest pieces of cookware and every necktie he owned, just to stand for a moment in the shoes of Kit Snicket. Occasionally, he would find himself considering what it would be like if the two of them
were to switch places. Or, more logically, how their lives would differ had they been switched at birth. Not that such a thing would have ever had the chance of happening. Jerome was, after all, eight months older than the Snicket triplets. But even this reminder was not strong enough to vanquish the idea from what had always been a very creative and active mind. Would Maxwell Squalor have given Kit the kind of fatherly support and love he seemed unable to express to Jerome? Would Thomas Snicket’s valor and determination have aided Jerome into becoming a more motivated and confident individual, the way it had Kit?
While he had no way of knowing the answers to either of these questions, there was one thing Jerome knew for certain: and that was the knowledge that, whether she lived her life as a Snicket or a Squalor, Kit would always be the lucky one.
“You always
were the lucky one, Adam,” Anderson said now. “While you were blessed with the looks, it was
I who got stuck with this cursed talent!”
Adam scoffed at the other man’s insolence. “Hah! Leave it to
you to disguise an insult as a compliment!”
“I don’t believe it,” Lemony whispered in awe. “I mean
I cannot physically believe it.”“What?” Jacques asked.
“That I’d live long enough to see two people more prone to arguing than Elizabeth and Bertrand.”
“Actually,” Kit said, assuming what Jerome had come to regard as her instructor’s voice, but that most referred to as her know-it-all tone, “Bertrand is what you’d call an observer. It’s
Elizabeth who does the arguing, if you can even call it that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Lemony eyed his sister probingly. “What
would you call it?”
“To put it simply?” Kit’s heart-shaped face transformed into a slight but stately grin. “Guts.”
Uncertain as to what Elizabeth’s opinion was of being the topic of discussion, as well as wondering why she seemingly failed to react at all, Jerome steered a nervous eye in her direction. There she stood, a statuesque figure who towered over most of her peers like an Amazonian princess, lips silent and face alert, her gaze centered sharply on the three triplets.
“It takes
guts not to sit back and let yourself be victimized,” Kit highlighted, pausing briefly to smile at Elizabeth, who blushed and dropped her head as if embarrassed. “And Elizabeth is confident enough to do that. A demeanor like hers does more than imply a strong sense of self: it
earns you the respect and admiration of others.”
Jerome had become so distracted by the various debates happening all around him, that his focus had unwittingly drifted away from Esmé. Now, as she once again fell into the rhythm of his attention, he realized just how quiet she’d become.
No, he thought.
No. Not just quiet. Subdued. Like something’s troubling her.His conclusion was certainly a reasonable one. For Esmé’s concentration had slipped from those around her and onto the floor. Ever so slowly her eyes met those of her boyfriend, who swore that the sparkle reflected in those oceanic blues was far from the result of having received his attention: in contrast, it was the onset of tears.
“Esmé,” he said, and reached forward with the intent of drawing her hand into his. “What is it?”
His fingers had barely brushed the soft skin of her hand, when he suddenly froze. He listened, as animated chatter quickly turned to petrified silence in solute to Steerpike, whose imperious and menacing figure came sweeping through the front doors. As usual, the vice principal was escorted by his lowly son, Nero. The young man’s head was bowed low between his shoulders, making it appear a bushel of hair sprouting from the peak of a short neck.
Like an ominous shadow, Steerpike’s half glare fell upon the two bickering cafeteria workers. “As appalling as I find this latest display of yours,” Steerpike began in a low voice that did nothing to mask his aversion, “to say it comes as a revelation would be a deception. Then again, you know as well as I that V.F.D. is a deeply renowned and respectable academy. As educators, it is our duty to set an example for our students—or, in your case, to those you are under strict obligation to serve.”
Moments passed in which Steerpike wavered, presumably, allowing his small, dark eyes to swerve from one area of the room to the other. For one very brief, very terrifying moment, those eyes lingered on Jerome Squalor, instilling in him a feeling of entrapment. He was aware of the powerless sensation that passed through his body, making him feel like a victim of Medusa’s cursed gaze. He felt himself the object of scrutiny, as though Steerpike was trying to conjure memories of him from somewhere. But how could that be? If Steerpike recognized Jerome from anywhere, it was from the two times the pair had been present in the auditorium. Even so, Jerome found this possibility highly unlikely: after all, he’d been just one student among thousands. Furthermore, he’d never thought himself capable of making a particularly noteworthy impression on anyone. Not unless he counted Esmé, which he certainly did.
A flourish of serenity swept through Jerome then, as Steerpike’s eyes shifted again to Adam and Anderson. For some reason, they did not appear in the least bit intimidated by Steerpike. Unlike Nero, they stood at attention, looking guilty but otherwise unaffected by the lecture they’d just received. But it was not this unexpected communication of courage conveyed by the two cafeteria workers, or the vice principal’s startling bout of hesitation that surprised Jerome. It was the words that spilled forth from what he’d been led to believe was a serpent’s tongue, and the unwearied manner in which those words were delivered, which proved to be the most startling revelation of all.
“While temper is a necessary component to every personality,” Steerpike began, “it can also lead a man to destruction if mishandled. Abide my advice, gentlemen, and those you provide for now will repay you later.”
“What’s he talking about?” Jacques whispered to his siblings. “Aren’t we supposed to pay Adam and Anderson the
instant they give us our food?”
“I don’t think Steerpike meant ‘repay’ as in ‘money’,” Kit explicated. “I think he was using it as some sort of metaphor.”
“A metaphor for what, exactly?”
The youngest of the triplets shrugged. “Search me. If we want answers, then we’re going to have to go straight to the source.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the two Steerpikes, just as they turned and departed back through the doors
“Well, that’s one adventure you can count me
not to be a part of. The last thing I want is to run into Steerpike in a dark alley—let alone anywhere else on the planet!” Jacques declared passionately.
“What about Mars?” Lemony quipped.
“I don’t care if it’s Mars or Pluto! The point is that guy creeps me out, and anywhere creeps go, this volunteer”—Jacques jabbed his chest with his thumb for further emphasis—
“will not follow!”“You must pardon our brother,” Adam intervened, prompting the group of friends to spin their heads and face the pair of cafeteria workers.
“For once, Adam is right,” Anderson concurred. “Claudius knows not what he does, and when he does…well…he’s much too proud to admit it.”
“Excuse me,” Kit said, “but did I hear you right? Did you just say that Vice Principal Steerpike is your
brother?”“Correct as usual, Miss Snicket. Even if he is adopted, we’ve always considered Claudius a part of our family.”
Jerome was unable to grasp how two people—especially ones as blithe and down-two-earth as Adam and Anderson—could speak so commendably of someone like Steerpike. Even Kit, who had always been able to make the best sense out of even the most perplexing of circumstances, was left speechless.
“I never would have guessed. That he’s your brother, I mean. He’s so…” Kit fumbled for the proper words. “So
different, from the two of you.”
Adam grinned. “You’d be amazed how often we hear that.”
“No we wouldn’t.” Jacques’ understandable—though equally negligible—remark earned him an immediate nudge in the side from Elizabeth.
“Is it my imagination,” she hissed in a muted yet visibly irritated tone, “or do you take on the role of Obnoxious Jerk in Bertrand’s absence?”
Jacques’ smile evaporated, and his eyes fell to his hands. The shame of having been reprimanded by his idol was made all the more evident, in the bright red flush that percolated his cheeks. Jerome threw him a compassionate smile. At the same time, though, Jerome felt grateful it wasn’t
he who had provoked Elizabeth’s temper.
“You shouldn’t let Claudius intimidate you,” Anderson advised. Although his eyes were fixed on Kit, it was clear he was speaking to everyone in the group. Jerome watched, insatiably, as Adam handed the tongs over to Anderson, who dipped them into the tub of gravy. He withdrew a sliver of meat, and placed it between two slices of bread. Jerome was practically salivating when Anderson asked, “So, who’s for Anderson Child’s Prime Rib Specialty?”
“Or, if you’d prefer something that’s a little less
bon vivant but still flavorsome,” Adam offered, “I’d be delighted to fix any one of you kids a grilled cheese sandwich.”
The two cafeteria workers exchanged smiles, and it was there, in that moment, that Jerome David Squalor realized something for the very first time.
That there are some arguments whose objective is not to distress, but to amuse.
~
Kudos to anyone who can guess the inspirations behind the two Child brothers.