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5
“Ihave a plan,” Rory says easily at lunch, and this is a relief to hear after sitting through the tensest math lesson in the world, followed by physics class, where Danny and I met each other’s gazes in total bewilderment.
“Heard ye called Arabella a cunt,” Finlay says, looking impressed as he scoops some salad onto his plate. “Big barney in maths.”
“No, I called Moncrieff a cunt,” Rory corrects. “Which is what he is.”
“Do we get to know what this plan is?” Danny asks, still as nervous as he’s looked all morning.
“DoI?” Luke asks more pressingly.
“No. Just know I have a plan and that all will be well.”
And so Rory sits there, not eating, his hands tucked behind his head, his calculating gaze scanning all the faces of the dining hall, as though ranking them into good guys and cunts. His plaid tie falls to the side and his school shirt hitches slightly, showing off the briefest flash of skin that neither Finlay nor I fail to notice — and both of our gazes connect knowingly as together we watch Rory flex.
Rory’s too distracted, however, his attention drifting from the gremlins to Arabella, to the staff table and Dr. Moncrieff. And then to Baxter, who, who…
Who’s coming straight toward us.
“Ro,” Finlay says in a deliberately calm voice. “No’ tae make ye worry or anythin’ but Baxter’s hotfootin’ it over tae ye.”
There’s a triumphant glint in Rory’s silver eyes. “Good.”
“Mr. Munro,” the headmistress says, her voice tight and clipped. Her long black robe billows as she walks, and as much as I wish I wasn’t intimidated on Rory’s behalf, Baxter can’t help but look scary with those piercing eyes of hers that never miss a trick. “Follow me, please.” She doesn’t wait, only continues onward in the direction of her office. Rory gives us all a winning smirk before standing up and following behind at a casual stroll, his hands tucked into his pockets.
“We’ve only had one morning of classes,” I murmur, watching Rory’s departing back, “and shit’s already hitting the fan.”
Absently, Luke twirls a fork in his pasta. “I think it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse.”
Finlay glances around the dining hall then lowers his voice as he asks Luke, “Ye think comin’ tae Lochkelvin was a mistake?”
Luke doesn’t meet Finlay’s intense gaze but his resigned demeanor says it all. “If it’s gonna be like this,” Luke says, and despite the seriousness of the subject matter, I still find myself proud that my elocution lessons were a success, “then I don’t want to stay here. Rory promised protection, and now he says he has some kind of plan.” He gives a pointed glance to the remainder of the hall, where all eyes are, again, on us. “Whatever it is, I’m not exactly feeling its effects.”
“It’s only day one,” Danny notes. “People haven’t seen you since the news broke. Things will settle when you aren’t as much of a novelty.”
“I think you need to take all attention off you,” I say, and it feels like summer again, that Luke’s the project under our protection and we have to hide and disguise him, to make him as normal and boring as possible. Which is difficult to do when he’s such an effervescent soul. “Be as interesting as, you know, a rock. Don’t fight back. Don’t provoke. Don’t defend. Just say and donothing.”
“Gee, sassenach, that sounds dull as fuck,” Finlay drawls, “but it may be the only thing tae work around here. Keep yer heid doon, big man, and stay oot o’ trouble.”
“I’m over six feet tall and I’m supposed to keep my head down? It’s hardly going to make a difference, is it?”
There’s a moment of silence after this, as we all think about the best way to proceed through this uncharted territory. And then Danny pipes up, “I wonder what Rory’s plan is. He usually has something good, something we haven’t yet considered.”
I’m too distracted to answer, however, because the staff table catches my eye. Dr. Moncrieff is laughing with Professor Hodgson, looking far too relaxed and shameless about it for one of the main instigators of the dossier, for someone who’s heaped this chaos on us. On Luke.
I can’t believe my politics teacher is still here, living his best life consequence-free. He runs a hand casually through his sandy hair, his hair a too-familiar shade, and my stomach twists and turns as I’m reminded of Benji.
“Ihave a plan,” I mutter to the others, still focused on the jerk laughing away at the staff table like the world is all sunshine and rainbows, “and I don’t think it’s anything Rory’s considered.” I pause before revealing the inevitable: “We should talk to Dr. Moncrieff.”
I don’t tell them the real reason why.
I don’t mention that he needs to be taken down – or that I want to be the one to do it.
* * *
Incidentally, politics is the next class of the day. Rory’s back, sitting all relaxed behind me and next to Finlay, but his lips are firmly sealed regarding any future plans. Arabella looks repulsed as she plunks herself down beside me — and really, the feeling is very much mutual. I have no idea how we’re supposed to work constructively inpoliticsof all subjects this semester, much less follow the teachings of our utterly biased instructor. We sit as far apart as physically possible, and while Arabella makes cow eyes at Dr. Moncrieff, I glare hard at the chalkboard, wishing I had the telekinetic powers to make it tumble onto Moncrieff’s stupid sandy-haired head.
“Welcome back, class — it seems we’ve all had a busy summer,” Dr. Moncrieff decides should be his opening gambit as he lifts a white piece of chalk.
