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6
“Iwant to talk to you.”
The rest of the class files out of the room. Rory’s gaze is inscrutable, and I can’t tell if he approves of my plan or not. For a moment, he and Finlay stand at their desk. I have the feeling they want to stay with me, but I know I’ll get more out of Dr. Moncrieff without the chiefs trying to intimidate him, and so I smile that I’m okay and wave at them to leave.
The remainder of politics had been tepid to say the least, with Dr. Moncrieff droning on about the necessity of organizing politically to effect change. No need to guess where he got the idea from.
Dr. Moncrieff straightens up some paperwork before sliding it into his satchel. His reddened face is framed by his long sandy hair, and I have flashbacks of tying up Benji’s hair with my scarlet ribbon the night he broke out of the castle. Why did I give him a ribbon? Why did I give him such a private, personal token of myself? I feel like I must have been hypnotized, that Benji in his own way can weave spells with his charisma and drown people inside it.
The amber eyes of his older brother are softer and kinder than Benji’s, however, and as Dr. Moncrieff reluctantly regards me, he wears the expression of a man who’d rather be anywhere else at all.
“What is it, Jessa?” he asks tiredly, setting himself down on the edge of his desk and folding his arms across his chest.
Arabella’s still hovering near the door, and as Dr. Moncrieff gestures at her to leave, I take a moment to note the symmetry of the moment — of how diametrically opposed we are in values, and yet how prepared others are to stick up for me and Dr. Moncrieff.
“This summer. The dossier.Your brother.”
If Dr. Moncrieff is shocked by what I know, he hides it incredibly well. His gaze doesn’t flicker once, and his only hint of discomfort is in the tightening of his crossed arms.
His mouth remains firmly shut, however, so I add with more confidence than I feel, “I want an explanation.”
Dr. Moncrieff’s expression grows puzzled. “An explanation about what? And to you — why?”
“Because you know I’m involved just like you.” It’s the first time I’ve spoken it out loud to a non-chief, and a curious thrill thrums down my body. It feels wrong to admit it in the open. It feels scary and dangerous to acknowledge my part in this clandestine plot. I’ve spent the summer racked with guilt and trying to distance myself from my actions, but it’s still true: whether I want to be or not, I’m involved.
Unlike Dr. Moncrieff, however, I’ve chosen to turn my back on it and repent.
“Then you’ll know why I did it,” he says quietly, leaning away from the desk as if to leave.
“No.” My voice is direct and clear. Its strength surprises him, because he stops on his way to the door and glances back at me, brows furrowed.
His tone is dry when he asks, “Are you their spokeswoman now?”
I ignore this snide little comment. “I just want to know the truth,” I say, and I realize how raw this statement is: that it’s the distillation of my whole being. All I’ve ever wanted to know is the truth — about the chiefs, about Lochkelvin, about the world and the way it works.
“And the truth only extends to you, does it?” Dr. Moncrieff asks, turning around fully. “It doesn’t extend to the rest of the country?”
It’s a sharp question, its honesty brutal as it’s fired toward me. “There are ways and means,” I point out. “The way I see it, that dossier should never have been released to the public. Not like that. You’ve generated confusion, maybe even a civil war with the way things are going. Luke is a student at this school — he deserved protection — and your actions have endangered his life.”
Dr. Moncrieff glances up at the ceiling in exasperation. This feels strange, like a role reversal — I’m the teacher tellinghimoff, my wayward and disappointing student. “Am I expected to shed tears for the bonny prince? Perhaps he ought to have thought of the potential consequences before partaking in the biggest political scandal of the century.”
His words are so disturbing that I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. “Luke is aboy,” I snap. “You’re a grown man. A teacher! Villainizing a student here, who is, through no fault of his own, caught in this storm.” Staring Dr. Moncrieff down, I shake my head in awed disquiet. “You need to get a grip of yourself.”
“But don’t yousee?” Dr. Moncrieff places his briefcase on a desk in the front row with the kind of thud that means business. “If they’ve lied about this, what else are they lying about? Despite what I said earlier in class, your marks have improved significantly since you first arrived here so I know you’re a smart girl when you want to be, Jessa. You must realize the implications of this.”
“But—”
“I teach politics for a living. I’m an academic. If I spout baloney about the monarchy and openly support false kings, then I may as well hand in my notice. While I’m at it, why not give a final lecture about the Earth being flat and the Moon being made of cheese? I may as well if I’ve already lost all credibility.”
“You took a stance,” I mumble, and suddenly I’m not feeling half the bravery as I started with. I can see his perspective all too well. I can see how he — like Finlay — thought he’d been doing something noble and important, something for the greater good. “You didn’t need to. That’s the point. I remember you making me shelve all those books — you roped me into this from the very start, too.”
Dr. Moncrieff surveys me coolly, as though waiting for me to get to the point.
“I didn’twantto be part of this,” I blurt, and it’s another thing I haven’t said out loud since knowing Benji. “But you and Benji — you forced the issue.” I gesture to Dr. Moncrieff, standing tall and unfazed in his tweed suit with his polished briefcase and gleaming leather shoes. “And you stand there, looking like you don’t regret a single thing, and I don’t understand why when it’seaten me up insideall summer.”
His face softens slightly, becomes less defensive and frown-free. “Oh, Jessa,” he sighs, moving closer to me. “It’s simple. You don’t understand because you’reyoung.” When he notices me bristle, he tries to suppress an almost fond smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Compared to you, I’m battle-hardened. I’ve done my time in the trenches, in the thick of marches and protests, of writing pamphlets and letters, organizing meetings and trying to — well, make change happen, I suppose.” He leans against the desk again, his expression ponderous. “You develop focus, then, when you dedicate your time to a cause. It threatens to become all-consuming. So you take your wins where you can get them, and the opportunities to win when you can.”
“You’re saying activism becomes a sport,” I mutter, mostly as a revelation to myself, because the way Dr. Moncrieff is talking reminds me of me when I cared about such things.
