Heathens and Liars-Excerpt 2

Blaine Moreau

If you want me to blab about all the bad things I've done, first you must understand that I'm not a reliable narrator, but I'm a damn good storyteller. I fancy myself an agent of change, the catalyst of adventure, and summarily the antithesis of sobriety. I guess my side of the story starts at Exeter Academy—this insanely preppy school in downtown, in case you couldn't tell by the designation Academy.

But anyways, I was sitting in the lobby waiting for an admissions interview.

I sat on a apple-green divan feeling broken and lousy for what might have been eternity. Having stayed up till four in the morning the night before, I could not fathom another all-nighter. Needed something to keep me awake, keep my eyes peeled wide open. Staring at my hands, I let my mind wander. Couldn't stop shaking, damn it. Always so jittery. Anxiety tasted so bitter.

My parents hoped for a scholarship. I just hoped that I wouldn't vomit all over the headmaster. The pills kicked in. The room shook underneath me. I sat thinking, shit shit shit.

Everything in the place so unreal, the pills made the Academy trippy as Hell. I counted forty-two sconces along the corridor that lead me into the central lobby. They called it a parlor, though the room looked like the lobby of some fancy hotel. With marble floors and a lit fireplace, for fuck's sake. Those sconces. On Halloween, I bet they lit torches in them.

Why the Hell should anyone have torches in a school?

I couldn't sit still so I read about this painter called Albrecht Dürer on Wikipedia, which I know (according to only a hundred English teachers) isn't the best source of info, but you might be surprised how much you can learn on the Internet. Blew me away that we sat around with these devices in our pockets capable of summoning any knowledge created in the history of human history but instead we used that gateway to eternity to laugh at cat memes and watch amateur porn.

I was getting jouncy when some porn-star-look-alike secretary came to ask me back.

When the headmaster sat down to speak with me, he delicately licked his lips. My hair always made a bad impression. He watched me watch him.

"Blaine, is it?"

Across his desk on a bronze strip stood the headmaster's name in bold letters: Rupert Leopold Peregrine IV.

"Yes," I answered.

He cocked his head, waiting for me to mutter, "sir." I began to wonder whether I smelled too much like pot. Maybe he thought it was just some noxious new cologne: Cannabis Sativa by Polo Ralph Lauren.

"I'm here to talk about attending the Academy," I said, sitting up straighter.

"Of course you are. Well... I've been looking at your transcript. What happened your sophomore year? Your grades suffered."

"Not all. Not in—"

"Algebra. Yes. When it comes to the calculating art of mathematics, it seems you're talented. But do those talents overshadow a severe lack of discipline? You realize you've been given a gift?" He adjusted his glasses and attempted a laser-beam-stare, the sort adults assume when trying to operate authority.

"Well, my parents—"

"At Exeter, we expect the best from our students. We pride ourselves on producing the finest young gentlemen in the South. And women—them too, of course. If you presume to become a part of our tradition, I'd like to see some shaping up. Your disciplinary records are not—ah, outstanding."

I admired his confidence, speaking with the voice of a man sleeping with his secretary.

"I'm aware I've suffered a few altercations. I've missed a lot of school, but—Lickskillet High did not challenge me as I am sure Exeter will. Besides, my condition..."

That was my pocket ace. What no one understood, no one could presume to explain. I only had to mention my condition to garner immediate sympathy: my brutal gift.

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