Page 22 of Considering Us

“No, she’s not,” he conceded. “I better take a seat with the rest of the Board,” he said. “Sorry about all this, Devon. I hope the job is going okay. Other than right now, of course.”

I nodded, knowing I had said enough, and retired to the catering station. Andrea stood alone, shocked by everything that had transpired. The chapel bells rang, signaling that it was four o’clock. It was time for the ceremony to begin.

Ward Connelly emerged from the woods in dramatic fashion, wearing tight black jeans, work boots, and a big camel-colored cape. A large cowboy hat sat atop his head. He marched past his creation and through the crowd, causing students and other guests to have to move out of his way. He made his way to the podium, kissed a stunned Andrea on the cheek, and sat down in the front row. I glanced at Julianna, who sat watching him with a knowing, sly smile.Well, that confirms it,I thought.

The Chairman of the Board spoke for a few minutes in generic terms about the value of a Rockwood education and the importance of art in our daily lives. Andrea gathered herself together enough to thank the Board for her appointment and to express her excitement about the art installation about to be revealed. “This is the first thing that guests and prospective students and their families will see as they drive through the iron gates of Rockwood,” she said. “It will be a symbol of who we are, what we are about, and what we dream about for our future. Simply, it will encompass all that is Rockwood.” The crowd clapped, and several students whistled and cheered. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, as we’ve watched Mr. Connelly and his crew escape underneath drapes and tarps over the last few weeks, toiling in sweltering heat to finish their work for our event today. Without further ado, The Stallion!”

A facilities team member pulled a rope, and the cloth was ripped away. Perched high atop a slim black pole was a large charcoal gray, smooth, shiny cylinder, pointed at one end, tilted at an angle, aiming toward the sky. And that was it.

Murmurs shot through the crowd. “What is it?” “Isn’t that sort of,you know…” “Weeks and weeks for that?” “That’s a horse? It doesn’t look like a horse.” “I thought he was supposed to be good.” And finally, a student yelled out, “It looks like a penis!”

From that point on, everything went out of control. Andrea tried to calm everyone down, but the student section was laughing and hooting. Many of the locals were arguing with each other, probably about whether it was good art or not. Countless pictures were snapped of the chaos—and video recorded—and inevitably uploaded to social media. The Board members looked perplexed. And Ward Connelly started to grow furious that he wasn’t getting the respect that he seemed to believe he deserved.

A familiar voice boomed through the crowd. “Enough! Come on, students. You can all decide on your own if you like this or not. That’s why it’s art. It’s up to you. Remember the painting ‘Washington Crossing the Delaware’? Remember when I told you Mark Twain didn’t think it was all that great? Super famous painting still today hanging in the Met in New York, and Mark-fucking-Twain of all people panned it.”

“Mr. Holling!” pleaded Andrea. “I know what you’re trying to do, but please! Language!” She gestured to the Board of Trustees members, who were watching everything play out before them with a combination of fascination and confusion.

“Sorry, Ms. Lark,” Kyle said. “But my point is that you get to decide. But we can’t be assholes about it. There I go again. Sorry,” he said to Andrea. “Can we end this now? Ms. Paige has some cookies, I know. You all love Ms. Paige’s cookies.”

“Cookies!” the students started yelling, and soon I was flooded with teenagers grabbing their new favorite treats. I looked over at Andrea, who threw up her hands, and the formal part of the event appeared to be over.

When all the cookies were taken, and I began cleaning up, Kyle walked over to me. “No more cookies, I assume.”

“All gone,” I said. “There will be more soon, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Midsy is next week. People will be looking for them then.”

I watched as the crew began hauling away chairs, tables, and sound equipment. “What the hell is Midsy?”

“Midway through the first semester. Rockwood has tried to rebrand it over the years as something called Night of a Thousand Laughs, and there are all these comedy performances, improv, that sort of thing. But it’s still Midsy. And there are always tons of pranks. We’ll see how Andrea deals with it this year. It can be a doozy for the administration.”

“Ugh. Another event that no one told me about. I need some recovery time from this one.”

“Yeah, this one sucked pretty bad. You did great. But Jesus Christ,” he said, gesturing at the sculpture—if you could call it that. Rockwood security, along with an officer from the tiny St. George’s police force, were standing guard. They had helped to disperse the crowd, and an additional officer walked Ward home in case anyone harassed him. It had been a bad scene.

“So, all that about judging for yourself was just talk? You think it’s a piece of crap?” I looked up at the artwork. It was not my cup of tea, but I didn’t know much about art either.

“Oh, people should definitely judge for themselves, that’s for sure. Some of them might love it. It might speak to them in some way. Personally, I think it’s one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s almost embarrassing. And I think Andrea’s got a rough road ahead of her with this one. People in town arenot happy. The neighbors who live across the street are pissed. This one old lady told me she doesn’t want to look at a phallic symbol every time she gets the mail or newspaper.”

“Oh my God. Do you really think he intended it to be, well,that?”

“Who knows,” said Kyle. “I’ve never talked to the dude. Did you get that impression of him?”

I looked around and didn’t see anyone within earshot. “Not really. He was strange, that’s for sure. But I did learn something really interesting from Adrienne Preston.”

“Adrienne? You talked to her again?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “You want to go have a drink?” I asked, and soon, we walked down to the bridge connecting St. George’s to Portsmouth, heading to the little pub on the other side.

12

The Horse was a tiny dive bar on the very edge of Portsmouth, owned and operated by a local Rockwood alumni family. Kyle had gone with me a few times earlier that fall, and I liked it because it tended to be favored by the younger and less elitist Rockwood staff. The older crowd frequented some of the stuffier Portsmouth establishments and, as I had learned, The Barnacle. The Horse was comfortable in the sense that it wasn’t snobby or highbrow, but I also didn’t risk the whiskey sours there, and Kyle knew it. “Two Jack and gingers, please,” he said as we pulled up stools opposite the bartender. “You want to come to Boston with me tomorrow to see Annie in her play? She’s actually in a production ofAnnie, believe it or not. But she’s not Annie. She’s one of the orphans who only has, like, two lines. It’s super exciting for her, though.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, taking a sip and almost coughing. “This might have a splash of ginger ale in it. I wish I could. I made some other plans,” I said, knowing he could see right through me.

“Oh, this is the date, right? Mr. Muscle Man—who saves people’s lives and could probably save the planet from everyone and everything if he decided to, all while looking very handsome and smiling at the adoring ladies throughout his lifesaving mission. Nope, not jealous at all,” he mused, knocking back about half his drink.

“Easy there,” I chided. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll be boring as hell. Or he’ll smell bad. Or he’ll have some really gross habit. You never know.”

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