Page 52 of Perfume Girl
Sitting in his stuffy old office, I waited on the other side of his desk as he reviewed my exam paper.
His gaze rose to meet mine. “This is one hundred percent correct.” He turned the paper for me to see.
“I studied a long time, sir,” I replied meekly.
He slammed his hand on the desk. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not, I swear.”
He pushed to his feet and rounded the desk, looming over me. “You are right-handed as far as I can remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put your left hand on the desk.”
I did as he asked and watched in horror as he reached for the ruler and raised it high.
The ruler snapped down on my flesh and pain shot through my fingers. I jerked my hand back and hugged it to my chest.
“Hand down,” he ordered. “No one cheats in this school.”
“But I didn’t, sir.”
“One more lie and you’ll be back in solitary confinement. Do you understand?”
No, not that…anything but that small, dark room where my thoughts consumed me and I was forced to replay every second of my life…
All the way back to that night at Bridgestone.
“Hand on the desk,” he repeated.
My gaze broke away from his fierce stare as a bell rang out. The other students were free to play outside, free to roam the library, or the playground, they were free to hide from the monks and be free of pain.
A rapping pulled our attention to the door, and Father Renaldo stepped in to the Dean’s office. He gave me a comforting smile and then turned his attention to the Dean.
“I heard what happened,” he said, his concerned gaze roaming over me.
“He’s refusing to admit it,” the Dean said tersely.
“Let’s give the boy a chance, Ari.”
“A chance to do what?”
“I have another test paper here. Let’s see how he does on this one?” He handed it over to the Dean, who studied it with an intrigued expression.
“This is for boys a year above his level.”
Father Renaldo nodded. “It will prove he has a gift for science.”
They set me up in the corner of the Dean’s office, at a desk that was too high for me. I barely reached it. My hand felt like it was on fire, but I tried to ignore the pain as I read the questions and answered each one.
This exam was harder than the test I’d just finished, and I cursed the letter I’d written for my mother. That bad decision had caused this. Had I merely sat there quietly going over my answers, I wouldn’t have a bruised and swollen hand now. Or the threat of going into that room, alone, for days.
Within an hour, I had completed the exam. I sat patiently and watched Father Renaldo and the Dean read over my answers.
Father Renaldo’s gaze rose to meet mine, and he said to the Dean, “I have a friend at Eton. He’s the right age.”
“Would his mother approve?” asked the Dean.
