Page 7 of Riot House
Doctor Fitzpatrick cuts off, dropping his hands to his sides. Exasperated, he shakes his head. “Honestly, I have to say I’m impressed with the prose. Great use of the word lurid. And cunny? You must have had to look that one up, Jacobi.”
All eyes turn to Wren.
Of course he wrote it. I am the mostunsurprised person in the world. It totally tracks that this devil in a black t-shirt handed inVictorian pornas his English assignment. He doesn’t look the slightest bit remorseful as he levels his steady gaze on the doc. “I did,” he says. “The Internet’s a remarkable place. All kinds of weird shit, if you know what you’re looking for.”
“You do realize that this piece was supposed to be on the Victorian sense ofmorality, right?” Doctor Fitzpatrick asks.
Wren shrugs. “I do. And they had none. The Victorians were just as horny, depraved and dirty as we are. They were just better at hiding it. There were just as many filthy books about fucking back then as there were books about sweet, subjugated women who lived by strict rules of propriety. They just didn’t get the same kind of press.”
“So, you’re saying woman were painted as weak, subjugated creatures in a lot of Victorian literature?”
Wren sighs wearily, like he shouldn’t have to explain any of this. “I’m not saying it. It’s what happened. Austin made out like women back then were virtuous, good, wholesome creatures who never once thought about getting laid. It was all a lie, Fitz. Women have liked to get fucked since the dawn of time, just like guys. The fact that the Victorians used to guard that little tidbit like it was some huge fucking secret makes them even kinkier than us.”
Doctor Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows inch up. I think he’s unimpressed by Wren’s argument, but also grudginglyimpressed by it, too. Tossing the paper at Wren, the doc sends the sheaf of paper fluttering down to the boy’s feet. “Do it again. Forty-eight hours, Jacobi. Stick to the assignment brief or you’ll find yourself doing it over for a third time. Thiswillbe your Groundhog Day of essays until you do it right. And no curse words. You should know by now that shock tactics won’t work with me.”
Wren leaves his assignment on the thin Persian rug at his feet. Most guys would be irritated by the fact that they had to rewrite an essay from the beginning, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s taking the whole thing completely in stride. “Shock tactics work on everyone. I just haven’t found the rightlevelof shocking for you yet, Fitz. I’m nothing if not persistent. Leave it with me. I’ll figure it out before the end of term.”
God, this guy’s a pro at concocting statements that sound like thinly disguised threats. I wonder if he speaks this way to his parents. My father would knock my head off my shoulders if I dared speak to him or any of my teachers that way. Wren might have army personnel for folks, but we must have had a very different upbringing if he knows he can get away with this shit.
Doctor Fitzpatrick smiles wide, pinching his tongue between his teeth as he turns away from Wren Jacobi, inhales deeply, and faces the rest of the class. “All right, kids. We’re starting a new game today. Who wants to volunteer?” His gaze alights on me, and he comically slaps his hand to his forehead. “Ah shit. We have a newcomer in our midst. I totally forgot. Fuck, I made cookies, too. Elllloiiiise, right?” he says, wincing at me.
Eloise is a common one. I’ve had all sorts, though. Emily. Evelyn. Elena. Apparently, my given name isn’t as common in other countries as it is in France. “Close. It’s Elodie. Like Melody, but without the M.” I smile when I correct him to let him know I’m not offended. He nods, wagging his finger at me. A girl sitting a bean bag three people over from me sighs deliriously when the guy spins around to face a white board on wheels and we all get to see just how tight his grey pants are across his pert ass.
“In lieu of any weird ‘stand up and tell us all about yourself’nonsense, I’m afraid you’ll have to be nominated as volunteer for our game today, Elodie,” he says, scrawling my name onto the surface of the whiteboard in red marker. Surprisingly, he spells it correctly first time.
“She can’t be a volunteer if you nominate her,” Damiana gripes, casting a sour look over her shoulder at me. “How is that fair? Some of us have been waiting our turn for months, Fitz.”
“Oh, stop whining. I think we’re all tired of the ceaseless droning of your voice, child.”
Wow. I mean, I thought that it was wild, the way Wren spoke to Doctor Fitzpatrick, but honestly, the way he speaks to us is a little out there, too. The doc doesn’t come across like a typical professor; he seems like a normal, functioning human being instead of an academic robot, trying to hustle us through the curriculum as fast as he possibly can. It’s refreshing. Doesn’t hurt that he calls people like Damiana out on her shit when she’s being bitchy, either. I think I really like this guy.
Until he tells me to come stand in front of the class.
“Come on, Still…?”
“Water,” I supply.
“Come on, Stillwater. On your feet. Front and center. You’ve got a job to do.”
Mortified, I look at Carina, hoping for a miracle that’ll mean I can remain sitting with her. Her forehead creases, an apologetic look on her face. “Sorry, dude. I should have realized he’d do this. Best to just go up there and get it over with.”
Urgh. What a fucking nightmare. I get up from the sofa so slowly that it feels like I’m wading through glue. Once I’m at the front of the class, I turn around, donning a bright, cheery (fake) smile, and I face the class down. In fairness, this is a small class by anyone’s standards. There are probably only fifteen students lazing around like spoiled cats in Doctor Fitzpatrick’s den, which is a relief.
“What’s the game?” I ask through my teeth, trying to loosen up the smile a little—it can’t look real right now, it’s far too tense. I hate this kind of thing. I hate moving schools, and I hate meeting new people, and I hate learning all the new rules. I hate learning all the new games, too.
Doctor Fitzpatrick beams as he perches on the edge of the windowsill near Wren’s leather couch. He doesn’t seem to have a desk in here, either. “Anyone care to explain the rules to Elodie, class?” This is entertaining to him. He’s actually enjoying being here, teaching his students. In five different countries and in five different schools, I’ve never encountered another professor who enjoys his job.
A guy in the back, leaning against one of the book stacks, speaks up without raising his hand. “It’s a popularity contest,” he announces without looking up from the Rubik’s Cube he’s idly spinning in his hands. “You stand up there as directed by our venerated puppet master, and you give us a debate argument. The argument has to be related to books or the English language. If the class argues your debate topic in an entertaining way without Fitz getting bored, you score an automatic A on the next assignment he sets.”
Hold up now…
What??
The doc’s going to correct the guy and explain the game properly any second now. Surely.No?Doctor Fitzpatrick sits on the edge of the windowsill, smiling quite happily. He doesn’t even object to the fact that this kid just called him ‘our venerated puppet master.’
I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to do. I’d love to say I don’t really give a shit about my grades here at Wolf Hall, but the sad truth is that the monthly allowance my father loads onto my AMEX is directly related to my GPA. I know how it works all too well: I ace my tests and assignments, and I’ll have plenty of funds to survive on here. I ding my record, or I don’t perform as well as Colonel Stillwater expects me to, then I’ll be left to eke out a very depressing existence on next to nothing.
I haven’t explored the food situation around these parts yet, but I’m assuming there’s a diner or maybe even a café. A restaurant if I’m lucky. It’d be nice to dine on edible food every once in a while, and not have to boil up water and choke down Top Ramen for breakfast, lunch and dinner, s’all I’m saying. An A right out of the gate? That’d make itmuchharder for Colonel Stillwater to garnish my allowance.
