Boys in the Valley(30)

But not yet.

For now, we would wait. There was time.

“Hey, Peter!”

I’m about to enter the dorm when I hear the voice. I turn around, startled from my thoughts. Behind me, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the open doorway of the cloakroom, are Simon and Bartholomew.

“What is it?” I say, stepping no closer.

“Can we talk to you a minute?” Simon asks, smiling like he always does. Cheerful. Innocent. Next to him, Bartholomew does not smile, and watches me closely. It makes me uncomfortable, that studious stare.

“Not now,” I say. “I’m in a hurry.”

Bartholomew takes a jerky step forward; his face catches a shadow and dissolves. “Why so eager, Peter?” And now he does smile, but his grin contains no cheer, no innocence. It’s somehow too wide, as if his lips are stretched, his teeth crowded. “What’s the rush, little rabbit?”

I start to reply, then stop. My blood chills, my face goes numb.

Little rabbit?

“So talk,” I say, infusing the words with whatever meager bravado I can muster.

“Not here,” Simon says, looking up and down the hallway, as if wary of hidden conspirators. He points into the cloakroom. “In private.”

“Please,” Bartholomew adds, stepping aside to let me through, as if it’s all well-and-done.

“Can’t,” I say, swallowing hard. I know my coat and hat are in that room, but I’ve already decided to forgo them. I’ll add a second shirt if I must, but right now, with these two at my heels? No, I wouldn’t step foot into that cloakroom if all the devils of hell were chasing me. I can’t say why. Just something I know. Something I feel. A warning. “Look, I’m heading to get supplies with Father Andrew. Maybe later, okay? He’s waiting for me.”

Simon starts to say something—his smile now wiped away—but Bartholomew touches his sleeve, and my old friend pulls the words back.

“Sure, Peter,” Bartholomew says. “Later.”

I nod and, without another word, turn away and push through the dormitory doors. I walk quickly to my bed, sit down and slip off my shoes. I quickly pull on the stocky leather boots we use for field work, then kneel on the floor to lace them.

I take a look around to make sure no one is paying close attention, then slide my leather book satchel from beneath the bed, the one which contains my tutoring books and my Bible. As I do, I slip my other hand beneath my mattress and pull free another book—one that has a letter inside—and slip it into the satchel.

“Where you going?”

I turn my head, breath caught in my chest, to see little Basil standing at the foot of my bed. I exhale heavily, my tense muscles relaxing.

“You scared me, Bas,” I say, and stand up, hoisting the bag onto my shoulder. I motion as if to depart, but Basil doesn’t move. He continues to stand beside my bed, effectively blocking my exit. It’s unlike him, and it unsettles me.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he says.

“What’s that, Basil?” I ask, impatience boiling inside me like water over fire. The run-in with Simon and Bartholomew has already unnerved me but, more than that, I’m anxious to be on the road, to see Grace.

“Oh, I dunno . . .” he says airily, glancing around the room. I follow suit but see nothing extraordinary. Most of the kids are napping, and those few still awake are paying us no mind. “It’s hard to explain,” he says, rubbing the rough tussle of black hair atop his head, as if trying to work out a riddle. “It’s like . . .”

I take a deep breath and let it out. I will myself to be patient. Basil is a sensitive kid, and he needs me more than most; needs to feel he’s protected, that he’s cared for. I take a knee, put a hand on his thin shoulder, and look him in the eye. “Like what? What is it, Basil?”

He leans in close, his mouth only inches from my ear, and whispers.

“It’s like everyone is taking sides.”

For the second time in as many minutes, my blood turns icy in my veins. Something in his words strikes me as truth, but I don’t understand why, or how, that could be. I don’t know what’s happening, but I would be lying if I didn’t believe that something is off about the way everyone has been acting the last couple days.

Since the doors blew open and the cross fell.

Since the men came.

But then I think of Grace, and of Andrew waiting for me at the wagon, and of the letter, ink-scratched with my handwriting, tucked inside The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the book I’ve been harboring beneath my mattress.

Basil leans back, his face still close, eyes searching mine. But I don’t know what to tell him, what it all means. If anything at all. I try to smile, give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

I must leave!

“Sides for what, Basil? What are you saying?”

Basil shrugs in a way that seems indifferent to the world, to himself, to me.

It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

“I dunno,” he says with a sigh. “No one’s asked me.”

“Asked you what?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m included.”

I remove my hand from his shoulder, try to keep the hurry out of my voice. “Basil, I’m sure . . . whatever you think is happening, it’s nothing to worry about, okay? You’re just upsetting yourself. We’ve had a rough couple days, and you should probably lie down, get some rest. Whatever you’re thinking, or whatever you think is going on . . . it’s all in your head.”