The Academy

1. Move-In Day

Audre thinks of each new school year as a blank composition book, a fresh box of sharpened pencils—but this reveals her age. To these kids, it’s… what? An empty Google doc, the cursor blinking at the top of a laptop screen?

She’s always the first one up, Cinnamon’s best friend, Davi Banerjee, said on that fateful day last spring. It was Davi, the queen bee of her class, who was dispatched to the Residence to alert Audre because the head of security, Mr. James, didn’t come on duty until ten. I think something’s wrong.

Something was, in fact, wrong. Hideously, tragically wrong.

Audre shivers despite the heat of the day—early September is still full summer; the temperature is nearing eighty even at this early hour—and she forces a smile for the next car, a Hyundai Sonata with Georgia plates, a rental.

Audre sees a woman with a graying ponytail wearing a GO ’brEDS T-shirt in the driver’s seat, and on the passenger side, a boy hunched over his knees.

That’s what happens, Audre thinks, when you accordion a six-foot-four frame into a midsize sedan.

It’s Webber “Dub” Austin, the Thoroughbreds’ starting quarterback.

He unfolds himself from the car, removes his massive headphones, and rolls his sunglasses up into his bushy hair, which has gotten a few shades lighter over the summer.

He has tan lines on his face where his sunglasses rest. What does Dub do for a summer job?

Audre wonders. Park ranger? Ranch hand? The hair will be shaved off by tomorrow.

In his cowboy accent, Dub says, “Mornin’, Ms. Robinson. ”

“Dub,” Audre says, and she rounds the car to give the boy a hug.

By the end of the month, Audre will know every student by name, though she occasionally gets tripped up by all the Madisons and Olivias. She tries not to have favorites—but she feels extra protective of this year’s fifth-form. They’ve been through a lot.

The mother climbs out. The students have a joke where they call one another’s mothers “Karen,” but Dub’s mother is actually named Karen, Karen Austin.

She’s the single mom of four boys, of whom Dub is number three; he’s attending on a full scholarship (athletic, though in his case, need-based as well).

Dub’s oldest brother played football at Colorado State; the second brother is a wide receiver at CU Boulder.

Then there’s Dub. But the real star is apparently the youngest brother, who is starting quarterback as a freshman for their high school back in Durango.

Audre doesn’t usually retain this much information about the students’ families—especially those who never donate—but she has had an earful on the Austin family from Coach Pete Bosworth.

Audre gives Karen a hug as well, and Karen says in her ear, “How’re you doing?”

Audre has anticipated being asked this question several times today, and so she’s formulated an answer that she hopes strikes the right tone.

(What is the right tone when a student has died by suicide on your watch, but you have 239 other kids in your care who deserve a top-notch educational experience?)

“We’re all still hurting,” Audre says. “But optimistic about the year ahead.”

Karen releases Audre and says with watering eyes, “Good for you.”

“How’s Dub handling it?” Audre asks in a whisper, though it’s doubtful he’ll hear her. He’s been out of the car for mere seconds and is already being swarmed by Olivia P., Madison R., and Olivia H-T.

Karen stares at the car key she’s gripping in her hand. “You know, he’s my sensitive one.” Then she snaps back into her no-nonsense boy-mom persona and calls out, “Hey, Romeo, help me get this shit out of the car, please.”

Audre opens the Sonata’s back door. Sticking out of a gaping duffel bag is a framed picture of Dub and Cinnamon Peters last Halloween—they went as Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift—with Dub’s hand placed chastely on Cinnamon’s upper back.

All the other students considered them #couplegoals.

They weren’t gross, they didn’t make out in public, you never heard rumors about them “joining the Harkness Society” (having sex on the Harkness tables) or sneaking down to God’s Basement below the chapel, though they were always together, deep in conversation, laughing.

Cinnamon cheered from the sidelines with her face painted green and gold when Dub played football.

Dub sat in the front row on the opening night of the high school musical, a bouquet of convenience store roses on his lap. Cinnamon was Sandy in Grease.

At the memorial service in the chapel, Dub called Cinnamon a “friend of his heart.” Not a dry eye, of course.

Audre leaves the duffel bag where it is and grabs a bulk-size box of protein bars from the trunk instead. Her cell phone buzzes in the back pocket of her jeans, but she has to wait for a break between cars before she can check it.

It’s a text from Jesse Eastman, known to all, including Audre’s phone, as “Big East,” the president of Tiffin’s board of directors. Have you seen the rankings yet?

Ugh, Audre thinks.

Before coming to Tiffin, Audre served as Head at an all-girls day school in New Orleans. She didn’t know a national ranking of boarding schools even existed, much less how important the rankings in America Today were to the board, the alumni, and the parents.

When Audre took over as Head of School, Tiffin was a study in mediocrity, the gentleman’s C of boarding schools.

Its heyday was long past; the whole place felt like a once-grand hotel desperately in need of a renovation.

But alas, there was no money for improvements—they were barely getting by on their operating budget and the teachers hadn’t had a raise in four years.

Tiffin’s ranking in America Today (released annually the day after Labor Day) reflected their complacency: They usually appeared somewhere in the lowest tenth of the top fifty—numbers forty-six through forty-nine—and this probably only as a nod to their esteemed past.

But three years ago, Audre—and Cordelia Spooner, head of admissions—met with New York real estate magnate Jesse Eastman about his son, Andrew.

Andrew had a “nontraditional” background, which was a euphemism for having been kicked out of two New York City private schools and barely hanging on at a third.

Together, Audre and Mrs. Spooner agreed they’d take a chance on admitting Andrew Eastman the following year—and, as tacitly promised, an enormous endowment from Jesse Eastman followed.

They’ve since been able to elevate the entire Tiffin experience—and better rankings in America Today have ensued.

Two years ago, they rose to number twenty-four (breaking the top twenty-five was a cause for jubilant celebration), and then last year they appeared at number nineteen (and popped the champagne after breaking the top twenty!).

There are even greater expectations for this year, though Audre tries to keep a clear perspective about the rankings.

Nobody knows the algorithm, so what does it really mean ?

Old Bennington and Northmeadow—both members of the Independent Schools of New England Coalition, to which Tiffin also belongs—have been ranked numbers one and two respectively since Audre has been at Tiffin.

Other perennial achievers are the Phillipses (Exeter and Andover) as well as the Saints (Paul, Mark, Andrew).

It’s been rumored that America Today dispatches reporters who pose as prospective parents. They take tours and attend admissions information sessions. They ask current students probing questions. Cordelia Spooner is always on the lookout.

Audre won’t lie: She’s nervous about their ranking this year, especially after what happened in the spring.

If Tiffin falls out of the top twenty-five, everyone will blame her and her alone.

Just the previous evening, Audre wondered if a dramatic-enough plunge might cause her to lose her job.

She shooed the thought away as preposterous, though as a businessman Jesse Eastman is only used to growth, to success.

We have to be ranked nineteen or higher, Audre thinks, or there will be hell to pay.

To Big East’s question, Audre replies casually: Not yet. Surely he has an assistant at his zillion-dollar company whose sole duty this morning is to hit refresh on the America Today website. He’ll know before she does.

When Audre takes a sustaining breath, she smells freshly cut grass and the aroma of bacon (both real and vegan) wafting over from the Paddock.

Tiffin’s chef is a burly, tattooed gentleman named Harrison “Haz” Flanders, whom Big East hired away from his private club in New York two years earlier.

The food in the Paddock—once the subject of a thousand memes—is now so fresh and delicious that nearly the entire Tiffin community has put on the freshman fifteen, Audre included.

Chef’s specialties are fried chicken and waffles, homemade focaccia, a new salad bar sourced with heirloom vegetables from a local farm.

Haz requested a pizza oven (which Big East promptly donated), and now, every Friday at lunch, Audre can look forward to the “rustica”—bubbling mozzarella and smoky pancetta topped with a handful of lightly dressed arugula.

Haz also took the edge off Mondays by instituting Burger Night: charbroiled Angus beef with an array of toppings and sauces, followed by an hour at the new Piano Bar in the Teddy, where Mr. Chuy, the music teacher, takes requests and all the kids sing their preppy little hearts out.

Audre starts to hum “Tiny Dancer” as another car pulls up—a shiny black Escalade with tinted back windows and a uniformed driver.

Here’s Davi.