CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Mr Saint, please come in.”
Principal Reid was a tall, curvy woman with warm, russet skin, her shoulder-length hair a crown of curls that hid the golden jewellery swaying from her ears.
“Take a seat.”
I lowered myself onto the chair opposite her desk without a word, my knuckles aching.
We met three days prior when Aunt Vera finalised my enrolment papers. Just as she did then, she offered me a mint. Just as I did then, I declined.
“As I am sure you are aware,” she started, leaning back in her seat as she appraised me with a calm, unwavering expression, “we have zero tolerance for violence here at Trinity College.”
“Do other schools normally tolerate violence?” I asked, feigning innocence despite the sarcastic line of questioning. “Is Trinity College different in that regard?”
“Mr Saint,” she sighed, “it is only your first week. I would have expected you to be making friends, not enemies.”
“Can we just skip to the part where you expel me?” I asked.
“Expel you?”
“Yeah. That’s what you’re going to do, right? For breaking your zero tolerance of violence.”
“I am inclined to be more lenient given the circumstances,” she said, gaze softening. “I know it has only been a few weeks since your father’s passing.”
I said nothing.
“I want you to see our school counsellor, Mr Klarke Grayson,” she went on.
No, absolutely not.
My leg bounced up and down erratically, sweat coating my hands that curled and uncurled on my lap.
“I assure you, Klarke is a useful resource available to you here at Trinity. He has helped many students in similar situations as you.”
He will find out, the Devil said, you can’t let him find out
“I…I don’t want to,” I spoke up. “I’m fine, I promise. I won’t get into any more fights and I-”
“Augustus,” she cut me off. “I understand it can be scary to open up. But this is an opportunity for you to get some support during this difficult transition.”
No. No. No.
“I said no.”
Principal Reid sighed and without pressing me further, I was dismissed.
***
Aunt Vera was displeased when I entered the library. She was lounging on her rustic armchair, Shakespeare purring on her lap.
I had changed into grey sweatpants and an oversized black X-Files sweater that had belonged to my father, the hood drawn up to fend off the cold.
The scent of whiskey and cologne still clung to the fleece material, but I refused to wash it, my father's presence comforting in this new, unfamiliar reality I found myself in.
Exhaustion followed me toward the smaller armchair across from my aunt, a yawn threatening to stretch my aching jaw. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I knew a punishment awaited me, and the anxiety of not knowing kept me awake.
“Tell me about your day.”
This question was not mere curiosity. I knew Principal Reid would have called Aunt Vera to inform her of the incident, so the question was a means of building up to my punishment.
There was a linen cupboard waiting for me, no doubt.
I massaged my wrists, remembering the way the rope sliced into my skin, lemon juice burning my raw flesh.
“I am a twelve-year-old boy plagued with an impenetrable forest of guilt and a fear that I will be discovered. Of what? I could not tell you. But once everyone knows, they’ll bury me so deep into the Earth I’ll sink down into Hell itself, consumed by dead souls who share my rotten heart.”
There was a long silence as Aunt Vera and I appraised one another.
“Poetic, right?” I smirked.
"Did you steal that from somewhere?" she asked.
"No, the Devil told me to say it."
Another long silence hung between us.
“Augustus,” she sighed, unperturbed. “Your day.”
“Just tell me what my punishment is.”
“Punishment?”
I barely suppressed an eyeroll. “I am not an idiot.”
“Clearly you are, if you think I go around punishing children for expressing their emotions.”
“So…you’re not…?”
“I’m disappointed,” she clarified, leaning back in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, “but I don’t believe a punishment would be beneficial at this moment.”
“I’m sorry.”
Shakespeare meowed and jumped off Aunt Vera’s lap as she leaned forward to hand me a leather-bound journal.
“What’s this?” I frowned, turning the journal over in my hands.
“It belonged to your mother.”
Every muscle in my body tensed at those words, and it was a divine miracle I managed to keep hold of the journal instead of flinging it into the fireplace warming the room.
“It was amongst your father’s things that Brady and I divided,” Aunt Vera explained. “I think you should have it.”
“I do not want anything from that woman.”
Aunt Vera assessed me with an unreadable expression. “You don’t miss her?”
“Why would I? She left.”
“I met your mother only a few days after you were born,” Aunt Vera hummed, leaning back in her armchair. “She looked so proud, holding you in her arms.”
I rolled my eyes. “That pride died the minute I learned to speak.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“You don’t know what it was like,” I said, leaning forward in my seat to glare at her. “She treated me like I was a fucking demon!”
Aunt Vera should have scolded me for my filthy language, but she didn’t. Instead, rather calmly, she said, “You’re right, Augustus. I don’t know what it was like. But I don’t want you spending your life believing your mother hated you when that simply was not the case.”
“How would you know?!” I scoffed. “You weren’t there. She said it. She said she hated me.”
“And did you say you hated her?”
I fell silent.
She pointed to the journal in my hands. “I think you should read through it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Just take it,” Aunt Vera said, a little impatient, “one day you might actually want to learn more about your mother.”
“I doubt it.”
“We’ll see.”