Chapter 10. In Which Thou Shalt Not Get Drunk with Wine, for That Is Debauchery, but Be Filled with the Holy Spirit—Exce
IN WHICH THOU SHALT NOT GET DRUNK WITH WINE, FOR THAT IS DEBAUCHERY, BUT BE FILLED WITH THE HOLY SPIRIT— EXCEPT THIS ONCE
As the first week of laboratory studies passes, so does the sabotage.
The first is a bottle of ketchup in the Food Laboratory that explodes on Cabin Alpha upon use, drenching their clothes, forcing them to change, and forming a massive dent in their study time.
Someone must have sneaked in baking soda that reacted with the acid the same way vinegar does in a baking soda volcano.
The second is fake poison ivy planted around Cabin Kappa like a moat overnight, thanks to look-alike box elder trees that someone uprooted from the woods.
It took two hours for a ranger from the nearby National Wildlife Refuge to arrive and assess the damage, making the cabin late for our Wednesday laboratory class.
The third is a failed attempt on Luca’s cabin. From what I overheard, Cabin Epsilon mixed their shampoo with bleach and green hair dye. Luca allegedly noticed due to the scent of the dye’s ammonia composition, though, and saved the day.
Of course he did.
During morning announcements, the mentors stress that students will be sent home for acting out, yet everyone is still here. These families really do hold brAIN’s funding in the palm of their hands.
I should be thankful that our cabin hasn’t been hit, but I’m not. It means they think we aren’t a threat.
Unfortunately, I agree with them. The new study sessions I implemented are as unproductive as ever, thanks to Benedict’s unwillingness to work with me. Jade never shows up, instead opting for hunting ghosts in the woods.
The only teammate I can somewhat rely on is Christiana. I eat lunch and dinner with her on the unofficial girls’ side of the Food Laboratory, where she teaches me more facts about sea lion seizures—which apparently happen to them nonstop since algae is the culprit, and that’s literally everywhere.
I can only feel so disheartened, though, when we’re attending our Applied Dynamics and Optimization Laboratory this week.
It’s taught by Dr. Fengyi Li, associate professor of mechanical engineering at Purdue University.
Her focus on robotic and biomechanical system control applies to a wide range of scientific studies, but I care because soft, wearable robotic limbs are becoming the future of an astronaut’s balance.
The dozen astronauts who moonwalked on Apollo missions face-planted twenty-seven times and had another twenty-one close calls.
She’s single-handedly putting a stop to the embarrassment.
During the morning session, she trades off between teaching algorithmic and computational foundations.
In the afternoon, her lab turns hands-on as we experiment with the robots she’s built.
I try to eat up every word, but Luca’s presence mere seats away is a constant distraction, reminding me of how the only way to gain an upper hand is if I can distract him more.
Eventually, it’s the fated Sunday. The day of our party.
Felix takes longer than expected to leave for his day off, spending a half hour looking in the mirror and analyzing his outfit, which is slightly more elevated than usual: plaid flannel with muted browns, corduroy slacks, and a diamond-embedded pocket watch dangling down his thigh.
This further supports Jade’s theory that the mentors spend their time off succumbing to the vile distraction of dating—or worse.
When Felix finally leaves, he heads for the canoe docks, where his mysterious suitor must be waiting.
Christiana immediately walks to Jade’s bottom bunk and pulls out a hidden poster board.
She must have snatched it from the Academic Resource Center.
PEACE BE WITH YOU is written on the top in bubble letters, and a bizarre anthropomorphic baguette creature with beady eyes and wings flies out of the center—no, a poorly drawn dove.
Wiggly olive branches create the border. “Time for the rehabilitation party!”
My mouth tilts. “That’s what we’re calling this?”
“You sound like we’re hosting an AA meeting,” Jade remarks, setting up her liters of vodka on the study table. “Which is incorrect.”
“And the poster sounds Catholic,” Benedict adds from his bed without looking up from his book of the day: Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions.
Christiana lowers her poster with a huff. “My family is Catholic. So, I know that this phrase has survived for thousands of years. Are you going to deny the statistical proof that this means it works? Or help me hang this?”
We trade a few shrugs.
So, Benedict and I help her hang it up. Meanwhile, Jade takes charge of slapping up her own clothing to cover the windows. Instead of helping, Big Papa Huge Time selfishly scarfs seeds from his bowl set by the door.
I pull pillows off our beds and set them on the floor to turn them into seats. As Expert Social Science, Jade insists on grouping them in pairs, claiming that humans feel 78 percent more comfortable communicating if it’s a face-to-face dual conversation.
The cabin door creaks open. Our first guest.
I spin around, my heart rate spiking. Luca.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar white guy in the doorway says, a gust of crisp night air trailing in with him. Not Luca. He wears a tight, high-neck black shirt and matching black slacks. A girl in an equally tight dress stands behind him.
I look down at my knit collared shirt and washed carpenter pants. At the approval of my stylist, I’ve worn both to casual events at the Prince List headquarters—private parties for New York City librarians, teachers, and the like. Is this not right for a real party? Or not right for brAIN?
It matters. Anytime I’m in public, it matters. But this one time, I’m struggling to care what everyone else will think of me when what matters most is Luca’s opinion. He’ll need to be willing to spend time with me, even though he believes I’m beneath him, so I can keep throwing distractions at him.
Christiana and Jade approach the two strangers to handle the small talk. With nothing better to do while I wait for Luca, I stand by the drinks.
Unfortunately, that’s where Benedict also stands, sipping from a crystal cup, which is strange because we only have plastic ones. He must’ve gone out to get his own or packed it. Plastic must be below his standards for acceptable drink ware.
As we stand next to each other, I tap my finger against the table and eavesdrop on the conversations around us.
Apparently, the two who walked in are from Cabin Chi—Ophelia Metropoulos and Clark Tomilson Hill.
As Cabin Theta joins them at the door, I overhear that the two come from families who were heavily involved in the first railroads and have known one another since the 1800s.
There’s someone else from that cabin named Langston, but I don’t catch a last name or what notorious enterprise he comes from.
The door opens again. Another person I don’t recognize.
“So,” I say to Benedict. The anticipation is too much to bear. “How’s modeling?”
“Hand modeling,” Benedict corrects. With everyone else, his low baritone remains tactful and unconcerned. Almost, dare I say, gentlemanly. But with me, prickliness already peeks through his words. “I don’t show the camera my face.”
“Aren’t your parents both actors?”
“What about it?” His gaze narrows. “They also run a legitimate tutoring business.”
“I never said they didn’t.”
“Your parents surely did.”
My brow rises high. “What?”
Benedict faces me perfectly parallel, setting his drink on the table. “At the National Conference on Education last year. Your mother expressed the view that, owing to their background as artists, my parents lack the intellectual capability to succeed in the education sector.”
This went from one to a hundred fast.
The door creaks open again.
My body surges once more with energy—Luca—only to see it’s two more strangers in as form-fitting, non-labeled clothes as the rest. They’re familiar. I think they stand beside our cabin during morning announcements.
“Your mother also remarked that you have devoted your life to the craft of education, unlike myself,” Benedict says, pulling me back into the conversation. “Therefore, they believe it would be unwise for my parents to pass the company on to me.”
Admittedly, that sounds like Mom. But only if she was provoked first.
I squint at Benedict, trying to recall my psychology courses and the signs of lying.
His glare is unwavering and firm, which can be a red flag, but he isn’t gesturing wildly.
It’s possible Benedict’s parents lied to him.
Mom always says that the Darlingtonshires are fantastic liars because they’re British.
“If that’s true, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sure you could run Posh Prep.”
Benedict picks up his drink again and takes a sip. “I don’t wish to.”
Too much confusion and not enough time. “But you just said—”
“But I still want to be seen as competent.”
I don’t say anything. I can relate to that feeling.
Benedict takes another sip. “Anyway, I don’t have a choice.
In any of it. I loathe the spotlight, but my parents force me to do some sort of public career, so I hand model.
Then there’s Posh Prep—they want to add me to their branding since they’ve seen how well your handsome face works for Prince List.”
I stiffen at the shock of a compliment. “Thanks?”
“I could have a choice, though, if I took home the brAIN Medal. With that, I could make a name for myself and leave the Darlingtonshire legacy and all of its connections behind. I could finally do what I want.” He goes for another sip of his drink, only to realize he emptied it.
The visual seemingly makes him realize how much he revealed and likely the reason why. He promptly sets down the crystal cup.
“That’s…” I try to think of the right word. The last person I ever expected to relate to even a little was Benedict. “Honorable.”
Benedict flashes me a suspicious look. “Are you making fun of me?”