Page 4 of The Academy
“Fran Hicks,” the woman says, shaking Audre’s hand. “For the record, I’m one thousand percent against this.”
Ah, okay,Audre thinks. She can never be sure who in the family is “driving the bus” on the decision to go to boarding school—but Audre much prefers it when it’s student-motivated.
“Charley will receive a blue-chip education,” Audre says. “Better than she would at most universities.” She extends a Vanna White arm to showcase the students around them laughing, chatting, playing cornhole. From an open window in Classic North, strains of Luke Combs’s “Beer Never Broke My Heart” float down. (That would be Dub’s room; no one else listens to country music.) “Besides that, she’s going to have a wonderful time.”
Charley climbs out of the passenger side, and Audre takes stock of her new student. Her first thought is,Have we made a terrible mistake?Charley is tall and lanky with sallow skin. Her light brown hair is in two braids; glasses perch on the end of her nose. She wears a kelly-green Lacoste polo, a khaki skirt in a length Audre can only describe as “awkward,” and a belt embroidered with whales. On her feet are boat shoes; Audre hasn’t seen a pair up close in decades.
It looks like she stepped right out ofThe Official Preppy Handbook;if it were 1984, she would fit right in. But forty years have passed. Now the girls all wear Reformation, Golden Goose, and—for those who can afford it—Davi’s parents’ label, OOO. Audre wonders if Charley watched some old movies—Love Story,perhaps, orDead Poets Society—and thought this was what the kids would be wearing?
Oh dear. Mr. Rivera’s Skechers are a minor problem compared to what they have here.
But then Audre chastises herself. The girl is fine, it doesn’t matter what she’s wearing; this school could use someone who doesn’t conform.
Charley steps forward to shake Audre’s hand but doesn’t smile. “Thank you for admitting me, even though my application was so late.” Her eyes flick to her mother. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
Audre’s phone buzzes again. “Let me help you unload,” she says. Fran Hicks slides open the side of the van, releasing the pleasant scent of cedar mulch. There are stacked bags of it, along with peat moss, a gas can, a Weedwacker, and a cast-iron planter that must weigh several hundred pounds.
There’s also a plastic bin filled with plants. Charley reaches for one that looks like a small palm tree.
“Are you bringing that in?” Audre asks.
“Yes,” Charley says. “Plants are allowed, right?”
Audre tries to think.The Bridlespecifically says no pets—not even a goldfish in a bowl—but does it mention plants? Audre regards the bin. Areallthose plants coming inside?
She recalls a student who once nurtured a succulent garden she’d received as a Christmas gift.
Fran Hicks seems to note the ambivalence on Audre’s face. “They aren’t pot plants,” she says. “I told Charley to leave those at home.”
Audre laughs. The Hickses have a sense of humor, a good sign. “Yes,” she says. “Plants are allowed.”
Behind the ferns, topiary, and a leggy philodendron, Audre spies at least a half-dozen milk crates overflowing with… books.
She blinks. Does she recall a student ever bringingbooksto school? It’s rather like bringing sand to the beach. Audre lifts a milk crate so that she can peruse the titles:The Plotby Jean Hanff Korelitz,Nightbitchby Rachel Yoder,Homegoingby Yaa Gyasi. All books Audre would read herself if she could find the time.
When Fran Hicks opens the back doors to the van, Audre seesmoremilk crates. More books! Penguin Classics, Vintage Contemporaries, a tattered copy of the Cheever stories. There’s one crate dedicated to poetry: Edna St. Vincent Millay, Anne Sexton, Nikki Giovanni.
Audre is impressed—and a little intimidated. If old Doc Bellamy knew how to use a cell phone, she might be tempted to text him now at his cabin in the woods, up in Robert Frost country.We have a genuine reader!
Audre leads the way to 111 South. Technically, it’s Simone Bergeron’s job to show new girls to their rooms, but Audre wants to do this herself. She swings the door open. The room is clean, orderly, unremarkable: extra-long twin bed, desk, dresser. However, Audre can’t help seeing it as it was on the morning of May 12: Cinnamon Peters splayed across her bed, her skin gray, her mouth open (though eyes, blessedly, closed). On the floor: her acoustic guitar (flipped upside down), her laptop (closed), an empty sandwich bag that had held a cache of pills, half a glass of water. Cinnamon had left a note on her desk that said simply,I’m sorry,tucked under a vase of wildflowers that Dub Austin had picked for her from the Pasture.
“Here we are!” Audre says brightly. She’s waiting for either Charley or her mother to protest—a girl died in this room!—but they simply set Charley’s plants and books down and leave to get another load.
Audre stays with Charley and Fran Hicks until it’s time for Fran to depart. Other distractions vie for Audre’s attention: Her phone is buzzing away, she’s getting a headache from the sun, and she’s famished. Chef Haz is making blueberry pancakes this morning, but there’s no time for Audre to eat; she still has to review her speech for the All-School Meeting at noon. The speech will be followed by acookout on the beach at Jewel Pond, and the kids will all go swimming. It’s Move-In Day tradition.
But for now, Audre reminds herself to be present with the Hickses.
“Be sure to log into the Parent Portal on the website,” Audre says to Fran. “Please reach out if you have any questions or concerns.” She and Fran shake hands again, Fran slides the doors to the van shut, and Audre steps back so Fran and Charley can have some space to say their goodbyes.
Fran goes in for a hug, her eyes teary, but Charley pushes her away with both hands. Fran stumbles backward in her clogs.
“You’re not allowed to cry,” Charley says. “This is all your fault.”
“I love you, Charley,” Fran says. “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”
Charley spins in her Top-Siders and storms into Classic South.
Audre has seen a lot of partings in her six-year tenure, but never one quite like this.
