The House That Shadows Built: Chapter 3
The Cohort
McClanahan Hall appeared to be one of the more modern buildings on campus, although it had been built to match the solemn Gothic facades of the dormitories. Fern's first meeting with the Dean of Students was upstairs, and—mostly for Miss Stott's sake—they took the elevator. They'd passed what looked like the dining hall on the way in, and Miss Stott explained that McClanahan's first floor was where students took their meals, while the second was home to a number of administrative offices and conference rooms, including the rather formal and imposing room in which Fern found herself.
While Fern Kubelsky would never have admitted to being nervous, she felt some trepidation at the thought of meeting the rest of her cohort. There were four Rothko Scholars chosen each year—two boys and two girls—and since they all almost always chose to go to Marbrose Catholic, they were required to meet together regularly to build a sense of camaraderie and check in with the program supervisor. This would be the first of more than a dozen meetings throughout the school year, and Fern was eager to make a good impression.
“Two minutes to spare, Marjorie,” said an elegant woman whose jet black hair was streaked with gray. “I assume this is Miss Kubelsky?”
“It is,” said Miss Stott. “Fern, this is Dr. Edith Strathmore, the head of our Rothko Scholars program.”
Dr. Strathmore looked like a schoolmistress out of an Edwardian novel. There were mounds of wavy hair heaped on top of her head, and her puffy sleeves and long skirt would have been the height of fashion back in about 1909. If Fern had to guess, she would have put her down as a history teacher, or possibly an English teacher who didn’t care much for modern literature. She wore an ornate crucifix around her neck which she clutched with her right hand whenever she spoke.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Strathmore,” said Fern.
“And the same to you,” said Dr. Strathmore. “Help yourself to a chair, Miss Kubelsky. We’ll have to skip the rest of the introductions now, I’m afraid. Dr. Goddard should be here any moment.”
The other students were sitting at a long wooden table that looked very solemn and academic. The walls of the room were decorated with portraits of old headmasters, all of them in cassocks and clerical collars. Fern slid into an open seat beside a girl whose dyed bangs nearly covered her eyes. She flashed Fern a mischievous grin, and Fern realized with a jolt that his person had to be “V.M.”—her roommate for freshman year. The sight of her lip ring, and her choker, and the black polish on her fingernails made Fern suddenly anxious. Her new roommate reminded her of the girls that annoyed her back at her old school—the needy ones who wore too much eye makeup and flirted with the male teachers. She told herself that it wasn’t fair to judge “V.M.” by her looks—that she was doing exactly what she was afraid other people would do to her. She glanced over to Miss Stott, seeking a little reassurance, and was startled to see that she had vanished from the room without saying a word. Fern was alone with four complete strangers.
Almost to distract herself, Fern ventured a glance at the other two Rothko Scholars—the boys. Sitting directly across from her was an Asian student with a long face, a pointed nose, and rectangular glasses. Though Fern had resented the way other kids assumed she was “haughty” just because she carried herself with dignity and confidence, she couldn’t help but feel that this boy really did think he was better than everyone else. He sat extremely straight, with his arms crossed, like he didn’t expect to hear anything worth his while. He shot the smallest of glances at Fern, but without smiling or giving her even the slightest hint of acknowledgement. This was more what Fern expected from a student at a school like Marbrose Catholic—intelligent, rich, and proud. Something about the way this boy carried himself told Fern he was all three.
The boy sitting furthest from her couldn’t have formed a stronger contrast. He was pale, with dark hair and pronounced rings around his eyes. He wore a leather jacket instead of a blazer over his school uniform, and his face seemed to be fixed in an expressionless scowl. Though Fern would never have admitted it, she thought he was the handsomest boy she’d ever seen in her life. His eyes were dark and intelligent, and there was an air of mystery about him—like he was burdened with pain and secrets. He didn’t look at Fern, or anyone else. His eyes were fixed on his hands, which were folded in his lap.
Fern realized that she’d been looking at this boy for a long time when the door suddenly opened and Dr. Strathmore stood up to greet the newcomer.
“Ah, Maurice,” she said. “Just in time.”
“Maurice” was Dr. Maurice Goddard, Marbrose Catholic Academy’s Dean of Students. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man who looked to be in his late fifties—his goatee and close-cropped hair were both graying, but the brown eyes that peered through his pince-nez spectacles were lively and alert. He wore a burgundy waistcoat under his brown tweed suit, and there was a large ruby ring on his left hand. The rumbling cadence of his deep, resonant voice seemed to come in sudden spurts of syllables punctuated by long pauses for emphasis.
“It’s very good to see you all,” he said, “uh, here. Welcome. I am Dr. Goddard, and you are all my responsibility.”
He said the word so seriously and ominously that Fern was slightly taken aback. His tone of voice reminded her of an executioner, or a prison kommandant who particularly relished the more unpleasant aspects of his professional duties. Still, there was a slyness in his way of looking at them that reminded her of her grandfather, who liked to pretend to be strict just so he could act surprised at how much he indulged his grandchildren. She sensed that this was merely Dr. Goddard’s way—an affectionate playfulness concealed behind the growling voice of a disciplinarian.
“You see,” Dr. Goddard continued, “although Dr. Strathmore is, uh, head of the Rothko Scholars program, I am entrusted with the flourishing and the discipline of the entire student body. So, I will be watching each of you most, uh, most carefully.”
Again, if it weren’t for the twinkle in his eye Fern would have almost been frightened. She was even more convinced, though, that she had nothing to fear from Dr. Goddard. Not when it came to discipline, anyways.
“The late Eugene Rothko wanted to be sure that students of great, uh, intellectual refinement had access to the best education on offer. Well, you do. And, uh, this is just the beginning of your journey to greatness. We—Dr. Strathmore and I, and all your teachers—are here to help you along that journey.”
Greatness. For all her talent for writing essays and acing tests, Fern had never thought of herself as destined for greatness. Oxburrow was just about as far from greatness as it was possible to be. Once again, Fern was reminded of her doubts—of her suspicion that, despite everything, she was really here by mistake. She sighed a little to steady herself, and Dr. Goddard’s eyes flickered over to her.
“That greatness,” he went on, “may be academic, or athletic, or artistic, or spiritual, or, uh…”
He paused and smiled at them.
“All of the above.”
The Chinese boy sitting across from her looked like he was confident that he fell into that category, but Fern was relieved to see that he seemed to be the only one. The boy in the leather jacket and the girl next to her seemed almost indifferent to the prospect. Fern sat up a little straighter. If greatness was what was expected of her, she would rise to the challenge.
“Now,” said Dr. Goddard thoughtfully. “I believe that is all. Yes.”
He looked around at them, and Fern saw the same twinkle in his eye as before.
“And now, I think Dr. Strathmore has some, uh, words to share as well. Dr. Strathmore?”
He sat down, and the stylish Edwardian schoolmistress rose to her feet with a poise and refinement that Fern couldn’t help but envy. If Miss Stott had impressed her with her pleasant demeanor and easygoing sophistication, Dr. Strathmore struck Fern as someone she would want to be someday—sharp, confident, and deeply knowledgeable.
“Thank you, Dr. Goddard. Hello again to you all. I am Dr. Edith Strathmore, and as Dr. Goddard said, I am head of the Rothko Scholars program at Marbrose Catholic Academy. My job is to make sure that you not only meet, but also exceed expectations. To be a Rothko Scholar is to be exceptional, and to do exceptional things. While I can offer encouragement, and guidance, the responsibility for your success or failure at Marbrose Catholic Academy will ultimately rest on your shoulders.”
She smiled at them.
“I have the greatest confidence in all of you. Now, some quick introductions, and then dinner should be arriving soon. Why don’t you start by turning to your neighbor and sharing a bit about yourself?”
Fern looked at the girl next to her, trying not to stare at her piercings or her dyed hair. Before she could say anything, however, several nuns arrived with a cart loaded with covered dishes. At Dr. Strathmore’s instructions, they began to set the table with what Fern thought was a delicious little feast. It wasn’t anything special, but it smelled wonderful, and there was plenty of food for everyone. That made a meal a feast in Fern Kubelsky’s eyes.
“Father Rohrbach won’t mind if we get started without him,” said Dr. Strathmore, smiling pleasantly. “Would you bless the meal for us, Maurice?”
“With pleasure,” said Dr. Goddard. Fern and the others all made the sign of the cross, with the boy in the leather jacket being the last to complete the act. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Fern quietly. There was a pause, and then everyone reached for their silverware and started to eat. The girl next to her seemed particularly voracious, but that didn’t stop her from taking up Dr. Strathmore’s suggestion that they should all get to know each other.
“So you’re Fern?” said the girl eagerly.
“Yes,” said Fern hesitantly. “I am. Fern Kubelsky. So does that make you…”
“Yeah. I’m Vipsania. Vipsania Montagnese. We’re roommates.”
Fern thought she must have blinked or frowned slightly at the mention of her new roommate’s last name, because she immediately went on.
“And before you ask, yes, I am related to those Montagneses. A bona fide mafia princess. Don’t listen to what my older sister says.”
“Does your older sister go here too?” asked Fern.
“Yes,” said Vipsania, rolling her eyes. “Her name is Lucilla. She’s a junior this year. She’ll tell you dad works in construction, but I don’t think even she’s stupid enough to actually believe it.”
Fern took a bite of food, wondering how exactly she was supposed to respond.
“So… what does he do?” asked Fern, keeping her voice low. “Your dad?”
“He kills people,” said Vipsania casually, stabbing her fork into her plate. “If you wanna get technical, he’s the caporegime of the north end of Marbrose Island—those are the ones with the tattoos of the Holy Nail. Basically, he’s in charge of all the bad stuff that happens there. My great uncle is boss of the entire family.”
“Oh,” said Fern. It was the only thing she could think to say. She knew about Vipsania’s family, of course. Everyone did, even in Bancroft. The Montagneses. One of the most powerful criminal syndicates in America. There was organized crime back in Bancroft, but nothing to equal the power of the Sicilian mafia in Marbrose City. Maybe that explained why her roommate showed no hesitation in talking about it, even to a complete stranger. Either way, the topic made Fern uncomfortable, and she was grateful when her roommate changed the subject.
“So, where are you from?” said Vipsania.
“Bancroft,” said Fern. “The Oxburrow district.”
“Cool,” said Vipsania. “That’s Apostoli territory, right?”
“I’m… not sure,” said Fern. “I don’t know much about—.”
“Yeah, you don’t look the type,” said Vipsania. “Just know that if you’re gonna go out into the city, you should probably know which borgata you’re in.”
Fern frowned. What did Vipsania mean that she “didn’t look the type?” Did she think she was too much of a goody two-shoes to notice that mobsters owned the coffee shop just down the block from where she grew up, or that the owner of her favorite corner store paid protection money to the local mafia bigshot? The rules in Marbrose may have been different, but Fern was confident she could learn them. She just wasn’t sure she needed to, since she didn’t plan on looking for trouble.
“I wasn’t planning on going exploring anytime soon,” said Fern. “Not until I’ve gotten settled.”
“Well, if you ever wanna see Marbrose City,” said Vipsania, “and I mean, like, really see it, just ask me. I can show you some stuff.”
The two roommates ate in silence for a while, listening to the Asian boy and Dr. Goddard, who were talking about the prospects of the lacrosse team, which was a topic that Dr. Goddard evidently relished.
“It’s hard to say what things will be like in the spring,” he said, “but I believe Coach Heller has put together, uh, a truly exceptional team. You should talk to Adrian Comstock in our senior class—he’s the varsity team captain.”
“I haven’t decided whether I’m sticking with lacrosse,” said the Asian boy casually. “Is it true that Fordham’s going back to a club team?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” said Dr. Goddard warmly. “I’ll have a word with Father Joseph. It would be, uh, most unfortunate for our student body, and therefore falls within my purview.”
“So, who are the boys?” Fern asked Vipsania in a whisper.
“Oh, so you noticed them too?” said Vipsania coyly. “The Asian guy is Lucas. Smart, but a major prick. I’ve known him ever since elementary school. He missed out on all that stuff about ‘being kind’ back in kindergarten, and now he’s completely insufferable. Don’t waste your time being nice to him—he won’t return the favor.”
Fern looked at Lucas, who was asking Dr. Goddard about the different electives that were offered at Marbrose Catholic. Fern had a suspicion Vipsania’s description of Lucas would have fit her just as well—at least from the point of view of some of her former classmates. Not that she was ever unkind, but people probably thought she was… judgmental. She told people what she thought, even when it made her unpopular. Maybe Lucas was the same way.
She was determined, at least, to give him a chance.
“And what about… him?”
Fern shot a furtive glance at the other boy. Vipsania’s knowing smile widened.
“Him? Oh, that’s Dean. He’s been away in Europe—just came back a few months ago. I dunno much about him. Well, not personally, anyways.”
Fern was about to ask what she meant when the door opened and a gray-haired man in a black cassock entered the room.