As we approach the house, I’m half expecting some sort of summons to appear from Harvard. What will it look like? Will Mother open it first and ask what this could possibly be about? How many more days of freedom do I have?
There is no summons, though. No letter. Just a void filled with my fear.
Before we enter, Mother takes me in her arms and holds me tight. “This was better than any honeymoon,” she declares.
I want to tell her I love her. That I need her. But I’m afraid that if I speak, I’ll break down. So I say nothing. I just hold her tight. My mother, as sturdy as the trunk of a tree that’s survived the coldest of seasons. And me... I’m a leaf that wishes it could be blown away. To another place. Another time. Anywhere but here. Anything but this.
Oliver. Boston. June. 1920.
A horrible series of days go by, one blending into the next. In school and at home with Mother, I hide my fear, a master of deception. When I’m alone, I cry uncontrollably. I don’t show up for a planned walk with Shams. I can’t see him. Not now. What if someone knows we’ve kissed? What if they pull him into this? I can’t have him being questioned and... he could be thrown in jail, all because of me. I’d rather break his heart than destroy his life. The person I need to talk to is Brendan. I need to know he’s okay.
I go to Harvard. To Brendan and Jack’s room, which feels more like a funeral hall than a space for revelry now. The records have been put away. There’s no booze in sight. Brendan won’t look at me when he opens the door. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. He looks like he hasn’t slept either. On his bed is a half-packed suitcase. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.
“Brendan, you have nothing to apologize for,” I say.
“You need to sit down.” He moves the suitcase to the edge of the bed to make room for me.
But I don’t sit. I can’t. “Brendan, Iknow,” I say urgently.
His bloodshot eyes finally land on me. “What do you know?”
“I know about Cyril,” I say.
“Oh God.” He turns away from me and lets out a sob.
I hold him from behind. “I’m so sorry. I know he was a part of your group. He was your friend.”
“Please go,” he pleads. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know about the secret court,” I say. “I know they...” I look down at the suitcase and suddenly realize how stupid I’ve been. I didn’t even think about why he’s packing his things up. “They expelled you, didn’t they?” I ask, feeling rage on my lips.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Nothing matters anymore. Cyril is dead. Whatever life we thought we had is gone.”
“You have to fight this,” I beseech.
“Fight it?” he echoes. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say. Then I naively suggest, “There must be a lawyer who could help.”
He laughs bitterly. “One lawyer would be no match for Harvard’steamof lawyers. Besides, I’m one of the lucky ones. The dean agreed to tell my parents I was expelled for plagiarism,” he explains. “Which is a kindness they’re not extending to all the boys.”
“But you’re no plagiarist,” I snap back. “You’re— You’re honest. You’re kind. You would never cheat or lie.”
“Of course I would.” He’s holding back tears. His voice chokes. “I lie to my parents each time I talk to them. I’ll lie to them when I get back home. I’ll tell them that yes, I cheated. They can never know... what I am.”
“Whatweare,” I say. “You’re not alone.”
He suddenly grips my hands so tight it hurts. “Don’t you go trying to save me. I dragged you into all this. It’s my job to save you.”
“This will be on your record forever,” I argue. “Your future...Your whole future will be trailed by this. Employers will think you can’t be trusted.”
“And if they knew the truth?” he snaps. “If they knew I was a great big piece of ripe fruit? Would they trust me then? Better a plagiarist than a faggot.” His nostrils flare with rage, but I know it’s not me he’s angry with. It’s them, the deans and the entire world of powerful men. The impenetrable density of their hate.
“Why is Jack not packing?” I ask, noticing Jack’s clothes still hanging, his books on the desk.
“If you need to ask, then you don’t understand institutions like Harvard,” he says, and that’s enough. Jack’s filthy rich father wrote a check. Simple as that. “Besides, he quickly covered his bases when this nightmare began. Proposed to the daughter of a family friend named Agnes.”
“Proposed?” I ask in disbelief. “Just like that? To anAgnes?”
