The Adventures of Tom Smart

Mice scratch somewhere in the dim corner. I tried several times to catch them in the bedraggled cellar, but amidst the horde of old furniture, boxes, and curios it was nearly impossible. That wouldn’t stop me from trying though.

I don’t know how I got here.

Was it the day the $20,000 check came?

Apparently due to my ‘academic excellence’, some rich folks begged me, Tom Smart, to enroll in Westwood Boarding School. That should have been the first sign. In spite of my last name, I was flunking every class. But boarding school was easier for my dad. He tried hard after my mom died, but he worked double shifts most days. When that check came in the mail, I’ll never forget the look on his face: relief.

No, it wasn’t academic excellence that got me into a boarding school I never even applied for.

I don’t know how I got here. Was it when Kyle died?

Kyle had been called to the doctors office practically every week since the year began. Kyle had been so afraid the day before he died. Afraid of what? Was it the same reason so many other boys die at Westwood? They say one or two die every year, some from accidents in the woods or on the lake, and others of natural causes.

No one outside Westwood cares about boys mysteriously dying though. There are precious few people to care about orphans, foster kids, and rejects, which are the majority of students at “charity-driven Westwood”.

Maybe I wouldn’t have cared about Kyle dying either. Except that the school doctor started seeing me every week, too.

I step into the only stream of light coming from a small rectangular window. Dust whirls through it. The window is too small for even my slender body to get through. I have the sore shoulders to prove it. If I could catch one of the mice, I could tie a message to it and release it through the window. Did Mo even know I was down here? Did they catch him already too?

The light is briefly disrupted as a mouse scuttles across the windowsill. I dive for it.

***

“Welcome to Westwood. I am Ms. Reid.” A handsome woman whose age I can’t place stands with perfect posture at the front of the mess hall. Me and a swarm of boys dressed identical to me stare at her. Her dowdy clothes look out of place with her curled orange hair. “I serve as the librarian and headmaster Hawthorne’s assistant.” Her ruby lips barely part when she talks.

Someone behind me chortles. I glance over my shoulder. A scrawny boy whose hair looks like it was dried by standing in front of a turbine eyes me. Residue of freckles on his nose and wide set eyes give him the look of something undomesticated. He flips me the “up yours”.

I roll my eyes and turn back.

The man I assume to be the headmaster steps forward. He isn’t a particularly attractive man. His face features a wide nose, squinty eyes and too-big mouth beneath thick glasses. The fact that he is perfectly clean-shaven solidifies his status as a complete dill weed.

The boy to my left whistles quietly. He’s pale with curly hair and prominent lips. “Those are custom leather shoes he’s wearing. Not to mention his watch. Being headmaster must pay well,” curly muses.

“I am headmaster Hawthorne,” a squealy voice interposes. The headmaster’s squat body is dwarfed beneath the huge stone archway of the hall. Apparently some philanthropist decided years back to turn their estate into a boarding school for less fortunate boys. The cream-colored stone architecture was something out of a gothic novel.

“I ask that you respect the rules. Those who do not, will receive discipline from the groundskeeper, Mr. Little.” Hawthorne motions to a husky, scowling man lurking in the corner of the room. It’s hard to make out his face under the shadow of his flat cap hat, but his cleft chin sports a gnarled scar.

The orientation moves at a glacial pace with rules like ‘10 pm curfew’ and ‘no venturing into the forest or onto the lake without an adult present’. I thank the stars when we are finally dismissed. My feet were starting to feel the stone floor through my shoes.

“Look at this,” a voice bellows. It belongs to a large student who is blocking the path of turbine-head. His olive skin and dark hair are the kind most girls couldn’t resist. He looks down at turbine with a wicked grin. “Why is your hair sticking straight back like that?”

Turbine glares up at him, nose wrinkled. “Why did your mom screw a goat?”

The larger boy grabs turbine’s collar. “You remind me of a troll doll, with your stupid hair and pinched nose. I suggest you apologize, troll.”

Several boys have stopped to watch.

Kyle’s expression darkens. “I’m waiting for my apology, troll.”

Turbine blinks calmly, “You can shove your apology up your ass.”

Rage floods Kyle’s face. I rush forward, holding my darker-skinned arms up. It’s like standing in front of a bull ready to charge. “Leave him alone, already,” I order.

The fist that was initially intended for Turbine-head is redirected to my nose. Pain shoots through the nerves in my face. I’m knocked onto my back. No sooner than my watery vision clears, Kyle is coming at me again. He is knocked back by something. I steady my spinning head. Is it turbine-head? Like some kind of animal, turbine climbs up Kyle and bites down on his shoulder. Kyle hollers. He seizes turbine, flinging him to the ground. Turbine smiles wildly up at him.

Hawthorne breaks through the crowd of boys gathered around us, followed by Ms. Reid. His eyes bulge at the sight of us and Kyle’s shoulder. “Ms. Reid, take Mr. Spaulding to Dr. Crane.”

Ms. Reid rushes over to Kyle, placing a handkerchief over his shoulder. Hawthorne’s seething gaze falls on turbine and me. “As- as for you two,” he struggles to speak through his rage, “y-you will both be spending your first day” he inhales, “in detention with Mr. Little!”

Turbine and I glance at each other. He flashes me another crooked grin and extends a grimy hand. “Name’s Mo. Mo Pigeon.”

*Several weeks Later*

Mo and I walk through the castle-like halls of Westwood. The last class of the day is physical science.

He sniffs at my shirt. “What you got, Tom?”

I scoot him away with my arm. “Get off, Mo.”

“I know I smell something.” He dodges beneath my arm and sniffs at my bag. He plunges his hand in, retrieving a muffin. “Aha!” He chomps down.

I exhale. “I was saving that for physical science.”

Mo snorts. “Physical science. What a joke.” He farts noisily. “That’s physical science.”

In my peripheral view, I see Kyle approaching us. He looks less haughty and more haggard than I’ve seen him. “Smart, Dr. Crane wants to see you next.” He shifts uncomfortably.

Again? Dr. Crane had been seeing Kyle every week since the first day of school. He started doing regular checks on me two weeks ago.

Kyle grips my shoulder, voice lowering. “Don’t go, Smart. Hawthorne has a little black book. I read it, it’s--”

The sound of approaching footsteps stops his thought. His eyes are swimming in fear. “Just don’t go.” Kyle takes off, looking like he’s seen death itself.

That afternoon, Kyle died. Hawthorne wouldn’t tell us the cause of death, but Mo wasn’t buying it. Not for how frightened Kyle had been just hours before.

That night I am wrestled awake by grimy hands.

Mo. I open my mouth to rip him a new one when he holds up something in front of my eyes. Even in the dark, I know what it is. Hawthorne’s little black book.

“You stole it? Mo-”

“I read it, Tom. Kyle was right. It’s a list of organ donors and large amounts of money. Kyle’s in it. So are you.”

The dormitory door burst open revealing Hawthorne and Little. They move for Mo and I. I jump out of bed to follow Mo, but Mr. Little’s hands seize me. Mo bites Hawthorne’s arm, eliciting a cry of pain, and darts out the window, making for the forest.

Sleepy students watch in confusion as I’m taken in a prisoner fashion. Little and Hawthorne are careful to make sure no one sees where they put me: the cellar beneath Hawthorne’s office.

***

I rub my elbows, cursing at my latest failed attempt to catch a mouse. I peek out the window. Hawthorne and Little are still scouring the woods for him. I can’t resist a smile. They won’t find him. That crazy bastard is more wild than anything in those woods. If Mo didn’t want to be found, it would be damn near impossible.

I make my way up the creaking stair, banging on the door for the 7th time.

“Let me out! You can’t keep me in here. I need water!”

The sickly velvet voice of Ms. Reid seeps through the wood. “Quiet Tom. You are in there for your own safety.”

My stomach knots. Right. To keep their product in good condition before they harvest me for some rich tycoon who doesn’t want their kid to be on an organ waiting list.

A tap so quiet I thought I imagined it catches my ear. I turn, searching for the skittering outline of the mice. No sign of them. TAP TAP. I follow the sound to the tiny window.

It’s curly-topped Stanley Biggs. He motions for me to back up, before shattering the window with a rock. I shield my face as broken glass explodes around me. “Stan?”

He quickly hands me a key. I stare at it in awe.

Stan shifts nervously. “Took me a while to figure out where they stashed you. I broke into the groundskeeper’s room and found the spare master key. Mo says to watch the trees for the signal. When they are distracted, get yourself out.” He darts away before I have a chance to speak.

My eyes roll across the tree line. It's morning now, and I can see the thick pines clearly. I quickly duck to avoid the headmaster and Mr. Little as they make their rounds near my window again.

The sudden sound of wolf-howling rises from the trees, followed by silence. It comes a second and third time.

I chance a peek. There at the tree line is a half-naked Mo shaking his bare arse in the air at the headmaster and groundskeeper.

For a moment the Hawthorne and Little are dumbfounded. Mo pulls his britches back up and produces the little black book, waving it tauntingly.

That does it. The headmaster, so flustered his orders are barely intelligible, shouts at Mr. Little to pursue. Mo scurries off into the woods like the mad, dirty, beautiful creature he is. I race to the door atop the stairs, hurriedly turning the key. Without another thought, I push through the door past a shocked Ms. Reid and sprint for the phone.

I dial the police’s number, wrestling with Ms. Reid to keep the phone. Luckily, I’m taller than she is. I shout frantically to the operator, “My name is Tom Smart. The headmaster at Westwood boarding school is trying to kill us! Help!”

Something hard smashes into my head. Everything goes dark.

My eyes open slowly. I see blinking lights. I’m on a gurney. Beside me is crazy-haired Mo, coated in a fresh layer of dirt.

“Mo, what happened?”

My scanning eyes find a hand-cuffed Hawthorne, Little, and Reid surrounded by police. “We...won?”

A wild grin parts Mo’s lips. He throws his head back and howls.