The Final Exam (2 page)

As Mrs. Wellington sashayed femininely into the hall, her cats Fiona, Errol, Annabelle, and Ratty darting rapidly between her feet, Madeleine slipped carefully out from between the sheets. This was not a simple task, for ten-year-old Hyacinth Hicklebee-Riyatulle and her pet ferret, Celery, were curled up at the foot of the bed. Hyacinth—or, as she preferred to be called, Hyhy—was notorious for her obnoxious behavior, as well as for her fear of being alone. Maneuvering cautiously on her tiptoes, Madeleine crept away from her bed and past that of thirteen-year-old Rhode Islander Lucy “Lulu” Punchalower.

Deep in slumber, with her strawberry blond hair covering her freckled face, Lulu displayed a softness she rarely exhibited when awake. The bold young girl was known for speaking without restraint, for never holding back a thought or a roll of the eyes. Of course, it ought to be mentioned that Lulu’s confident façade instantly evaporated where confined spaces were concerned. When forced into an elevator or a room without windows, Lulu broke into unbridled hysteria. The young girl once went so far as to hijack a window washer’s cart to avoid the elevator at a Boston hotel. Unfortunately, Lulu hadn’t a clue how to maneuver the thing and had to be rescued by the fire department. The whole debacle wound up on the nightly news, much to the chagrin of her image-conscious parents.

Now, as the sun blazed above the dilapidated limestone mansion known as Summerstone, Madeleine tiptoed down the creaky stairs, the importance of the day that lay ahead weighing heavily on her mind. If Mrs. Wellington and Abernathy did not reconcile, and thereby undermine reporter Sylvie Montgomery’s exposé, School of Fear would quickly and most unceremoniously cease to exist. And as nothing else had worked on her phobia,
not even the terribly experimental seminar Brainwashing for Bugs, Madeleine couldn’t afford to lose the school. This was a fact all the School of Fearians recognized: without the completion of the course, they could easily backslide into restricted, panic-filled lives.

By the time Madeleine dashed through the pink fleur-de-lis foyer and past Mrs. Wellington’s wall of pageant photos, her stomach had twisted itself into a highly complicated Celtic knot. Even the sight of the Great Hall, a grand corridor of one-of-a-kind doors, couldn’t distract Madeleine from her mounting anxiety. The airplane hatch, farm gate, giraffe-shaped portal, and countless other creative aberrations fell on blind eyes as she barreled into the ballroom, inside which both the classroom and drawing room were housed.

Immediately upon entering, Madeleine saw Mrs. Wellington, dressed in pink satin pajamas that perfectly matched her eye shadow, pacing nervously in front of the couch. Before her time at School of Fear, Madeleine had never known a woman who reapplied makeup before bed. But Mrs. Wellington was just such a woman and had on the eye shadow, rouge, false eyelashes, and lipstick to prove it.

“Shower Captain—thank Heavens you’re
finally
here!” Mrs. Wellington exclaimed.

Madeleine delicately smoothed her clear plastic shower cap before looking up at the old woman with irritation. “Mrs. Wellington, I loathe to be impertinent on such a day, but you only asked me here thirty seconds ago. And please stop calling me Shower Captain. It makes me feel like a cartoon character—and not a very attractive one at that!”

“It appears someone woke up on the left side of the bed.”

“I know I shouldn’t ask,” Madeleine said with a sigh, “but what’s wrong with the left side of the bed?”

“It’s not the
right
side of the bed,” Mrs. Wellington said briskly as her mouth shifted colors. The old woman was a bit of a genetic anomaly, with oversized capillaries in her lips that darkened when she was angry, nervous, or embarrassed.

Madeleine abstained from responding, as she was nearing the end of her perfunctory spider-and-creepy crawler scan of the room. Web-free surroundings normally left the young girl feeling terribly relaxed, but not today. There was simply too much at stake for her to be
relaxed. Why, just the thought of being relaxed felt downright irresponsible, almost illegal!

Mrs. Wellington gracefully lowered herself onto the couch, crossing her legs, and beckoned for Madeleine to do the same. As if performing a well-orchestrated dance, the four cats circled the woman’s feet before falling into the sphinx pose. After carefully noting the locations of all four tails and sixteen paws, Madeleine took her place next to Mrs. Wellington, mimicking her teacher’s perfectly vertical posture. As the young girl prepared to ask the nature of the early-morning visit, she focused on Mrs. Wellington’s long, frail fingers, awash in brownish liver spots. It was dangerously easy to forget that beneath the powerful persona lurked a feeble body weathered by time and experiences.

“Madeleine, I asked you here today,” Mrs. Wellington announced, “because something strange is happening to me.”

“I’m quite sure I understand. The possibility of losing the school must be awfully frightening for you; it’s a legacy you’ve worked so hard to maintain. And as for confronting Abernathy, well, I should think it’s normal to be scared after all these years.”

“Need I remind you that I am the headmistress of School of
Fear
? I know fright better than anyone! As a matter of fact, I recently awarded myself an honorary PhD in the subject, so I can assure you that
fear
is not the issue. It’s something far more distressing,” Mrs. Wellington said firmly as she grabbed her chest, contorted her face, and swallowed loudly.

“You’re not going to fake your own death again, are you?”

“No!” Mrs. Wellington barked. Then she softened her tone, saying, “Please, Madeleine, I’ve come to you for your sensible British advice. I need help. Something is very, very wrong with me…”

“As sensible and British as I am, I think I ought to wake the others. After all, Theo is terribly adept at diagnosing people, and Garrison is strong should you need help walking, and Lulu knows CPR, and Hyacinth, well, she is actually the opposite of helpful, so perhaps I’ll leave her and the ferret to sleep,” Madeleine babbled uncontrollably, panic seeping into her voice, as she left the room to collect her friends.

Within minutes Madeleine had returned with her groggy and pajama-clad classmates—Theo, Garrison,
and Lulu. A self-proclaimed specialist on both death and illness, thirteen-year-old New Yorker Theo Bartholomew maneuvered his pudgy frame to the front of the group. After a quick smoothing of his tousled brown locks, he pushed his smudged glasses up the shaft of his button-like nose and began his examination.

“The doctor is in,” Theo announced confidently as he grabbed Mrs. Wellington’s wrist. “And the good news is I feel a pulse, which means you are
definitely
still alive.”

“Ugh, Maddie should never have woken you up,” Lulu moaned, already annoyed by Theo’s theatrics.

Rather surprisingly, Theo ignored Lulu, instead focusing all his attention on Mrs. Wellington. “Are you experiencing any sharp or dull pains in your head?”

“No,” Mrs. Wellington responded. “I haven’t had any problems up there since I stopped using tar as wig glue.”

“In that case, I think I can rule out an advanced brain tumor, aneurysm, or cranial abscess,” Theo declared matter-of-factly before continuing. “Have you experienced any tingling in your extremities?”

“My extremities?”

“ ‘Extremities’ is just a fancy word for arms and legs,” Madeleine explained.

“I’m looking for signs of a stroke, multiple sclerosis, fibromyalgia—just your basic run-of-the-mill, life-altering illnesses,” Theo said.

“Honestly, half the time I forget I even have extremities, let alone feel them,” answered Mrs. Wellington.

“Interesting,” Theo said as he took off his grimy glasses and cleaned them on his pajama top.

“
Interesting
? Why is that
interesting
?” Mrs. Wellington asked impatiently.

“Oh, it isn’t interesting at all. I just like to say that word. Now then, have you noticed any large portions of flesh disappearing from your body?”

“Most definitely not.”

“So that’s a no on flesh-eating bacteria,” Theo said as he rubbed his chin and looked down at the felines lounging around Mrs. Wellington’s feet. “Is there a chance one of the cats might have scratched you, given you a case of the old cat scratch fever?”

“Totally made-up disease,” Lulu mumbled under her breath.

“Actually, Lulu, it’s
totally real,
” Theo said. “And if you don’t believe me, go on iTunes—there’s a song about it.”

“Sorry, I forgot how credible iTunes is when diagnosing an illness,” Lulu quipped.

“I assure you, Chubby, these cats haven’t had a ragged nail a day in their life,” Mrs. Wellington said. “Have you not seen the kitty spa in the basement? There’s even an artificial tongue to groom their coats.”

“I hate basements… no windows… bad news,” Lulu muttered nervously to no one in particular.

“So that’s a no on cat scratch fever, flesh-eating bacteria, brain tumor, aneurysm, cranial abscess, multiple sclerosis, stroke, and fibromyalgia. Well, I’ve got to say, I’m stumped. This might be one for the record books, or maybe just WebMD, but since we don’t have Internet access, I’m going to have to go with medical mystery.”

“Seriously?” said fourteen-year-old Miami native Garrison Feldman as he stepped in front of Theo. Tall and tanned, with shaggy blond hair, the water-phobic boy had an innately commanding presence. “Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on, Mrs. Wellington? I promise it will be a lot easier than letting Theo examine you.”

Mrs. Wellington nodded and pursed her lips before
beginning. “Ever since I learned about Sylvie Montgomery’s story and the plan for me to confront Abernathy, I’ve been having the weirdest sensations.”

“What kind of sensations?” Lulu asked with mounting curiosity.

“Heaviness in my chest, tears in my eyes, a sinking feeling in my stomach. And worst of all, my thoughts keep returning to the past, back to when I first met Abernathy…”

More decades ago than a chimpanzee can count, a widower by the name of Mr. Wellington brought his son, Abernathy, to School of Fear. The boy was in desperate need of help due to a most irrational fear of stepmothers, also known as novercaphobia. But as fate would have it, Mrs. Wellington, then known as Ms. Hesterfield, and Mr. Wellington fell madly in love. Of course, they tried to hide their feelings from Abernathy, but he soon discovered their love letters, which sent him on a downward spiral. From that point on, Abernathy never spent another night under the same roof as his father or stepmother. Instead, he retreated to the great outdoors, choosing to live the quiet life of a recluse.

Greatly weathered by Mother Nature, these days Abernathy sported gray, leathery skin and ragged, sun-stained hair. However, his most notable attribute was a near complete inability to socialize normally. Had it not been for his profound but terribly undiscerning love of music, he would still be living among the trees and squirrels. Rather shockingly, it was the rapture of Hyacinth’s tone-deaf singing that had lured Abernathy back to School of Fear. And once there, he grew rather fond of human company, having spent the last few decades engaged in one-sided conversations with forest animals.

“Contestants, you must tell me the truth,” Mrs. Wellington now implored her students, or, as she saw them, “contestants in the beauty pageant of life.” “What’s wrong with me?”

“Am I the only one who thinks that’s a loaded question?” Theo asked with a furrowed brow.

From the back of the ballroom came the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Wellington’s manservant, Schmidty. In balancing his enormous polyester-covered belly and elaborate comb-over, Schmidty had developed a very distinctive shuffle.

“Madame, must I explain what’s happening to you
again?” Schmidty called out from across the room, the portly English bulldog Macaroni waddling close behind in striped blue pajamas.

“It’s not meningitis, is it?” Theo asked, stepping away from Mrs. Wellington. “Because my neck is already feeling a little sore.”

“No, Mister Theo, it’s something far more common…. Feelings,” replied Schmidty.

“Don’t listen to him; I’ve got plaque on my teeth smarter than he is!” Mrs. Wellington said indignantly.

“Okay, we definitely need to find a dentist who makes house calls,” Lulu grumbled with unmistakable repulsion.

“Madame is experiencing emotions such as sorrow, regret, and melancholy for the first time in decades, and understandably she’s rather overwhelmed,” Schmidty explained as the old woman wiped away tears.

“Abernathy hates me,” Mrs. Wellington muttered. “My own stepson despises me, and soon the whole world will know that I failed him as both a parent and a teacher. The school will close and there’ll be nothing left for me in this life!”

“No way, Mrs. Wellington! We’re not going to let that happen,” Garrison stated confidently. “You and
Abernathy are going to work things out. It’s like the Red Sox–Yankees rivalry; it’s time for this to end. And once it does, we’ll show Sylvie Montgomery that her information is wrong, and she’ll have no choice but to kill the story.”

At that moment, a light snorting sound reverberated through the room, coming from the far window. At first no one paid it any mind, but as the sniffing grew heavier, Mrs. Wellington turned her head in curiosity.

“The pig is back!” the old woman screamed, deftly jumping to her feet and grabbing a nearby lamp and flinging it at the window.