The House of Grey- Volume 1 (14 page)

“Those two have a history.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Monson looked towards Casey in the corner.  “Do you know what happened?”

Artorius hesitated. “Yes, I do. To a point, at least.”

Monson continued to look at him, as if to say, “Well?”

He hesitated again. “I’m not sure….”

Monson stopped him. “You’re right. I should talk to Casey about this.” He berated himself inwardly. Trust had to be earned, not taken.

Artorius sighed sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not even what you think. You’re our friend.”

Monson smiled, turning away as something caught in his throat.

Casey’s ranting interrupted his thoughts. Monson looked towards him. Maybe he would try the direct approach.

“Yo, Casey, what’s up with you and Kylie? Why all the bad blood?” 

The bathroom went silent. Monson wondered if he had upset Casey.

“She’s evil,” echoed Casey’s voice from across the bathroom. “Totally and utterly evil. Enough said.” With this, Casey went back to his ranting.

Another ten minutes passed before, finally, Casey strode towards them out of breath and slightly red, but otherwise fine.

“Are we back to normal?” asked Artorius, calmly gazing at Casey. “Do you have it all out of your system?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” answered Casey, “though there are still these.” He held out a pair of sunglasses that Monson recognized as Kylie’s. “When’d you nick those?”

“’Nick’?” Casey’s face was slightly malicious, but his tone sounded playful. It was apparent he was quickly getting back to normal, or at least trying.

“Shut up,” said Monson. 

Casey’s laugh sounded a bit forced, but he answered the question. “I caught them before I went for her.   Now I just have to figure out what to do with them.” He lapsed into silent thought.

“Well,” said Monson questioningly. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it’ll have something to do with a bird thrower and a shot gun.”

“Come on," said Artorius, checking his watch. “We’d better hurry or we ain’t gonna get no food. And who can think on an empty stomach?”  

“I wasn’t aware you could think at all, Arthur,” said Casey with mock astonishment. “Wow, this certainly is a day of discovery!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Arthur!”

Monson could only laugh as Casey and Artorius lapsed into wild banter. Yet his mind continued to race, mulling over what he witnessed between Kylie and Casey. Casey did not come out and say it, but whatever Kylie did to him, it was more than just a simple parting of the ways. Alas, he needed further information to form a proper conclusion. He would just have to pay attention to Casey over the next few days to see if he could glean more. With that thought, his attention shifted back to Casey and Artorius.

***

The GM’s mess room was one word: awesome. It was huge, and served every kind of food imaginable: bacon, eggs, toast, English muffins, hash browns, and an assortment of other items like fruit and cereal — and that was just the stuff Monson recognized; there were a host of foreign dishes he couldn’t even begin to name. The boys got in line.

“This is a bit more like it,” said Artorius, looking around. “All that grandeur was beginning to get on my nerves.” Monson agreed. The GM just felt more relaxed with its lack of fine décor and elegant artwork. Not that the place was dumpy. Rather, it just felt comfortable.

“Don’t get too excited, Arthur,” said Casey. “My uncle told me that they have a formal banquet room for dances and crap like that."

“Yeah,” conceded Artorius. “But we don’t have to worry about that today…and don’t call me Arthur,” he added as an afterthought.

The line moved quickly as the older students got their food, ate, and then made their way out of the various exits in the cafeteria.  Monson assumed these other students were heading to their different first periods. From these observations, something struck Monson.

“When do we get our schedules? I don’t remember them saying anything about it.”

He looked at Casey and Artorius even though Artorius was not even close to paying attention, but was searching the hall somewhat desperately.

“Right after breakfast,” answered Casey, still playing with Kylie’s sunglasses. “It was like Mr. Gatt said, all the freshman will hang around here, then we’ll choose our optional courses and be on our way.”

“
I don’t remember him saying that,” Monson replied.

“
You were busy being handled by the Dean at your reception,” smirked Casey.

“Ahh…”

Their conversation abruptly stopped when they were finally able to retrieve trays and help themselves to food. The food was hardy and expertly cooked.  The boys took full advantage of the buffet, heaping their plates and downing their food with gusto.  The breakfast was good and uneventful, and before they knew it, their plates were scraped clean.  A previously unnoticed sign told them that freshmen were to head towards the main conference room of the GM. Monson and the others did so, excited to see what classes this school had to offer,

The flow of students made the conference room easy to find. Upon their arrival, Monson noticed a young man in a wheelchair having problems getting through the doors. His chair was caught on something. Apparently Coren had missed the memo on disability-friendly entrances and exits.  Monson ran forward and pulled the chair back to free it.

“Let me help you,” he said, leaning around so the boy could see him.

“I don’t need any help!” snapped the boy angrily. He looked around at the crowd.  “I can do it myself!”

Whoa, touchy,
thought Monson, taking his hands off the boy’s chair. “Sorry man. I didn’t mean to impose or anything.”

“Whatever,” said the boy sourly.

Monson, Artorius, and Casey slid past the wheelchair and surveyed the room beyond. Rows of cubicles, teachers everywhere, and students meandering aimlessly made it difficult to navigate. Casey got them back on track when he pointed and said, “Over there, fellas.”

Above the cubicles was a large sign; the top of it read “Start Here,” with a huge arrow pointing to a stripe of tape on the floor. There was already a fairly long line up to the front row of cubicles, where several students were already heavily engaged with Coren staff.

“Here’s as good a place as any,” said Casey, gesturing to the rapidly growing line of people. An older student who appeared to be directing the freshman traffic stopped them.

“Monson Grey?”

Monson’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s me.”

“Your friends can continue on, but you need to step over to the side,” said the boy, pointing at Monson. His tone felt tainted as if he were trying to hold back how he really felt about the school, Monson, and just about everything else. 

“Why?” asked Monson, surprised at boy’s tone.

“All members of the Legion meet with Coach Able before they finalize their schedules,” replied the boy, who could hardly control his sneer.  He obviously did not care for Monson.

“Thank you very much. You’ve been very forthcoming and helpful,” said Monson with just a touch of sarcasm. He gave the older boy a small, cocky wink and stepped aside as directed, exaggerating his movements. The older boy noticed this and flashed him an angry look in response. Casey gave him a cheesy smile. 

Artorius wasn’t aware of the exchange, but hung back talking to a couple of girls. Something must have caught his attention, however, as he was now hurrying towards them, apprehension on his face.

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t know, but someone has his shorts in a twist,” replied Monson calmly. “Jerk.”

“Grey!” called a hoarse and dusty voice. “You’re up.”

A small man at the end of the cubicle was leaning halfway out, calling to Monson. A bit shorter than Monson, he had an emaciated and slightly feverish look to him. His balding head held remnants of brown hair and more than a few wrinkles.  His speech, however, counteracted his appearance: When he spoke, he didn’t sound weak at all.  His voice loud with a definite air of command. He beckoned Monson to him.

“Don’t just stand there,” ordered the man. “Come in, this shouldn’t take long.” 

Monson sat down in one of the two chairs now visible within the cubicle. The man took a seat opposite and pulled out a yellow folder from a file cabinet in the corner. He started to flip through it lazily.  It was some time before he spoke.

“As a freshman, it’s mandatory to take some type of physical education class,” said the man, not taking his eyes off the pages. “Members of the Legion live up to a higher standard, however, so while you can pick any of the five physical education classes available, the later periods are generally more intense.”

Monson didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to say. 

“I would also suggest that you use one of your elective periods for additional strength—"

“Question,” interrupted Monson. He cringed; he didn’t mean to be so abrupt. Well, he was already in it. “Point of inquiry, do I
have
to be a part of this Legion that everyone talks about, or is it something that I can just forgo?”

“Of course you have to be a part of it!” The man looked scandalized. “It's part of the terms of your scholarship; people are
expecting
to see you there."

“Looking forward to it,” said Monson sarcastically. “OK, so people are expecting to see me. What exactly do I have to do?”

“Nothing really, the
Horum
—I mean, the Diamond—will pretty much take care of us. Best quarterback we’ve had in years. Our entire offense is designed around him. The running backs are as well….”

Monson's mind began to wander as the man’s voice washed over him, going on about how amazing the Legion was and how awesome it was to be involved. Monson’s mind wandered to the night before, and the gargoyle statue. He had been fortunate that the giant chunk of cement didn’t crush Casey and him. That would have been just his luck: Survive Baroty’s Bridge only to die the first day of school. Stupid.

“Grey! You even listening?”

“Yeah,” Monson lied, “of course.”

“Then we're agreed?”

“Sure, why not,” replied Monson, wishing he knew what he was agreeing to. Knowing his luck, he was going to end up goat herding in the Sahara.

“Excellent, I’ll put you down for the sixth period free weights course.” said the man in a tone of smug finality. “Now there's just the matter of your one other free period. I would suggest a conditioning course, as most of the —”

“Actually,” interrupted Monson, “I already know what class I want for my fifth period.”

“Really,” the man answered in annoyance, “and what would that be?”

“Well,” said Monson, trying to keep his tone pleasant. “I heard Professor Gatt has an analytical history course. I’d like to take it. He already said it would be OK.” 

The older man’s brow furrowed so much that Monson wondered if his forehead hurt.

“It should be stated,” he replied, his answer clearly calculated, “that it'll be very hard for you to get any playing time…being a freshman and all. We’ve never had a freshman on the Legion, or even a freshman
Horum Vir
for that matter. If you want to get in a game at all this season, you really should take the fifth period conditioning course.”

He said this as if it cost him a great deal.

Monson, slapped by a sudden realization, did not speak for a moment. The coach did not want him in the weight-training course, let alone the conditioning course. The poor man was just trying to do damage control. No wonder.

“Coach Able — that’s who you are, I assume; you never did introduce yourself properly. I have very little interest in playing for the Legion. I also happen to know you have very little interest in trying to get me to play for the Legion,” said Monson, a second realization coming to him. “In fact, you're still bothered about how I got into the school in the first place. That I can’t help, but let me assure you that I have no intention of messing with your football team. So in the interest of time, let's drop the pretense that you really want me there.”

Monson shot him a thin smile that almost instantly turned into a grimace. Why did he always do that? He really needed to replace the filter between his mouth and brain.  To Monson’s utter astonishment, Coach Able burst out laughing.

“I’d heard you were one who got straight to the point, but I never expected this.”
He adjusted himself in the seat
,
becoming noticeably more relaxed
. “I’m glad that you and I are on the same page, Grey. It’s good to know that even though you aren’t an athlete that brain of yours is at least half as good as everyone is saying.”

“I’m trying to figure out if that was a compliment or an insult,” replied Monson. “I’m leaning towards insult.”

“Now, it’s important that you still show up,” said Coach Able, as if he suddenly remembered something. “We’ll have to find something on this team for you to do.” He rubbed his hands together, apparently thinking. “We'll figure out something...maybe kicking…yes, kicking might work.”