I have the first part of a new story up for everyone who is supporting me at the $5 level or higher, over on Patreon! You can find the story and download it here, and here’s the first chunk of the story, for those of you who might be curious what to expect.
Principal Cogswell thumbed through the report in his hand, the room quiet aside from the creak of the chair where young Martin Peters Jr. was tipping back on the chairs back two legs, looking everywhere but at the old, chubby, hairy man across from him behind the desk. If Peters had been more self-aware, he likely would have been able to trace the train of thoughts which had planted him here. First and foremost, a hatred of his father and all men like him, all men like this one across from him. To his young mind, the principal was just like his father, every older man in a position of authority was just like his father, and he never wanted to be like his father. This whole stupid school, this whole stupid life. He hadn’t asked for any of this, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking it for granted.
The principal had already read the report of course–he was more interested in the boy’s general demeanor. He had only been principal at this elite academy for a year and change, but he’d already heard more about the Peters than any of the other wealthy families who sent their lineage here. The Peters gave more money than anyone, had higher expectations for this one boy than any other, as the sole remaining man to continue the Peter’s line. He was obviously cracking, not that the boy would acknowledge that summation of his situation. Peters tipped a bit too far back, flailed for a moment, and crashed forward onto all four feet, trying to look like he’d made the loud clunk on purpose. Cogswell ignored him for long enough to make it ambiguous that he’d cared, and then cleared his throat. “I must say, the events described in this report are rather troublesome, Mr. Peters,” he paused a moment, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
He’d been found out back earlier that day, smoking and drinking with two other classmates, skipping class. A search had revealed on his person a switchblade, in violation of the school’s zero tolerance policy on weapons. O f course, the zero tolerance was hardly ever meant for men like the young Mr. Peters, still this, along with a thick file of other poor behavior, is what had brought Peters before him today.
“Well, as things stand here, I’m afraid I have no choice of action except expulsion.”
That got a reaction, at least. A laugh. “You can’t expel me,” Peters said, “Just wait until my father hears about this–you’ll be the one gone, not me!”
Cogswell had expected this sort of bluff, but he’d long ago stopped worrying about things such as this. “Well, I have already called your father here today, and he should be arriving soon. He told me he looks forward to discussing the matter with you in the car.”
A seed of doubt. Apparently, such an obvious bluff would have been enough to bend the last principal to his young will. That said, Cogswell hadn’t informed the young man’s father yet, but he certainly planned on doing so, if the young man didn’t show signs of remorse, which he could see starting to form. It was always the same with these sorts of boys.
“Look, it was Adam’s knife! I was just holding it for him.”
“Mr. Ogden insists you were the one who brought the blade, as does Mr. Shipsdale.”
“They’re fucking liars! I…Look, please, don’t expel me. If I get kicked out, my father will–”
Cogswell put up a hand. He didn’t need the specificity of the threat to be sure the young man was serious. “Mr. Peters, I am willing to give you a final chance, if your remorse is true. It will require you turning around your rather sorry performance in your classes, a spotless record of behavior from now until the end of the term, and lastly, a mandatory special detention with me, three days a week, until I believe you no longer require it. Those are my terms, and you’d best decide before your father arrives.”
It probably seemed like a golden opportunity to Peters, and he accepted the terms without question, probably not even giving a second thought to the what the nature of a special detention with the principal might mean. Cogswell excused the boy once he was satisfied the boy was displaying some moderate sincerity, told him his first detention would be the following afternoon after school, and when he had exited the office, he called Martin Peters Sr. to inform him of his son’s delinquency, and the punishment he’d accepted, adding that he was excused for the day, and his father should come speak to him at his earliest convenience. Peters Sr. replied he would arrive soon, and have a chat with his son. Satisfied, Cogswell unlocked a drawer in his desk, and pulled it open, finding a tattered notebook inside with a single pen. He stroked the cover a moment, thinking, and then shut the drawer again, locking it. Tomorrow. He’d promised himself he’d only use it for…special cases here, but the truth was this Peters boy hardly merited the use of this particular tool. Still, it had started whispering to him lately, and maybe turning this young man around would quiet it again for a while longer.
Peters arrived late, but at least he did arrive, allowing himself into the principal’s office without bothering to knock first. He had obviously recovered his brash, rebellious manner, and was even overcompensating for his moment of weakness the day before. Inside the office, in front of the principal’s desk, he found a single desk, and on it was a very old looking notebook and a pen.
“Welcome, Mr. Peters. You can set your bag over there–you won’t be needing it.”
Peters set his bag down, a bit confused. “Don’t…shouldn’t I be working on my school work?”
“Like I said yesterday, Peters, this is a special detention, and I have my own assignment for you. Now have a seat if you would. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can be done.”
Peters sat down in the chair, and flipped through the notebook. The early pages were incredibly old, and every page was full of lines, in countless different handwriting styles. “What…is this thing?”
“Oh, it’s just a tool of mine,” Cogswell said, “I happened upon it a few years after I started teaching, and it’s been invaluable in helping me discipline students over the years. Remarkably effective, actually. Go ahead and turn to the back, there’s some empty pages there for your work today.”
Not very many empty pages. Still, he did find one, and picked up the pen, which seemed a bit too cold for the room he was seated in. “What do you want me to write?”
“Today, I think we should start with those nasty habits of yours. A young man should know better than to be smoking at this age, don’t you think? Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good pipe rather often–I think I’ll have one now, in fact–” he walked over to a rack of pipes behind his chair, selected one, and began the process of filling and tamping and lighting while he kept speaking, “So today, I would like you to write, ‘Smoking is for gentlemen, not boys.’ How does that sound to you, fair?”
Bracken's Corner 