Page 77 of Hateful
“I didn’t know it was an all-boys’ school when I applied,” I say quickly, my words tumbling out of my mouth. “And by the time I figured it out—”
The dean holds up his hand and I clamp my mouth shut.
“However you got here,” he says, “you’re here now, and we’ll have to deal with this.”
He shoots a glance at Headmistress Robin, and for one brief second, I swear I see a hatred so intense, I wouldnotwant to be on the receiving end of it.
“Some things have come to light, and it turns out that Bleakwood is being investigated. Ordinarily, I would’ve had you expelled,” he adds, cutting his eyes back to me, and for one second Iamon the receiving end of his wrath. I swallow down the lump in my throat. “But since there are certain … accusations … levied at us as an institution, I think it’ll look good to keep you here. Our first female student. Accepted fully on merit, also. That ought to look nice for the investigative board.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in.
“So … I’m going to be like a mascot,” I snap, feeling my face heat up. I should have guessed. Just another opportunity for someone here to use me for their own gain.
“You’re like astudentwho isn’t getting expelled,” the dean growls, and I look down. He’s right. I should at least be thankful I’m not getting kicked out.
The headmistress clears her throat, and the dean clenches his jaw. “That being said,” he sighs, “the press will be here any minute. They are going to want to interview you.”
“Me?” I squeak out.
My head has started to spin again.
“You are not to mention that you were disguised,” the dean snaps. “You will say that you were the best candidate, that the schoolknewyou were a girl, and accepted you as our first female student.”
I nod. I don’t like lying, but what can I do? I want to stay at this damn school.
Thisiswhat I wanted, isn’t it?
“And keep details about other students to yourself,” he continues. “I’ll try not to let them get you on your own, but if they do separate you, just keep that in mind.”
“Sure,” I reply, my voice squeaking out.
There’s a knock at the office door, and the dean sighs. “Yes?”
One of my professors opens the door and leans in. “Reporters are here.”
“We’ll be right out.”
The professor nods and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. The dean sighs again as he gets up from his chair.
“Naturally I should come, too,” the headmistress says warmly. She phrases it like a question, but it definitely doesn’t sound like one.
The dean grits his teeth. “Yes. Of course you should. Naturally.” He looks to me. “How’s your German?”
“Um—broken?”
“Fine. I’ll translate for you.Americans,” he adds under his breath as he reaches his door.
The hallway outside the office is still and quiet, which I don’t take enough refuge in. By the time we get out to the entranceway, all my senses are suddenly and overwhelmingly assaulted.
A gaggle of people holding microphones and cameras crowd the entrance, shuffling through the big double doors with mouths gaping open like tourists before they catch sight of us and rush over in one big surge. They’re all talking at once, some in German, some in French, some in English.
Even if I could speak those other languages, I wouldn’t be able to understand them. I can’t even understand the English, they’re all talking over each other so loudly.
The dean shouts for order, but no one hears him above the cacophony. Headmistress Robin, on the other hand, gently raises both her hands and the reporters slowly fall silent.
“One at a time, please,” she says with a warm smile.
This just makes Dean Withers’ smile darken even further.
