TWENTY-NINE

KAINE

"Very impressive resume, Mr. Cross." 

Peter Hermes--that's a creepy pervert name if I ever heard one--Headmaster of Westminster Boarding School for Young Adults, scanned the paper in front of him over his glasses. 

He was an older British gentleman in his seventies, most likely. Not a speck of lint was on his crisp, dark suit and not a single gray hair on his head was out of place.

His office, lined with books and accented with dark, polished wood, reflected his dress and demeanor perfectly. 

I had already interviewed with a panel of teachers and the Assistant Headmaster. He was the last person I needed to charm to get my foot in the door here.

"Thank you, Headmaster," I said in my most gracious interviewee voice. 

"Tell me Mr. Cross," he said through a mouth full of saliva as he set my paperwork down on his desk. "What makes you interested in working at Westminster?"

"Well Headmaster, it's our duty as Christians to lead those who have gone astray back into God’s loving embrace," I said. "While I've enjoyed my work as a pastor immensely and love surrounding myself by His devoted followers every Sunday, I feel compelled by Him to return as many lost lambs back into the fold as possible. It's more challenging for sure to instill faith into the faithless, but I feel as though that is my earthly purpose as His servant."

I paused and bowed my head slightly to get the full effect of my spiel across. 

"Not to mention," I continued. "It would be an honor to work at such an esteemed school. Selfishly, I would like my name to be added to those who've been such a positive, guiding light on these students." 

The headmaster puffed up like a peacock and I knew I had him. These despicable, so-called Christians would sell their own mother to the devil with enough flattery.

"Well, I'll have to discuss this with the board of course," he said, writing a few things down on a pad of thick paper with a fucking feather quill pen. I swear the only reason these people weren't Amish was out of pure laziness. 

"But I have positive feelings about you, Mr. Cross. When would you be able to start?" 

"Right away, sir," I said, hoping I didn't sound too eager. "And as I told Assistant Headmaster McConnell, I'm more than willing to start out as muscle if you need it. You can never have tight enough security with some of these unpredictable students."

"That may be an excellent idea, Mr. Cross," the Headmaster said thoughtfully as he stood from his desk. "To be frank, it may be best to ease you into the teaching staff slowly. We don't usually hire male teachers, especially young and dashing ones like yourself." 

I chuckled. "You flatter me, sir." 

The blush that crept up from his neck to his jowls wasn't lost on me. Briefly, I wondered how far back in the closet he was and for how long.

"You understand, I'm sure. Many of the students are here due to passionate, lustful crimes. We have to make absolutely sure our faculty would not encourage sinful thoughts or actions in any capacity." 

I'll bet my left nut it still happens anyway. But I'm sure you're very good at sweeping these things under the rug.

"You're absolutely right, Headmaster," I said with a smile. "I'm happy to prove myself for as long as needed before stepping into a classroom." 

"Very good," he said cheerfully. "Shall we give you the grand tour?" 

"Yes, please," I replied, rising from my seat. "I'd be honored."

The Headmaster grabbed his cane, a long, heavy piece of dark wood polished to a high shine, and together we left his office. 

"This school used to be my family's estate," he said proudly as we began strolling leisurely through an open corridor. "It was left to me by my grandparents but I wanted nothing to do with it. My only desire was to live simply and please God. However, I was the last of my line and it fell to me regardless." 

"Clearly God meant for you to have it," I said absently, swiveling my head around at the students milling about between classes. Among all those ugly gray dresses and downcast stares, I was looking for a familiar mane of raven black hair. I wondered if she would dare to look me in the eye, my rebellious Maggie, or if this place had already broken her down.

"Yes, indeed!" Headmaster Hermes prattled on. "The need for this place to become a school of worship came to me in the seventies. That was when the world started going downhill. All that so-called free love, drug use, homosexuality, ugh! What blatant hedonism and self-indulgence! Young people were turning away from God and He gave me this place to bring them back." 

"If I may ask, Headmaster, why girls specifically?" I said, continuing to scan as many faces as I could. "Is there a sister campus for young men as well?" 

"The boys' school is currently in planning," he said, puffing up again proudly. "The school was co-ed at first, but there were too many cases of rebelliousness. Girls sneaking into boys rooms and such. We simply found that a higher proportion of women committed crimes against God than men. So we catered to those who needed our guidance the most."

You mean more women broke the rules simply because historically there are more rules against them. 

"I see," was all I could say as I tried to swallow my disgust.

The Headmaster continued rattling on about the sins of the young people and the history of the school while I pretended to listen. 

We passed by several lush, manicured lawns and courtyards decorated with shady willow trees and freshly cut topiaries. 

On the surface, it was a beautiful campus. Students looked happy enough. They sat in shade under the trees and on benches-- some reading their bibles, others knitting, sewing, or snacking on pieces of fruit. They talked to each other in soft voices and I even heard a giggle or two. 

But when we walked past, their smiles dropped and they cast their eyes to the ground. That was how I knew this place had a cold, intolerant agenda underneath the warm, sunny exterior.

To sick fucks like Hermes, that was the obedience and meekness they were striving for. But all I saw were women afraid to be themselves in the presence of men. It was saddening.

A girl sitting on a bench caught my eye. The first thing I noticed was she sat cross-legged Indian style, with her knees splayed out and her feet on the bench. It looked like a deliberate act of rebellion compared to every student who sat with her feet flat on the ground and legs closed.

She concentrated intently on sewing a piece of clothing in her lap, her fingers moving deftly and swiftly as if on a musical instrument. Her long, raven black hair was woven into a single braid thrown over the front of her shoulder. If she had two braids, she would have resembled a grown-up and more attractive Wednesday Addams. 

Her fingers paused. She looked up and directly at me. 

My eyes met those that matched mine and fell upon the small, rosy mouth that I'd been dying to kiss like I needed air to breathe. 

It was my Magdalene.