Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey

even if it was only
the head thereof. But with Hardenbrook seemingly fed up with both
asses and larks, I realized I hadn't listened when I'd reminded
myself not to like anyone at Corwald Prep.
    "All right, Ellandun. Where's the
photograph?"
    The other first-years in the section glanced
at each other and shrugged. But Langstrom pushed forward and stood
beside his chosen adult. "You're nothing but a thief." His voice
raised on the final word, and it rippled through the dorm like an
echo.
    I gave him my coolest look. "Well, I did warn
you."
    "That's enough," Hardenbrook said. "The
photograph, Ellandun."
    I turned my look on him. If he truly wanted
to be my friend he should have understood. But there was no sign of
softening in his expression, if anything his lips thinned further,
and a sense of unreality drove me deeper into my body. My hands
were cold, and I wouldn't have been surprised if our breaths had
puffed before us in little clouds.
    "Bugger it. All of you." I looked straight at
Langstrom. "And you especially."
    Amidst that gang of young toughs, such a
comment was enough to get me lynched. But Hardenbrook retained
control over the outraged first-years and hustled me out the door,
up the stairs, and through the carved wooden door on the top floor
where Tufton held court. When he heard the crime of which I was
accused, he looked as if he'd swallowed his cannonball, which was
even more authentic upon closer inspection.
    "I thought you were joking," he said.
    "Why, was it funny?" After all, the time for
good manners was past.
    The vein in his temple pulsed. He folded his
hands atop his papers and riveted me with his flattest stare. "We
don't allow thieves at this school. Return the photograph, and
you'll be punished, but you can stay. Otherwise," he paused, as if
about to pronounce the worst of all possible judgments, "otherwise
you'll be expelled and sent home."
    But the time for facial impressionism was
past, too. The school, and everyone within it, was at cross
purposes with my own newly-discovered goal in life. Never mind that
home hadn't changed. I had. I'd made my own place and now I could
see it. No longer would I have to compete with William or even
worry about him. He won the junior championships at the local
gymkhanas, at rowing meets, at boxing matches, at cricket, at
ruggers; I rode my stubborn pony over the fields, poled the clumsy
punt downstream, avoided people I didn't like or respect. He
garnered the good marks, the position in the church choir, the
compliments from neighbors; I read Shakespeare beneath the trees
and turned up my radio when I felt lonely.
    William's trophy case was full. Mine
contained four items: a penlight, a spyglass, a Swiss Army knife,
and a photograph. And through the gathering of that whimsical
collection, currently hidden within my compatriot oak tree, I felt
I'd found something special within myself. I didn't have to live
beneath William's shadow and I didn't have to follow in my father's
footsteps. I could do something exciting and unique, and now they'd
all notice me.
    "Bugger it," I said again. "I'm going to be a
burglar when I grow up."
    Mum, of course, was not happy when she
arrived.
    "I don't quite see how you could turn him
into a thief inside three weeks."
    Tufton was equally stiff. "He has much to
learn before he can be accepted at school again."
    She sniffed. "If he's so obviously unsuited,
why did you accept him in the first place?"
    "Could we just leave?" I interrupted.
    Mum looked down, surprise etched into her
well-bred face. Her eyes seemed puffy and red-rimmed; for a
fleeting moment, I wondered if I had made her cry rather than
Langstrom's sister. I'd always been obedient although cynical and
into everything that wasn't hermetically sealed against me, and I'm
certain those were my first words of real defiance in her
presence.
    She stared at me. I returned her gaze without
a blink. After a moment, it was she who turned away.
    "You'll discuss this with your father."