The Job of the Wasp Page 2

  Classes did not break for summer, but there was a transitional period at the end of each semester, and during that time certain liberties could be gained by those in the facility’s good graces. At the end of the spring term, before summer officially began, the Headmaster called the boys, one by one, into his office for a review of the year so far. When I was summoned, my plan was to convince him I had lost weight—even though it was obvious I hadn’t—and not to leave the room until I was confident the meeting had gone well.

  There was plenty of work to be done in the summer, and a great deal of difference between indoor and outdoor work. There was shingling and there was filing. There was mopping the dining hall and there was sweeping under the blossoming ivy. In general, I preferred sweeping—slow, measured work with poetic undertones. Stroke by stroke, you were erasing the passage of time, sentencing each path to a purgatory of cleanliness. Under the ivy, the work of sweeping was an even more meditative and humbling practice. By contrast, other jobs, such as dunking dishes in the washing line or emptying waste bins around the facility, were endless and unrewarding. Dull as mud.

  If the Headmaster felt I’d kept up my end of the bargain, that I’d so far been putting my time at the facility to good use and was committed in my efforts toward a better fit of pants, it was possible these positive feelings would influence his decision as to my summer chores. He might also see some sense in assigning outdoor work to a boy who was obviously benefitting from exercise, both mental and physical. I needed to sit up straight in his office. I needed to look him in the eye. I needed to be open, confident without being cocky, and, above all, I needed to be honest with him. People can feel the weight of our lies, even if they don’t detect them as such. But honesty adds oxygen to a room.

  “How are you finding your time here?” said the Headmaster.

  “I’m finding it well,” I said, “for the most part.”

  “Where’s the trouble?” he said.

  “I haven’t been sleeping much,” I said. “Because I’m fearful at night.”

  “Fearful of what?”

  “If I knew,” I said, “I would have a plan for how to deal with it.”

  He smiled, but there was something troubling in it, as if I’d somehow put him on guard. So I tried again.

  “It’s either that I’m scared of everything at night,” I explained, “or, underneath my daily habits, I am in a state of constant fear obscured by the action of the day, so that as I lie in bed and the rest of the world grows quiet, that general state of fear moves to the front of my mind at a similar rate, grafting onto one subject after another—what I might be hearing outside my window, why there is no moon visible through the glass when, by my calculations, there should be, what another boy in the facility might someday do to me, what might have happened to me in the past, what might happen to all of us in the future, where this building will be in one thousand years, what was here one thousand years before, whether or not I will live as long as I might like to, if something will abruptly cut things short, or if living too long will bring its own unspeakable horrors—the list is endless, and because no item on the list represents on its own the actual, primary source of my fear, it can’t be reasoned away, put down, thought out, or fully dealt with. I can only cycle through the endless possibilities, exhausting each item before moving on to the next.”

  “You are very interested in understanding things and pre-

  senting them as they are,” said the Headmaster, still guarded but easing up.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am very interested in truth.”

  “Then you must know this only works if you’re being honest with me.” He tore a sheet of paper into two equal parts, then folded one half down the middle, over and over again, until it was too thick to fold anymore.

  “I’m being very honest,” I told him. “I’m being as honest as I possibly can be.”

  “Why don’t you try again then?” he said. “What, specifically, are you afraid of? Take a moment, if you need it.”

  “I can’t know because it’s not a particular thing,” I said, “or I can’t know because it’s too many things to count. It’s the honest truth that both are a possibility, and that all the thinking I’ve done on the subject has brought me no closer to deciding between the two.”

  He tried to fold the paper again, but it wouldn’t budge. “Maybe it isn’t fear that you’re feeling,” he said, “but anxiety.”

  “Can you tell me the difference?” I said.

  He handed me the second half of his paper and pulled a fresh sheet from his desk.

  “Fold it,” he said.

  “In half?” I said.

  He nodded. I folded.

  “Keep going,” he said, and so I folded until the paper would fold no more, just as he had done.

  “Do you feel better?” he said.

  I thought for a moment.

  “Answer honestly,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t feel better.”

  “Then perhaps it’s not anxiety,” he said with a shrug. “It’s always worked for me.”

  He set his fat, folded sheet onto a stout pile of similarly folded sheets at the corner of his desk. That I hadn’t noticed them before was testament to the level of focus and determination I’d brought to this important meeting.

  “So,” he said, “you spend hours and hours each night in a general state of fear about everything.” It was said tenderly and without accusation.

  We were getting somewhere.

  “Not everything,” I said. “But many things, yes.”

  “When I met you,” he said, “I saw a bright young boy with a promising future. People said you were overweight, but I had faith in you.”

  “I’ve lost two pounds, sir,” I said. My first of many lies to the Headmaster.

  He had already torn and folded a fresh sheet and was now pulling another from his desk. He rubbed the lobe of his left ear between two fingers before setting to work again on the paper. “Is that true?” he said.

  I looked at my lap. There was still a large bump there, but when I leaned back it did appear slightly smaller than it might have in the winter. It was possible I’d lost some fat and gained some muscle. My routines had changed. My life had a new shape; why shouldn’t I?

  “Are you enjoying the food here?” he said.

  I paused. “I haven’t had much of an appetite,” I said.

  The Headmaster smiled, again rubbing the earlobe. “It’s not the best, is it?” he said.

  I shook my head, pinching the lump in my lap.

  “Do you think you deserve the best?” he said. “Do you think a group of orphans living in a home should eat better than those of us who work for a living?”

  I shook my head again.

  “I don’t mean to be harsh,” he said, releasing the lobe and taking up a fresh sheet. “Remember, I eat the food here too. But I told you on the day we met that comfort isn’t something that comes without effort. It’s not something people simply provide for you. It’s something you strike out for on your own. Something you make for yourself. Something you identify, come to understand, and then pursue. My job is to look after you until you’re capable of finding your own comforts—not to be those comforts. I couldn’t be if I wanted to, and I also do not want to. What would happen then? You would grow into our facility like a tree taking root, that’s what. But I want you to grow out. Not just up, but out, and to never look back.”

  I nodded, and I saw in his eyes that he was open to me. No longer guarded. We were somehow on the other side of our difficult moment.

  “Wouldn’t you like that?” he said.

  “I would like to grow up and out,” I said. “Without putting on any more weight.”

  He smiled again. Things were going well.

  “So, you can enjoy what’s good enough for now?” he said.


  “It’s far from the worst food I’ve eaten,” I said.

  At that, the Headmaster laughed. It was remarkable. I’d set out to accomplish something, and here it was accomplished. I couldn’t remember having felt more satisfied than I did in that moment.

  “No, I suppose it isn’t,” he said, wiping his nose and still chuckling. “How about your classes? Everything making sense so far?”

  “They’re fine,” I said. “They’re good.” I relaxed into my seat.

  “Which do you like the most?” he said. “Where do you think you’ll shine this semester?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never thought of it that way.

  I work hard to excel in all of my subjects.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Where do you struggle most academi-

  cally?”

  Reflexively, I thumbed the node between my ear and the back of my skull. Aware of what I’d done only after I’d done it, I tried to make the gesture seem natural, rubbing my palm along the back of my neck and into my hair.

  “Math,” I said.

  “That’s an important one,” he said. “No reward in slacking there.”

  “I apply myself most in areas where I am having the most trouble,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good. And you’re getting along with the other boys?”

  I nodded.

  “No one is giving you any trouble?”

  I shook my head.

  “How about the boy who sits behind you?” he said.

  I was very still.

  “He’s not giving you any trouble?”

  “Who’s that again?” I said.

  “The boy who sits behind you in the classroom. He hasn’t given you any trouble at any point?” He tore a fresh sheet of paper and began to draw on its bottom half.

  I knew I couldn’t be honest with the Headmaster about my feelings toward the boy, not without risking everything I’d gained over the course of our meeting. But the teacher had obviously told the Headmaster something, and I would have to address it now if I wanted him to believe I was still being honest with him. It was likely she’d reported what I’d done, and it followed that she would have passed on my explanation for it. If the Headmaster was inviting my side of the story in an effort to balance the scales of justice, it was too late. Were administrative trouble to find its way to the boy at this point, the others would think I’d been the one to follow up with the Headmaster, possibly for the sole purpose of confirming punishment for the other boy involved. This would murder my already miserable reputation and invite a great deal more trouble. Additionally, justice at the hands of the uninvolved simply wouldn’t satisfy the days I’d spent living in phase two of the boy’s evolved cruelty, wherein, though he’d technically done nothing, things had taken a sinister turn.

  The Headmaster looked up from his paper, which he’d pinned to his desk with one hand.

  “Well?” he said.

  I was trapped. What I’d seen moments before hadn’t been comfort or good will, but the patient confidence of a hunter who would successfully lure in his prey. He wanted nothing less than the full story, which he’d known I would be hesitant to give. Now I could only affirm my guilt by yielding to the teacher’s account, possibly abandon credibility with a lie, or lose control of the situation by telling him everything, placing my fate in the hands of a boy who would undoubtedly seek retribution for whatever punishments followed. Considering my options, I felt I had no choice but to venture further from the truth.

  “The boy poked me once with the end of his pencil sharpener,” I said. “While I no longer believe it was on purpose, I lost my temper at the time, sir, and I tried to hit him. I was punished for it on the day.”

  “How could he have accidentally poked you with the end of his pencil sharpener?” said the Headmaster.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m convinced he didn’t mean to.”

  “What convinces you?” he said.

  “The boy and I get along very well,” I said. “We got along before and after he poked me. He’s apologized for the accident, and we’ve put it behind us.”

  “He did?” said the Headmaster.

  I nodded.

  “Did he explain how the accident happened?” he said.

  “I took him at his word,” I said. “Honesty necessitates trust.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear things came to such a peaceful conclusion,” he said. “If that’s all, you’re now excused.”

  Shocked, but pleasantly so, I rose, watching the floor while shoving my folded paper into a trouser pocket. I’d promised myself I would stay until I was positive things had gone well, but now it seemed far better to leave before I somehow made matters worse.

  “One last thing,” said the Headmaster as I approached the door. “What’s his name again?”

  “Who’s that?” I said.

  “The boy who sits behind you,” he said. “Remind me of his name?”

  I thought a moment. “It never came up,” I said.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Through all those apologies and getting along.”

  “I assure you it was an accident with a peaceful resolution,” I said. “If I misspoke, it’s because I was caught off guard by it even being a topic of conversation.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Then I thank you for your time. And for your honesty, of course.”

  “It didn’t even hurt,” I told him. “It was more a grazing than a poking, sir.”

  “That’s good to know,” he said.

  “We’re friendly now,” I assured him, “but it’s only the beginning of the friendship.”

  “When you join the other boys in the washing line,” he said, “try to stick yourself somewhere in the middle without being disruptive. And send in the next boy as you leave.”

  That night, I thought I heard the laughter again, but I did not get up. A new boy had been seated behind me in class that afternoon. The boy who’d stuck me was gone. But the teacher had done nothing to acknowledge the change, and the other boys didn’t seem to register it.

  He hadn’t been in the dining hall either, nor in the dorms for the nightly song. When no one said anything, I eagerly followed suit. But now the laughter lapped at the edges of my window, and I couldn’t help feeling that some great injustice was about to be brought down upon me.

  I listened as the laughter moved in and out of audibility. I could smell smoke too, or something like smoke. And there was a voice—indecipherable at first, but soon it rang

  clear.

  “Snitch,” it said.

  “Rat.” That was a second voice coming through the window.

  I rose to look through the glass but again saw no one. The yard was empty in all directions. The saplings were bent in the wind. The grass was weak too, bowed over and rippling.

  “If someone’s out there,” I said to the glass, “I’ll drown you like a field mouse.”

  Nothing else happened before the ceiling screamed, and I was showered in cool water. My bed, my clothes, my hair. The papers on my desk slid soaking to the floor where a puddle was already gathering. Boys shrieked in the hall, with equal parts terror and delight. A red light came on then went off then came on then went off. I went to the door and looked out. My vision was obscured by the water pouring down my face, into my eyes, falling from the ceiling and all around us.

  A boy slid past on his heels.

  “What’s happening?” I called.

  He shook his head in a falsely sympathetic way. “Sprin-klers,” he said, pointing up.

  Boys filed past me then, headed to the yard to gather: a protocol I’d been left to discover on my own. It was a cold night, and it wasn’t long before the wet lot of us started to shiver. Groups of friends gathered together, warming each other vaguely with their proximity. Frightened, angry, I stood
alone at the edge of the crowd, looking for anyone in dry clothes. Anyone who might have been outside when the water started to fall.

  After some time, the Headmaster appeared at the edge of the yard in his robe and pajamas. He was dry, but that was an unlikely lead. He wore white slippers that were gathering mud at the edges as he moved toward us.

  “Who’s done it, then?” said the Headmaster.

  No one spoke.

  “Every year,” said the Headmaster, “some unimaginative little onion pulls that switch and brings you all out here soaked and shivering, as you each are now. Do you know, and I’m speaking to all of you here, how incredibly tired this prank of yours is? If you did, I think you would derive less pleasure from it. I hope it reduces whatever pleasure you might be deriving currently to know that I am not bothered in the slightest to have to get out of bed at this hour in order to address the soaking lot of you, bothered far less than you surely are, cold and wet and shivering like eels on ice. I have a fire burning in my home as I speak. My wife is setting logs on that fire, and it is snapping out into the room, it’s so hot and excited for me to join it with a glass of brandy, which I will pour to ease the pity I might still be feeling upon my return. That’s right: Pity is what I’ll feel. Maybe the faintest bit of irritation, but mostly pity. Pity and disappointment. You might reconsider your situation, soaked and standing in a muddy field. You call this a prank? Here is the result of your effort. Here is your good time. Here is your joke. You, I should say, are your joke. You and the boys who support your very few pleasures in life. The boys who do your laundry and wash your dishes and serve your pork. While we stand out here together and let the night settle into our bones, awaiting the fire department, I want you all to think very carefully about how much fun this actually was. How delightful. What a gas. It’s a costly prank to the school, to be sure, and one without reward. Funny as you might think it is, the only ones who suffer from this expense are the lot of you. My salary doesn’t change. My home is as it will always be. You, however, have just forfeited to the state a large sum of money that could and would have been spent on your education, your meals, the luxuries you are being provided for free, perhaps undeservingly; it’s not up to me to decide. It’s a waste of everyone’s time, these little pranks, these little repetitions, and it rattles young immune systems. Who knows what diseases some of you will wake up with? Who knows how little medicine there is to go around? I was wrong before. Allow me to correct what I said. It’s exclusively pity that I feel. Pity and boredom, that is. Year after year and here we are. Such a bother and such a waste.”