Mrs. Sherman, the art teacher, had her hand up. She was a rather flamboyant woman in her midfifties who wore a beret. “I’m worried about what you say about the demerit system. I often feel almost incapable of controlling some of my students and without the demerit system I think I’d be completely at sea. Isn’t there a danger of too much permissiveness?”

“I don’t believe it’s a matter of permissiveness,” said Hawthorne, “but of giving the students increased responsibility and trying to remove a them-against-us type of thinking. Our kindness to them must be separated from any notion as to whether they deserve it. The student who acts out and the student who never opens his mouth may be equally in need of help, and those are issues best addressed by the weekly meetings as well as other methods.” He went on to discuss the role of the two counselors now at the school and how each would be responsible for half the students and would work with him and the school psychologist. Sometime during the year Hawthorne hoped to hire a second psychologist. And he spoke of increasing the students’ sense of connection to the school by instituting a buddy system between upper and lower classmen, starting discussion groups within each grade, and assigning students to the grounds crew, the kitchen, or the library to help with certain tasks.

Further questions were asked, ranging from the smallest of issues—a broken desk in a classroom—to the philosophical—hadn’t Freud been generally discredited? But behind them all lay the concerns about time and how the students could be controlled. Ted Wrigley, the other language teacher, was worried about what he called the ethical dimension of increased student surveillance. Wasn’t it a form of spying?

“Our job,” said Hawthorne, “is to help prepare these youngsters for the adult world, to educate them in a variety of areas all the way from mathematics to how to interact with one another. Let’s say a girl comes to class with cuts on her arm or stops eating or refuses to brush her teeth. Surely you wouldn’t ignore symptoms like that. If we pay more attention to students’ behavior, we can do much to prevent these kinds of problems from developing, or at least keep them to a minimum.”

“Will these be one-hour meetings?” asked Roger Bennett, getting to his feet and smoothing back his blond hair. The fact that his wife was chaplain gave him a degree of unspoken authority, as if he were dean or associate headmaster. “Many of us have already committed our afternoons. What will be gained by making our busy schedules even busier?”

Kate again turned her attention to the playing fields. The shadows were longer; the girl was gone. But the man was still splitting wood—setting a log on the chopping block, then stepping back with his ax. His movements had a machinelike refinement, as if he could easily split logs all day. Kate wondered if he, too, would be included in these meetings, if he would be called upon to say how a girl had watched him splitting wood and what this might signify. Kate almost smiled. Couldn’t one say that everything had bearing on something? Really, it was impossible to provide for every contingency. If kids wanted to get in trouble, it would be hard to stop them. But wasn’t that the very attitude Hawthorne was arguing against?

The questions continued. Could students still be sent to the headmaster’s office if they acted up? Could bad behavior be punished with failing grades? The questions were as much about allaying the anxieties of the faculty as about looking for specific direction. “But it sounds like a treatment center, doesn’t it?” asked Herb Frankfurter, one of the two science teachers. The librarian, Bill Dolittle, seemed to agree. “Do you really think this will make them better?”

“You’re right,” said Hawthorne, “we don’t want to run a treatment center. The students haven’t been sent here by psychologists, nor have they been mandated here by the court. Their parents pay a lot of money for the privilege of enrolling them at Bishop’s Hill. But some of their conditions are similar, though perhaps not as severe. I don’t expect we can solve any huge problems, but, yes, I feel the students can be helped.”

“Without a demerit system,” said Tom Hastings, “I’ll become an even greater victim of their verbal abuse. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I get called.” Hastings, the other science teacher, was about Kate’s age. Whenever he got nervous, he stuttered, and the students teased him.

“I bet I’ve been called the same,” said Hawthorne. “However, they can’t abuse you.”

“Isn’t being called m-m-motherfucker a form of abuse?”

“As long as you can walk away, you can’t be abused. They’re stuck here, you’re not. And don’t get caught up in the meaning of the words. These are damaged kids. If you were a doctor and a kid came in with a broken arm, you wouldn’t take offense. For a boy to call you motherfucker is like a broken arm. And if a boy or girl is disturbing the class, you can make them take a time out or send them to my office. You can do all sorts of things, but to punish them is to avoid the problem. Basically, it’s a form of irresponsibility. And, let me tell you, it doesn’t do any good.”

There was a note of impatience in Hawthorne’s voice. Kate’s colleagues glanced at one another. The new headmaster’s tone had unsettled them.

Hamilton Burke got to his feet and put a hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. “These issues will be worked out over the next weeks and I’m sure nobody will have anything of which to complain. In the meantime, it’s getting late. The board of trustees is hosting a little reception across the hall in the Peabody Room so we can continue our chat more informally. I hope you’ll all join us for a drink and a snack.”

Skander began applauding again to signify that the meeting was over. This time the applause was very brief. Chairs were pushed back.

“Welcome to Hawthorne’s gulag,” said Chip. “I’m sure not going to let any student of mine call me a motherfucker, no matter what this guy says or where he comes from.”

Alice Beech turned abruptly toward Chip and her white uniform seemed to hiss. “Then it’s clear you heard very little of what he had to say.”

Bill Dolittle joined them. Besides being librarian, he taught two sections of English. He was portly, balding, and reminded Kate of a friar—a rather sexless middle-aged man who liked his wine and comforts. “I’m impressed by his seriousness. It’s certainly a new idea to try to actually help out students.”

“Sounds like Do . . . little likes the new headmaster,” said Chip, mockingly. “Is that right, Do . . . little? Have you found yourself a friend?”

“I wish you’d stop that joke,” said Dolittle, pursing his lips. “I work as hard as anyone else around here and much harder than some.”

Roger Bennett came up behind Chip. “So what do you think?” Bennett raised his eyebrows ironically, as if answering his own question.

“All I know,” said Kate, “is that I’d like a glass of wine.”

—

Jessica Weaver sat in her bunk, writing a letter. It was the lower bunk she had chased her roommate out of, the jerk. If possible, she would have chased her from the room altogether, but she didn’t want to call too much attention to herself. It would be dumb to wreck her plans by being foolish. After all, that’s what had happened last time and that’s why she was at Bishop’s Hill.

Jessica had tucked two blankets under the mattress of the top bunk, letting them hang down and enclose the lower bunk so she felt like an Arab in a tent. Two of her biggest schoolbooks were piled to make a small table and on them burned a red candle in a saucer she had swiped from the dining hall. The candle gave enough light to see by and even warmed the small space, making it cozy. Leaning against the books was her stuffed bear, Harold, whose one eye was focused fondly upon her. Jessica was listening to her Walkman—Beyond the Missouri Sky again, programmed to play the last song, “Spiritual,” over and over. So arranged, Jessica could imagine she was almost anyplace and not at Bishop’s Hill in the few minutes dividing Friday night from Saturday morning. She wore blue flannel pajamas and sometimes she paused in her writing and chewed the black plastic tip of her pen.