Just Deserts (3 page)

“How did that get onto the Internet?” I asked. “You know it wasn't me who did it.”

“Of course it wasn't you. You were so impaired, I don't imagine that you could have tied your own shoes.”

“Then who did it?” I asked.

“I would suspect that it's the same person, or persons, who notified me, by e-mail, of the existence of that piece of footage.”

“Then you know who it is, right? Shouldn't they be punished? They're the ones who made us into laughingstocks.”

I wasn't just thinking about what he'd do but about what
I
was going to do to
them
. By the time I finished they'd be begging to be expelled just to get away from me.

“What might or might not happen to them as a consequence of their behaviour is no business of
yours. Although, quite frankly, you should know that punishing them might only make them even more celebrated amongst your classmates. Embarrassing me was one thing, but making you a joke has probably given them hero status. You are not particularly well liked, and your peers, I must say, seem to be good judges of character.”

Nice—now he was taking snide shots at me.

“As for you, Mr. Chambers, I am afraid that your actions have left me with little choice,” he went on. “I'll accept my punishment,” I said.

“You have no
choice
but to accept your punishment,” he said. “You have one hour to gather your things.”

“Gather my things … what do you mean?”

“You are expelled.”

“But—but—you can't expel me.”

“I most certainly can. It is the prerogative of the headmaster to expel any student who demonstrates conduct that is contrary to the high standards of this institution, and you, sir, have certainly
shattered
those standards.”

“My father … he's not going to be happy when he finds out what you've done.”

“He wasn't happy at all.”

“You told him?”

“I contacted him first thing this morning.”

I looked at my watch. “But it's the middle of the night in New York.”

“I felt it was necessary to inform him immediately of my decision.”

“I guess you didn't need a new gym that badly, then,” I said.

“We do need the new facility, and it will be very much appreciated when it is opened.”

“Well, good luck finding somebody else to pay for it,” I snapped.

McWilliams was smiling now. It was actually creepy. “Your father has agreed to continue to fund the entire project. He thanked us for trying to provide you with an education and then apologized for your behaviour. Something, I should note, that you have not had the class to do thus far.”

“You want
me
to apologize?”

“It would certainly be appropriate, given the circumstances,” he said.

“Would it change the results?”

“No. You are expelled. Your father has arranged for a car to pick you up and take you to the airport.”

“I'm going home?” I asked.

“I am not aware of where you are going, simply that you
are
going.”

“But you still want me to apologize.”

“It would be the sporting thing to do,” he said.

I couldn't believe this. After giving me the death sentence, he wanted me to apologize to the man who was pulling the switch. I slowly got up from my chair.

“I hope you don't mind if I paraphrase Sir Winston Churchill,” I said, gesturing to the picture of the former British prime minister that graced the wall of his office.

“Of course not.”

“In that case, today I am here, expelled, and, I readily admit, still somewhat impaired,” I began, “and you are a small man in a small job wearing a cheap suit. Tomorrow, I will be sober, halfway around the world, still the son and heir of a billionaire. And you will still be here, in this small job, wearing that same cheap suit. And for that, I am truly sorry … for you.”

CHAPTER THREE

I WALKED ACROSS THE CAMPUS
, my back straight, my pace unhurried. I wanted to convey the impression that I was leaving on my own terms and taking my own sweet time. And really, since I was the one who'd made the decision to drink and do all the other things I did, in a way I
had
chosen to leave.

There weren't many people around to see my exit—most kids were in class—but I didn't want anybody to think I was skulking away with my tail between my legs, especially not the guys who'd set me up. I was trying hard not to make eye contact with anyone, but trying even harder not to make it look like I was trying. I worked at keeping my expression neutral with a slight hint of amusement. That was the hardest. I wasn't amused. Upset, with a dash of disturbed and a side order of anger, would have been more accurate. But I didn't want to betray any of those feelings. Anger would have shown that I cared. And I didn't … not really.

Anyway, if first impressions are important,
sometimes last impressions are even more important, and this was the last any of these people would see of me. Unless of course they ended up working for my father's company—
my
company—in the future. Then I'd get my revenge on those little toads.

Waiting for me at the curb, directly in front of the office, was my ride—my limousine. I gave a sideways glance toward McWilliams's window. I wondered if he was watching. He probably was.

The chauffeur opened the back door and I started to get in, then hesitated. I couldn't decide whether I should wave to McWilliams or blow him a kiss or flash my middle finger. Probably best to do nothing. Let him—and anybody else watching—see me getting into the big black chauffeur-driven limousine, cool, collected and calm, as if none of this fazed me. And really, why should it? This was actually a good thing.

I slumped down into the leather seat and the driver closed the door behind me. Grateful for the tinted windows, I looked out, but nobody seemed to be reacting. Evidently the show was over and I hadn't given them anything memorable. I was grateful for that, and for the fact that I could just get away. On cue, the car started moving.

The few belongings that meant anything to me had already been quickly gathered and put in the trunk of the car. It hadn't taken long to say my goodbyes, either. Maybe McWilliams was right and nobody
there liked me very much. Fair enough. I didn't like anybody there
at all.

What those jerks who'd set me up didn't realize was that they had actually done me a favour. Because of them, I got to go home, back to New York. At least until my father plotted his next move. I'd make sure the next school was at least as expensive. Who knows, maybe I could get the price set so high that he'd have to keep me around instead. No, that was wishful thinking. He had far more money than he had time for me.

I pushed the button that lowered the glass between me and the driver. Silently it glided down.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Nathanial International Airport—it's a private field. Your father has arranged for you to travel on his jet.”

Great! Not only was it the only way to travel, but it meant that he wasn't too mad at me. If he'd been really angry, he would have made me take a commercial flight. Thank goodness I wouldn't have to be slumming it with the regular folk.

“How long before we get to the airport?” I asked.

“Less than an hour.”

“And when we get there, do you know how long we'll have to wait for the plane?”

“The jet should be there when we arrive,” the driver said.

That surprised me. If McWilliams had called my father first thing that morning, as he'd said, there wouldn't have been time for the plane to get here by now … would there? But technically it was a company jet, and some of the other high-ranking executives were allowed to use it if my father didn't need it. Maybe one of them was in Europe on business, and now
he'd
have to take a commercial flight back. Better him than me. Or maybe McWilliams had just gotten things confused.

Whatever. It really didn't matter, and it didn't require any more of my thought or time or energy. All that mattered was that the plane was there.

“Hopefully we'll be able to leave right away,” I said.

“I'm sure they'll have to refuel and file a flight plan.”

That wouldn't take too much time. All I wanted to do was get home, go to my room and lie down in my bed. I liked my bed a lot.

“I don't drive many people to the private airport,” the driver said.

“It
is
a private jet.”

“That's so classy,” he said.

A rule of thumb was that anybody who ever said “classy” wasn't.

“Whose plane is it?” he asked.

“It's my father's jet.”

“Wow, it must be nice to have a private plane.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

“Someday I might get a chance to—”

I pushed the button and the window glided up, sealing me in the back. What was the point in contin-uing this conversation? He was a chauffeur and I was his passenger. All I wanted was to get on that plane.

IT WAS GOOD TO SEE
the jet on the runway—a little piece of home waiting to take me home. Wait … was it taking me home to New York, or to one of our other houses? I really didn't know where my father was. Was it possible he was in Europe, and that was why his plane was already here? It wouldn't have surprised me to learn that he was nearby and hadn't bothered to visit me at school. But that would mean he might even be in the airplane, waiting for me. I knew I had to face him, but did it have to be right now? Especially trapped together at twenty-five thousand feet for six hours? That was not the way I had it planned. I needed more time to prepare my story, and certainly a way to get some distance if it turned nasty. It wasn't like I could climb out onto the wing of the plane, and I wasn't planning on spending the entire trip locked in the bathroom.

No, come to think of it, he couldn't be on the plane. McWilliams had said he'd awakened him in the middle of the night, which would have meant he was in New York, not Europe. I was safe, at least for now.

The car came to a stop. The driver stepped out and opened my door, and then went to the trunk to remove my things.

I got out, and he pulled out the bags and went to hand them to me.

“Put them on board,” I ordered, and then turned and walked toward the plane.

Standing at the top of the stairs was my father's pilot, Captain Evans, and the co-pilot, a fairly new guy. Captain Evans had been with my father longer than I'd been alive. He was old, really old, maybe even in his fifties. I had to admit that it felt a little risky to be in a plane piloted by somebody who might have a heart attack or something. Perhaps it would be wise to get to know the name of the co-pilot, at least. While a pilot wasn't really much more than a fancy chauffeur, it wasn't like we could call roadside assistance and ask to be towed if there were problems.

“Good to see you,” Captain Evans said.

“It'll be even better to see home,” I replied, and then paused. I needed to check. “Is my father on board?”

“He's back in New York. Knowing him, he's probably at work already.”

My father was famous in the business world for working around the clock. I knew it wasn't unusual for him to be at work at three or four in the morning.

“Will he be waiting for me when the plane lands?” I asked.

“I'd be rather surprised if he was there,” Captain Evans said.

That was probably the case. I was just hoping.

“Either way, we need to leave,” Captain Evans said. “Please take a seat.”

I wasn't going to argue with that. As Captain Evans and the co-pilot pulled up the gangway I walked down the aisle, figuring I'd sit for a while and then go and lie down for an hour or so in the stateroom.

I looked at my watch. It was just before noon—amazing how much had happened in less than four hours. I'd gone from passed out to woken up to meeting McWilliams, being expelled, packing, and driving to the airport, and now I was sitting on a jet to fly home. Busy few hours.

It was about a six-hour flight and a five-hour time difference, so if all went well, we'd be there around two in the afternoon. Assuming we were going to leave soon.

The engines started up. It wouldn't be long. Good.

Maybe it was because I hadn't eaten in God knows how long, but I was starting to feel kind of shaky and sweaty. My head was less achy now but still pretty fuzzy. The best thing for that, I'd figured out long ago, was another drink, just to take the edge off. And then I had a thought. I got up and walked over to the bar:
the only question was whether it was locked or not. I took a deep breath and pulled the handle. The door opened. It was filled with a treasure trove of alcohol—there was enough quality, quantity and variety to satisfy any and all tastes. I pushed aside a few bottles until I came to what I was looking for.

I pulled out a bottle of vodka—a
full
bottle of vodka. I broke the seal and took a little swig. I grimaced at the taste and the way it burned a passage down my gullet. I hated those snobs who talked about how they liked the taste of one brand of vodka more than another. That was like saying they liked the taste of one type of iodine better than another. You didn't drink vodka for the taste, you drank it for the effect.

I took another swig, and some of it spilled on the carpet. Oh well, not my problem. Besides, it wasn't like there wasn't more vodka where that came from. The bar was full and the door was open.

I laughed quietly to myself. Here I was being expelled from school for drinking, and nobody had had the foresight to lock the liquor cabinet on the plane sent to get me. Well, their lapse was my gain. I tipped the bottle and took a big, long drink, chugging it back like it was water.