Alex Van Helsing Voice of the Undead - By Jason Henderson Page 0,15
with the help of the students, and I trust all of you will volunteer to assist in the effort.”
Otranto looked around. “Am I correct?”
Paul whispered, “What do you think that place looks like? A bunch of rotten beds, covered in sheets? If there are beds.”
“Am I correct?” Otranto said again.
Alex loved the thought of the boys of Glenarvon forced to do manual labor. Loved it. He had spent his life choosing things that didn’t fit the family name (the public version, not the secret, thought-to-be-fictional one). He abandoned the violin as soon as he could ditch the lessons, hating the gentility of it and the incessant repetition of “The Children’s Waltz.” He was expected to learn to sail, and did, though he preferred to use his muscles in other ways, entering more and more dangerous pastimes. He was always amazed that “people like us” would spend hours in a gym but couldn’t be bothered to lift a couch. So he was eager to see these guys at work.
Alex leaned forward. “Absolutely.”
This broke the silence, and many more boys spoke up.
Otranto was satisfied. “That too is not a permanent solution. Glenarvon will be repaired. Even now we are assessing the damage. Glenarvon will not die on my watch,” he said flatly.
“What do we do now?” Paul called. “What about classes?”
“Class assignments are posted on the board,” Otranto said, pointing at a bulletin board that someone had installed overnight. Alex saw rows of yellow legal paper there. “What you do now is get back to being students. We are guests of LaLaurie, but we are Glenarvon still.”
Sangster cleared his throat. Otranto looked back and said, “Mr. Sangster will now pass on another word.”
Sangster came forward and pointed at a number of giant cardboard boxes on the stage. “Those are uniforms.” Alex looked and saw the RAs beginning to haul out hundreds of pairs of slacks, shirts, and sport coats and lay them on the edge of the stage. “In a minute we’ll start calling names; come forward and pick up your clothes. If your shoes do not fit, trade or hang tight and we’ll get more. You will be issued a footlocker—those are over there—and three uniforms each; laundry day is Thursday. At the end of the line after the uniforms are supplies: towels, T-shirts, underwear. By ten o’clock this morning, I want you all looking like soldiers. Here’s why,” he said, and stopped, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “We are guests.” He repeated the word emphatically. “Guests. I don’t have time to tell you guys what I mean by that because there are a million things that’ll flow through your heads over the next few days, some good, some pretty damn stupid. So remember it: guests. We are overwhelming the space, the materials, and likely soon the patience of the ladies of LaLaurie. This means that I am demanding of you that you think at every moment, Is this what a guest would do? And if so, do it. And if not, I beg of you, don’t.” He smiled. That gave everyone enough of a release of tension to laugh.
“Yeah, I know. It’s an adventure. Keep your cots squared away, do whatever our hosts ask. Be polite, be cool, make friends. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s all gonna be fine.”
Alex got three uniforms that appeared to fit, and a pair of shoes that didn’t, so they clopped when he wore them. He wandered around until he found someone whose shoes were too tight, and that was that.
He realized that his possessions now consisted of a towel, pajamas, underwear, and three identical sets of a T-shirt, button-down, pants, and one jacket.
On Monday, with everyone still fumbling around in complete confusion, they were forced to go back to class. It was a mercifully short half-day schedule, compressed to allow for familiarizing and starting late, with classes coming in half-hour sessions.
At ten o’clock, Paul, Sid, and Alex wandered until they found the right class. The room was crammed full with desks, and they saw Minhi in a row at the back. As they took their seats, Alex understood. Every last class had been shuffled and merged.
Literature was taught together by Sangster and Ms. Daughtry, LaLaurie’s assistant headmistress and a lit expert to match Sangster. They didn’t alternate sentences or anything; rather Sangster was to lecture on one topic and Daughtry on the other.
“Did you know we’d be in class together?” asked Minhi. Next to her was Vienna, who Alex