Two weeks after Welcome Week, St. Rupert’s put on an event billed as Parents’ Weekend. It was really a chance to show the parents that everybody was okay and being productive. I wasn’t too enthusiastic about it because, of course, my parents weren’t there. There were other guys besides me whose parents couldn’t make it, but it was kind of a lonely feeling seeing Ian and Pete and the rest of the guys getting hugged by their parents who looked both confused and pleased to be surrounded by so many boys at once.
The St. Rupert’s faculty really pulled out all the stops to show the parents the best the academy had to offer. The grounds were tidied up. There were posters and projects and demonstrations. Samples of our schoolwork were pinned on the walls.
But before we could show off our academic prowess, we had Saturday church in the beautiful old chapel we’d seen in the monastery, followed by a Parents’ Brunch with all the students. Brookie, who was wound up as usual, was the first to point out a little glitch in the plan.
He shoved his plate across the table at me, staring at it with disbelief. He pointed with a shaking finger at the green mess on his plate.
“Do you believe these scrambled eggs, Mac?” whispered Brookie. He spooned a bite into his mouth and grimaced. “Good Lord, they put in cheese and jalapeño peppers.”
“Brookie, don’t start, okay?” drawled Prakash. His parents and Brookie’s weren’t visiting, so we three were baching it at a table together with an overflow of parents. Prakash gave Brookie a warning look.
“You know I don’t get much to eat around here, since I don’t choose to torture the flesh of dead animals, Prakash,” whined Brookie, giving him a meaningful look. Prakash did not blush. “Besides, I was worried about the poor parents. They have to eat this and act like they like it, in the interest of good manners, unlike us, who are used to eating here.”
And the scrambled eggs with jalapeño and cheese did look strange. Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.
“I do not like green eggs and ham.” Brookie bowed his head over his plate and muttered the old Dr. Seuss rhyme under his breath, just loudly enough for the parents to hear, but not enough for the teachers at the next table.
“Stop it,” I hissed, pointing behind my palm at the parents sharing our table.
“Do you suppose somebody ran amok in the herb garden—you know, thought they were picking something mild and savory and accidentally got something, you know, hallucinogenic?”
“Whew, you’re not kidding,” I said, swallowing and shoving my plate away.
The parents sitting near us were avoiding one another’s eyes, but they could hear Brookie, and they were trying not to crack up. It was hard to ignore Brookie when he was being a cutup.
It was still pretty festive, despite the food. Some parents were getting to know their sons’ friends. Other parents were herded off to see a video on the history of St. Rupert’s. There was a tour of the gardens, museums, and classrooms.
I was nervous and excited. Tonight was our band’s first gig, sort of, though only Ms. Kent and Ian were playing. The rest of us hadn’t had enough time yet to hone our skills as a band, so we were recruited to serve the evening meal. Special food was going to be served for the dinner (not, we hoped, prepared by the same person who had ruined brunch), and a wine and dessert reception was planned afterward.