This is the start of something new, and hopefully perverse… if not, satiric. I’ll settle for satiric.
Mount St. Ampoule School for Charming Young People
Introduction
My name is Rockwell Barnaby Pooles. I am not a charming young person. If you could call me anything I think you’d probably call me the Police, just to get me off your lawn.
The first time I heard of Mount Saint Ampoule School for Charming Young People, my father muttered it as he was reading a copy of Modern Philanthropy Illustrated. I think that was sometime in June. On September the 3rd, my parents announced they’d enrolled me there for my 10th grade school year.
“Oh, son,” my father added, “we’re leaving tomorrow. Go pack a bag. We’ll send anything else you need by courier service.”
When I finished sputtering, I went up to my room and packed a large bag of clothes and some of my favorite things. After I was finished, I went outside in the dead of night and set my father’s botanical gardens on fire.
I got the full five alarms that time. I also proved to my parents, yet again, how un-charming I am. As usual, my parents did not have me arrested. They blamed the fire on accumulated methane from natural fertilizer—poop—and nitrogen from industrial fertilizers… ignited by my father’s rare, Polynesian Sparking Orchids.
Have I mentioned I learned the art of Creative Lying from my parents?
True to their word, they packed my two bags, and my little sister, Angeline, into the car the next morning for our trip to… I had no idea where. I didn’t get very much sleep after the Police and Fire Department left, and I never even thought to Google Mount Saint Ampoule School for Charming Young People.
I imagined it couldn’t be too far away, because we we’re clearly driving, not flying. No one said anything about flying, anyway. After about an hour on the road it became pretty clear we weren’t headed toward Boston, which gave me more proof that flying wasn’t part of the trip.
Flying is one of the few things that I’m actually afraid of.
About that time, my kid sister started our travel ritual. Verbal combat: to the death.
“You’re a mean and nasty boy, Rockwell.”
“Angeline, that is the lamest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Girls run away from you, and you’ll never see fancy panties unless you work in a department store.” She hissed it like a snake with a good vocabulary.
“Not bad.” It was a pretty good shot. “Your mouth is so pinched, people will put fancy panties on your head, mistaking your lips for a butthole.”
“Oh!” She squeaked. I could feel her reaching around in her head for something nasty. “Boys don’t even like you. You’re not stylish enough for them, either.”
That was an entirely new direction for my sister. She’d never tried insinuating homosexuality before.
“Angeline, I predict you will have a brilliant future in Television.” Wait for it, you obnoxious toadstool.
“What? Me on TV?” She bit the hook.
“Yes. It will be a brilliant new reality show: ‘Lifestyles of the High Pitched and Flat-Chested.’”
“Ooo! You’re a donkey-milking son of a hydrocephalic lemur! They wouldn’t even worship you in Third World countries!”
Where did she learn vocabulary like that? She’s only eight!
“Future crazy cat lady!” I was so stunned I lost my mojo.
“Face it, I have totally emasculated you. Surrender now, while you still can.”
“Not while there is breath in my body.” I glared at her from my side of the back seat. She preened and primped, completely pleased with herself. I seethed.
“Now, Rockwell,” mother said, interrupting the war, “this is a fine school you’re going to. We expect you to be on your best behavior.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have no testicles,” my sister hissed at me. “E. Mas. Cu. Late. Ed.”
“Shut up!” I hissed back.
“Yes, son. This is the preparatory academy for Whisky Tonic University in Arkham.” My father announced from the passenger seat. He hated to drive. “They have a long and impressive history.”
“Darling, I think the University name began with an M, not a W.” Mother whined, swerving the car to miss a rabbit on the opposite side of the road.
“Misky Tonic? That’s a very strange name for a center of higher learning.”
Angeline gave me a dirty look, and I settled down into a serious sulk while our parents rambled on about strange names for schools. I couldn’t care less. Then again, at least they weren’t sending me to a military academy somewhere down south… Unless there were schools like that in New England that I didn’t know about… Perish the thought!
An hour later, I learned something that made me positively crave a good, harsh, military school education. We crossed into Rhode Island. My doom was assured.
The thing I was surprised about is that we didn’t drive into Providence. We skirted around it in headed south. I’d always assumed the important schools were in the city, but I suppose that didn’t have to hold true for private high schools.
“They’re not going to like you at this school.” My sister hissed at me, calmly braiding the plastic hair of her favorite female action figure. “You’re mean, nasty, and you set fire to things when you’re unhappy. You’re ALWAYS unhappy.”
“Are you still pissed off at me because I melted your Darling Becky Ostentatious Penthouse playset?” I would have done more than that, but I never managed the proper recipe for plastic explosives. I settled for a propane torch from dad’s workshop.
“Vile cur! Pitiful barbarian! Devil-spawn! Avaunt and begone, oh you defiler of Darling Becky and her Dramatic Coterie!”
“Where in the world are you learning words like those? You’re eight!”
“Ha! Now you understand how Darling Becky helps her fans attain dominance in any situation through education and good diction! Calcareous substrate!”
I don’t think she could have looked more pleased with herself. Her pigtails gleamed in the stray sunbeams, and her blue eyes flashed like the lights on a police car. I really wanted to do something awful to shut her up, but I was too entranced with how utterly wrong the situation was.
Her royal bearing flagged for a moment.
“Mommy bought me the Darling Becky Teaches Verbal Conquest app for my iPad.”
