Truth be told, I didn’t give the first thought to how out of place I would be at Yeatman. Nor did I question the expense involved, or why the opportunity had been extended to me. I could only think how lovely it all was—the brightness of the white columns—how clean everything seemed, how peaceful, how stately and noble.
“Sure,” I said.
If not for that day, I would never have left East Nashville for Belle Meade, nor would I have understood how much the conditions of life in one world depend on the whims of those who live in another.
two
A note on stationery embossed with a gilded Gothic Y arrived in the mail at our apartment a few weeks later, inviting me to join the Yeatman class of 1988. Admission letter in hand, I went to tell Terrence.
“My cousin went there for football,” Terrence said. “Those folks Grand-Lou used to work for sent their boys there. That’s a rich white boy school, Charlie.”
“It’s not all white,” I said. “You could go there too.”
“You think I want to go to school with a bunch of rich white boys?” he asked. “Besides, who’s gonna pay for that? You rich now, Charlie? Last time I checked, you still lived in the hood like the rest of us.”
I felt my face flush hot with both shame and indignation.
“I don’t know,” I stammered.
“You tell me when you figure it out,” he said.
When I asked my mother about it, she let out a long sigh.
“Have you ever heard of need-based scholarships, Charlie?”
I hadn’t.
“Well, you qualify for one,” she said. “So would Terrence. He’d probably get a better deal than you. Maybe he’d like to apply.”
I said nothing. Terrence had made his feelings about the Yeatman School very clear.
“You let me worry about money,” my mother said. “You just work hard and do well, okay?”
A week before the beginning of school, my mother and I returned to Yeatman to attend a reception for new high school students and their parents, which revolved around an audience with the headmaster and the introduction of each new freshman to a sophomore designated to be his “big brother.” We gathered in the lobby outside the headmaster’s office, around a pair of long tables loaded with cookies, and pitchers of orange juice and ice water. Most of the rising freshman class had come through the Yeatman junior school; hence, there were only twenty new students. The boys who were familiar with one another all had tousled hair, Sperry Top-Siders or Clarks Wallabees, web belts from Brooks Brothers and L. L. Bean, and the tanned, healthy look that comes from tennis and swimming lessons and summer camps. The other group was smaller and motley: boys with cheaper clothes and shoes and buzz cuts; a few Asian and black boys to satisfy the recently implemented diversity quota. My mother and I stood at the front of the room, afraid to part from each other. I wanted to join the larger group of tanned, tousled boys and be absorbed into their ranks. But I knew that I belonged with the other group.
I was rescued by the headmaster’s assistant, Mrs. Barnett, who led me up the hallway. Through a door to my left, I heard the chatter of voices—the sophomore big brothers, lounging in the chairs around the boardroom table.
“Go on in, honey,” Mrs. Barnett said. “They’re waiting for you.”
Inside the frosted doors, Dr. Dodd, the headmaster, leaned against the front edge of his desk. To his left sat a large man in pressed chinos, an open-collared white shirt, and a navy blazer. Dr. Dodd stood and extended his hand. The other man remained seated.
“Hello, Mr. Boykin,” Dr. Dodd said.
I grasped his hand and shook it.
“This is a friend of mine, Mr. Haltom,” Dr. Dodd said.
“Hi,” I said.
Mr. Haltom smiled. “Hello, Charlie.”
“Have a seat.” Dr. Dodd gestured to one of the club chairs arranged in front of his desk. “Don’t be nervous. We’re just going to get to know each other a bit.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Dr. Dodd asked me a short series of questions that made clear he already knew the answers. He talked about the importance of applying oneself, staying on top of things, showing up for extra help in the mornings. I was distracted—by the pictures on the walls and the windowsills, and the various other objects decorating the office; by the peculiarity of Dodd’s appearance, with his longish silver hair and glinting gold rings and dress watch; perhaps most by Mr. Haltom, whose presence remained unexplained.
I was jerked back to attention as Dr. Dodd shifted off his desk and extended his hand again.
“We know you’re going to thrive here,” Dr. Dodd said.
“I’ll do my best, sir,” I said.
Dr. Dodd pressed a button on his office phone.
“Carolyn?” he said. “We’re ready.”
A moment later, the door opened and closed. I looked up from the floor. There he was: strong jaw and broad shoulders, studiously sloppy sandy-blond hair.
“Hey, bud,” the boy said. “I’m Arch Creigh.”
Arch held out his hand for me to shake.
“I’m your big brother,” he said.
“Archer’s one of our best,” Dr. Dodd said. “You’re very fortunate.”
Dr. Dodd stood; this time, Mr. Haltom came to his feet as well.
“Well then. You boys get acquainted,” Dr. Dodd said. “Archer, take good care of Charlie, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Arch said.
I shook Dr. Dodd’s hand for the third time. Mr. Haltom offered his hand as well. I tried not to wince at the strength of his grip.
“We’re glad you’re here, Charlie,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
I followed Arch out of the office, and we descended the stairs and walked out into the quad. The air was hot and scented with ginkgo blossoms.
“So what do you think of Yeatman so far?” he asked.
“It’s great,” I said.
I didn’t want to tell the truth—that I felt frightened and woefully out of my depth.
“Wait until school starts,” he said. “You ever take Latin before?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s an absolute bitch. I think Yeatman might be the last school on earth that still requires Latin. It’s supposed to boost your SAT score, but I think they mostly hold on to it for the sake of tradition.”
I’d not yet heard of the SAT, but I nodded as if this benefit was something I’d already considered.
“That’s a big thing around here, you know,” he said. “Tradition.”
He spoke the word in a tone both mocking and sincere.
Arch had been given my class schedule; the ritual, it seemed, was for each of the big brothers to tour his protégé from room to room. As we walked, he spoke to me with genial familiarity, pausing on occasion to point something out or wave to someone across the quadrangle. I was too captivated by his allure to remember anything but the sound of his voice, the way he walked, the casual confidence with which he carried himself, how he inhabited the navy blazer and regimental tie as if he had been the model for which all prep school uniforms had been designed.
When we were finished, Arch led me back to the reception area outside the theater.