The Initiation Read Online Free PDF

came up out of the chair. Father had never addressed me so matter-of-factly, had never treated me as an equal. As a grown-up. He offered his hand as a bond of promise. I felt . . . important to him all of a sudden. We shook hands. I promised Father I understood his terms.
    â€œYour brother is temperamental. Only under the most dire of circumstances are you to share this with him.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Dire, meaning?”
    â€œI will try to mail you both a letter once a week—mail, not email. There may be times they are slow to arrive, but arrive they will. I keep my passport here in the drawer opened by that key. If it’s here, then obviously I haven’t left the country. Let’s say if three weeks should pass without word from me, you will come home and check the drawer.” I shuddered. “If my passport is missing, then by all means give it more time. Overseas mail can be absurdly slow. If four or five weeks pass, and my passport is still not here, then you’re to assume the worst. I will not hold your actions against you!”
    â€œFather! You make it sound so—”
    â€œA bit melodramatic? I know, dear. I’m asking you to grow up quickly. I understand the problem this creates. If there were another way, believe me . . . but I’m afraid there isn’t.”
    â€œWhat happened to James last night . . . does it have anything to do with all of this?” I felt ice cold and slightly sick to my stomach. It felt as if one girl had started the conversation with Father and another was now speaking.
    â€œYou always were a smart girl. I’ve told James it was hazing. You are to do nothing to counter that impression.”
    â€œBut it wasn’t hazing.” I tried and failed to sound confident.
    â€œI’m trusting you to keep to the plan, Moria. Any deviation from the plan will have catastrophic consequences, and none of us want that.”

CHAPTER 4
OUR UNEASY ARRIVAL

    W HEN R ALPH, A STURDY MAN WITH A FULL head of hair, a slight accent, and narrow eyes, pulled the Lincoln to a stop in the circular drive fronting Baskerville Academy’s long line of dormitories, James gave me a terrified look that needed no explanation. No doubt my face reflected the same discontent he was experiencing. Of the twenty or so cars parked tightly together, all delivering a student and his or her possessions—from four-foot teddy bears to camp trunks and Mac computers—only the Moriarty children arrived in a chauffeur-driven black Lincoln. (Later, our arrival would be trumpedby a helicopter carrying a retail clothing line heir onto the junior varsity football field, but of course we didn’t know it at the time.) We received looks of “who the heck are you?”, “spoiled brats!”, and both sides of “I want to get to know you.” Mostly, the wrong side.
    To Father’s credit, the campus was everything he’d made it out to be, from the towering sugar maples that shadowed the deep green lawns, to the classic simplicity of brick buildings with white trim. If the Ivy League had a high school, this would be it. A twenty-foot-tall marble sundial stood between us and an ancient-looking chapel, the only structure made of stone instead of brick.
    â€œWow,” I said. “It’s like the country club on steroids.”
    â€œI promise you,” James said, “it won’t be as fun.”
    Father’s insistence—i.e., requirement—that I wear a dress had an immediate impact on me, as none—not one—of the other girls was wearing anything with a hem. Thankfully, James didn’t wear a dress, but he wore gray slacks, a blue blazer and coat and tie, which is to say he too was miserable. We looked like rich idiots when compared with the blue jeans, running shoes, and Vineyard Vines worn by all the other arrivals. Self-important, condescending, spoiled Bostonians. Fatherwas lucky he