Page 19 of Exquisite Things

A horrible series of days go by, one blending into the next. In school and at home with Mother, I hide my fear, a master of

deception. When I’m alone, I cry uncontrollably. I don’t show up for a planned walk with Shams. I can’t see him. Not now.

What if someone knows we’ve kissed? What if they pull him into this? I can’t have him being questioned and... he could

be thrown in jail, all because of me. I’d rather break his heart than destroy his life. The person I need to talk to is Brendan.

I need to know he’s okay.

I go to Harvard. To Brendan and Jack’s room, which feels more like a funeral hall than a space for revelry now. The records

have been put away. There’s no booze in sight. Brendan won’t look at me when he opens the door. He hasn’t shaved in weeks.

He looks like he hasn’t slept either. On his bed is a half-packed suitcase. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Brendan, you have nothing to apologize for,” I say.

“You need to sit down.” He moves the suitcase to the edge of the bed to make room for me.

But I don’t sit. I can’t. “Brendan, I know ,” I say urgently.

His bloodshot eyes finally land on me. “What do you know?”

“I know about Cyril,” I say.

“Oh God.” He turns away from me and lets out a sob.

I hold him from behind. “I’m so sorry. I know he was a part of your group. He was your friend.”

“Please go,” he pleads. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know about the secret court,” I say. “I know they...” I look down at the suitcase and suddenly realize how stupid I’ve

been. I didn’t even think about why he’s packing his things up. “They expelled you, didn’t they?” I ask, feeling rage on my

lips.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Nothing matters anymore. Cyril is dead. Whatever life we thought we had is gone.”

“You have to fight this,” I beseech.

“Fight it?” he echoes. “How do you suggest I do that?”

“I—I don’t know,” I say. Then I naively suggest, “There must be a lawyer who could help.”

He laughs bitterly. “One lawyer would be no match for Harvard’s team of lawyers. Besides, I’m one of the lucky ones. The dean agreed to tell my parents I was expelled for plagiarism,” he explains.

“Which is a kindness they’re not extending to all the boys.”

“But you’re no plagiarist,” I snap back. “You’re— You’re honest. You’re kind. You would never cheat or lie.”

“Of course I would.” He’s holding back tears. His voice chokes. “I lie to my parents each time I talk to them. I’ll lie to

them when I get back home. I’ll tell them that yes, I cheated. They can never know... what I am.”

“What we are,” I say. “You’re not alone.”

He suddenly grips my hands so tight it hurts. “Don’t you go trying to save me. I dragged you into all this. It’s my job to

save you.”

“This will be on your record forever,” I argue. “Your future... Your whole future will be trailed by this. Employers will think you can’t be trusted.”

“And if they knew the truth?” he snaps. “If they knew I was a great big piece of ripe fruit? Would they trust me then? Better

a plagiarist than a faggot.” His nostrils flare with rage, but I know it’s not me he’s angry with. It’s them, the deans and

the entire world of powerful men. The impenetrable density of their hate.

“Why is Jack not packing?” I ask, noticing Jack’s clothes still hanging, his books on the desk.

“If you need to ask, then you don’t understand institutions like Harvard,” he says, and that’s enough. Jack’s filthy rich

father wrote a check. Simple as that. “Besides, he quickly covered his bases when this nightmare began. Proposed to the daughter

of a family friend named Agnes.”

“Proposed?” I ask in disbelief. “Just like that? To an Agnes ?”

“That’s how things happen, cousin. Just like that.” He sits on his bed and throws his stricken face into his hands. “I liked

him. Everyone warned me not to be fooled into thinking he was a good guy. But I really did like him. His sense of humor. His

confidence. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know if I ever would have...”

“Would have what?” I ask.

“Ever been with a boy,” he confesses. “Ever explored that side of myself. Known who I am. Of course, now... Well, I’m not

sure I can be grateful to him for that anymore. If only I had some boring roommate, I’d still be a student here. I’d be repressed

and sad and I wouldn’t know myself at all, but I’d get my degree.”

“I despise him,” I say. “He really is a jackal.”

“Gods of the underworld,” Brendan whispers.

“What?” I ask.

“That’s what people in ancient Egypt thought jackals were. Some kind of evil spirit. I should have known better. I should have kept him at a distance.” He looks at me, his face knotted by his frenzied grief and anger. “Jack had a collection of men’s physique magazines. You know the ones—”

“I don’t,” I confess.

“They’re magazines about men’s athletics. They’re filled with articles on how to broaden your chest or build a strong back

and... Well, photos too, of men wearing nearly nothing.” He pauses. I’m waiting to understand why he’s telling me this.

“Jack would buy them all. I didn’t have money to spend on frivolous things. I looked at them with him, sure. I enjoyed them.”

He lets out a heavy breath. “He told them they were my magazines. He said the only reason he was even involved in any of our queer underworld is because of me. He made me out to

be some kind of ringleader when it was always him egging everyone on.”

“But— But that’s evil,” I say. “And it’s a bald-faced lie.”

Suddenly, I hear his voice. Jack. The Jackal. The god of the underworld who has destroyed my cousin’s life. “Lies must be

told in service of the greater good,” he says icily.

“Ignore him,” Brendan says to me.

“No worries, I’ll come back later,” Jack says. “I just needed a jacket for The Jackal.” He picks up two options. One made

of brown wool, the other a navy-blue cashmere. “What do you think? Agnes and I are going to the symphony with our parents.”

“Look at you. Cyril’s dead and you’re not even grieving,” I spit out.

“We all grieve in our ways,” he declares, unbothered. “So, brown or navy for Tchaikovsky?”

“Tchaikovsky would despise you,” I seethe.

“Have you summoned his spirit?” he asks with a smile. He’s enjoying this. He wants me to attack him. Treats this... Treats life like a game.

“Leave it be,” Brendan begs. “There’s nothing we can do.” Brendan sits on Jack’s bed.

“We can tell him how much we hate him!” I yell as I sit next to my cousin.

Jack approaches me calmly. He stays standing so he towers over us both. “You can hate me now. You can question my decisions.

But I have plans. I’m going to run my family’s pharmaceutical company someday. And when I do, I’ll cure every illness out

there. I’ll make humans indestructible. Immortal. Tchaikovsky would have loved me if I had been around back then to cure the

cholera that killed him.”

“But you weren’t, and you didn’t,” I protest.

He’s unfazed by my rancor. “Someday, your life, or the life of someone you love, will be saved thanks to me. And when that

happens, I want you to remember this moment. I want you to ask yourself, was it worth sacrificing your cousin’s Harvard degree

to save the lives of millions?”

“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?” I ask.

“I sleep just fine at night,” Jack says. “Just ask my roommate. He’s the one who’s had to get me out of bed in the mornings.”

“He’s the one you betrayed!” I yell, standing up.

Jack sits next to Brendan now, taking my place. “Yes, I did. And I’m sorry I had to do it. But I had more to lose.” He looks

at Brendan. “Yes, I said the magazines were yours. The parties too. I said all of it, and I freely admit it. But I did this

for the good of humanity.” He puts a hand on Brendan’s knee and squeezes it. “And as I’ve already told you, I’ll help you

until you get on your feet.”

“I don’t want your money or your pity,” Brendan snaps.

“All righty then,” Jack says with a carefree shrug. “Just for the record, it’s Ernie and Harry you should be upset with, not me.”

“Who’s Ernie?” I ask.

He eyes me with suspicion. “You never really were one of us, Oliver. You never even met Ernie and Harry, for God’s sake. They’re

the ones who wrote the letters to Cyril that were intercepted. If it weren’t for them, there would be no investigation and

we’d all be in here, drinking whiskey and raising a glass to our friend Cyril before pouring our grief into some bloke in

the bathroom of the Rooster. Which is already shut down, by the way.”

“Forever?” I ask.

Jack laughs. “Harvard practically owns this whole city,” he explains. “You really think they’re going to allow these establishments

to stay open now? The Rooster is gone. Café Dreyfuss is gone. No one affiliated with our lot is getting hired for a job anywhere

near Boston.”

“No one but you,” I say.

“True.” He smiles. “But I did nothing wrong. Blame Cyril for being so selfish.”

“He wasn’t selfish,” I croak. “He was sad. Desperate. Hurting.”

“Fine, then blame Ernie and Harry.”

“You’re truly horrible,” I say to Jack. “I can’t think of anyone else who would come to the conclusion of blaming the victims

of the situation. Not the deans. Not the president of the university.”

“President Lowell?” he asks. “That prick is probably doing this to distract everyone from the fact that his sister is a lesbian.

All anyone has to do is read her poetry to know. He thinks he’s some hero for letting the Irish and the Germans attend Harvard,

but he’s just a scared fool. Still, he’s not to blame. Ernie and Harry were stupid, and I hate stupid people.”

“Stop, please,” Brendan begs. “I can’t hear any more of this.”

But Jack doesn’t stop. “They didn’t learn from history. What was it that sent Oscar Wilde to jail, after all? His letters. I’m all for fun and games, but for God’s sake, do not put the unspeakable in writing.” Jack delivers this like a sermon.

Like he’s the wise sage and we’re the idiots who haven’t learned how to successfully hide a secret self.