The Academy

To Audre, every new school year used to feel like a blank composition book, a fresh box of sharpened pencils—but that analogy betrayed her age. To these kids, what was it? An empty Google Doc, the cursor blinking expectantly at the top of a laptop screen?

"She's always the first one up," Cinnamon's best friend, Davi Banerjee, had said on that fateful day last spring. It was Davi, the queen bee of her class, who had been dispatched to the Residence to alert Audre because the head of security, Mr. James, didn't come on duty until ten. *I think something's wrong.*

Something was, in fact, wrong. Hideously, tragically wrong.

Audre shivered despite the heat of the day. Early September still felt like full summer; the temperature was nearing eighty even at this early hour. She forced a smile for the next car, a Hyundai Sonata with Georgia plates, a rental.

In the driver's seat sat a woman with a graying ponytail wearing a GO 'BREDS T-shirt. On the passenger side, a boy hunched over his knees.

*That's what happens,* Audre thought, *when you try to fold a six-foot-four frame into a midsize sedan.*

It was Webber "Dub" Austin, the Thoroughbreds' starting quarterback.

He unfolded himself from the car, removed his massive headphones, and rolled his sunglasses up into his bushy hair, which had lightened a few shades over the summer. He had tan lines on his face where the frames had rested.

*What does Dub do for a summer job?* Audre wondered. *Park ranger? Ranch hand?* The hair would be shaved off by tomorrow, anyway.

"Mornin', Ms. Robinson," Dub said in his cowboy drawl.

"Dub," Audre replied, rounding the car to give the boy a hug.

By the end of the month, Audre would know every student by name, though she occasionally got tripped up by all the Madisons and Olivias. She tried not to have favorites, but she felt extra protective of this year's fifth-form. They'd been through a lot.

The mother climbed out. The students had a joke where they called one another's mothers "Karen," but Dub's mother was actually named Karen. Karen Austin.

She was the single mom of four boys, Dub being number three. He was attending on a full scholarship—athletic, though in his case, need-based as well. Dub's oldest brother had played football at Colorado State; the second brother was a wide receiver at CU Boulder.

Then there was Dub. But the real star was apparently the youngest brother, who was starting quarterback as a freshman for their high school back in Durango.

Audre didn't usually retain this much information about the students' families—especially those who never donated—but she'd had an earful on the Austin family from Coach Pete Bosworth.

Audre gave Karen a hug as well, and Karen whispered in her ear, "How're you doing?"

Audre had anticipated being asked this question several times today, so she'd formulated an answer that she hoped struck the right tone.

*What is the right tone when a student has died by suicide on your watch, but you have 239 other kids in your care who deserve a top-notch educational experience?*

"We're all still hurting," Audre said. "But optimistic about the year ahead."

Karen released Audre and said with watering eyes, "Good for you."

"How's Dub handling it?" Audre asked in a whisper, though it was doubtful he'd hear her. He'd been out of the car for mere seconds and was already being swarmed by Olivia P., Madison R., and Olivia H-T.

Karen stared at the car key she was gripping. "You know, he's my sensitive one." Then she snapped back into her no-nonsense boy-mom persona and called out, "Hey, Romeo, help me get this shit out of the car, please."

Audre opened the Sonata's back door. Protruding from a gaping duffel bag was a framed picture of Dub and Cinnamon Peters from last Halloween—they had gone as Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift—with Dub's hand placed chastely on Cinnamon's upper back.

All the other students considered them #couplegoals.

They weren't gross, they didn't make out in public, and you never heard rumors about them "joining the Harkness Society"—having sex on the Harkness tables—or sneaking down to God's Basement below the chapel. Though they were always together, deep in conversation, laughing.

Cinnamon cheered from the sidelines with her face painted green and gold when Dub played football.

Dub sat in the front row on the opening night of the high school musical, a bouquet of convenience store roses on his lap. Cinnamon was Sandy in *Grease*.

At the memorial service in the chapel, Dub called Cinnamon a "friend of his heart." Not a dry eye in the house, of course.

Audre left the duffel bag where it was and grabbed a bulk-size box of protein bars from the trunk instead. Her cell phone buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans, but she had to wait for a break between cars before she could check it.

It was a text from Jesse Eastman, known to all, including Audre's phone contacts, as "Big East," the president of Tiffin's board of directors. *Have you seen the rankings yet?*

*Ugh,* Audre thought.

Before coming to Tiffin, Audre had served as Head at an all-girls day school in New Orleans. She hadn't known a national ranking of boarding schools even existed, much less how important the rankings in *America Today* were to the board, the alumni, and the parents.

When Audre took over as Head of School, Tiffin was a study in mediocrity, the gentleman's C of boarding schools.

Its heyday was long past; the whole place felt like a once-grand hotel desperately in need of renovation.

But alas, there was no money for improvements—they were barely getting by on their operating budget, and the teachers hadn't had a raise in four years.

Tiffin's ranking in *America Today* (released annually the day after Labor Day) reflected their complacency: They usually appeared somewhere in the lowest tenth of the top fifty—numbers forty-six through forty-nine—and that was probably only as a nod to their esteemed past.

But three years ago, Audre—and Cordelia Spooner, head of admissions—met with New York real estate magnate Jesse Eastman about his son, Andrew.

Andrew had a "nontraditional" background, which was a euphemism for having been kicked out of two New York City private schools and barely hanging on at a third.

Together, Audre and Mrs. Spooner agreed they'd take a chance on admitting Andrew Eastman the following year—and, as tacitly promised, an enormous endowment from Jesse Eastman followed.

They'd since been able to elevate the entire Tiffin experience—and better rankings in *America Today* had ensued.

Two years ago, they rose to number twenty-four (breaking the top twenty-five was a cause for jubilant celebration), and then last year they appeared at number nineteen (and popped the champagne after breaking the top twenty!).

There were even greater expectations for this year, though Audre tried to keep a clear perspective about the rankings.

*Nobody knows the algorithm, so what does it really mean?*

Old Bennington and Northmeadow—both members of the Independent Schools of New England Coalition, to which Tiffin also belonged—had been ranked numbers one and two respectively since Audre had been at Tiffin.

Other perennial achievers were the Phillipses (Exeter and Andover) as well as the Saints (Paul, Mark, Andrew).

It had been rumored that *America Today* dispatched reporters who posed as prospective parents. They took tours and attended admissions information sessions. They asked current students probing questions. Cordelia Spooner was always on the lookout.

Audre wouldn't lie: She was nervous about their ranking this year, especially after what happened in the spring.

If Tiffin fell out of the top twenty-five, everyone would blame her and her alone.

Just the previous evening, Audre had wondered if a dramatic-enough plunge might cause her to lose her job.

She'd shooed the thought away as preposterous, though as a businessman, Jesse Eastman was only used to growth, to success.

*We have to be ranked nineteen or higher,* Audre thought, *or there will be hell to pay.*

To Big East's question, Audre replied casually: *Not yet.* Surely he had an assistant at his zillion-dollar company whose sole duty this morning was to hit refresh on the *America Today* website. He'd know before she did.

When Audre took a sustaining breath, she smelled freshly cut grass and the aroma of bacon (both real and vegan) wafting over from the Paddock.

Tiffin's chef was a burly, tattooed gentleman named Harrison "Haz" Flanders, whom Big East had hired away from his private club in New York two years earlier.

The food in the Paddock—once the subject of a thousand memes—was now so fresh and delicious that nearly the entire Tiffin community had put on the freshman fifteen, Audre included.

Chef's specialties were fried chicken and waffles, homemade focaccia, and a new salad bar sourced with heirloom vegetables from a local farm.

Haz had requested a pizza oven (which Big East promptly donated), and now, every Friday at lunch, Audre could look forward to the "rustica"—bubbling mozzarella and smoky pancetta topped with a handful of lightly dressed arugula.

Haz also took the edge off Mondays by instituting Burger Night: charbroiled Angus beef with an array of toppings and sauces, followed by an hour at the new Piano Bar in the Teddy, where Mr. Chuy, the music teacher, took requests and all the kids sang their preppy little hearts out.

Audre started to hum "Tiny Dancer" as another car pulled up—a shiny black Escalade with tinted back windows and a uniformed driver.

Here was Davi.