The Housemaster

The Housemaster

I followed the girl to the housemaster’s office. When we got there, we found him standing outside, as if he had been waiting for me. He stood right in front of the door, gripping a long cane in his hand. He was a well-built man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, dressed in a yellow T-shirt and black joggers. As soon as he saw me, he narrowed his eyes in annoyance and rubbed his hands together, like he was preparing for a lecture—or worse, punishment.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "I’ve sent more than five students to look for you."

"Sorry, sir, I’ve been in class," I answered quickly.

"In class?" He raised an eyebrow. "Doing what? Are you even supposed to be in the class right now? No, tell me. What exactly were you doing there? That’s the problem with you students. When it’s time for lectures, you disappear. But when there’s nothing happening, that’s when you all gather in class, doing God knows what."

At school, very few students knew his real name. We all just called him Captain or General because he acted more like a soldier than a teacher.

"Now tell me, do you not know the date of the competition?" he pressed, his voice growing harsher.

"I know, sir," I replied. "It’s on Monday."

"Oh! So you know," he said, nodding sarcastically. "And you also know that you’re the one representing us in swimming, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why haven’t you come to see me about it?" His tone was sharp, like he was scolding a recruit. "Do you have your swimming vest? You do realize there’s a special one for each house, right? Or have you been walking around clueless this whole time?"

"I’m sorry, sir," I said.

"You’re sorry," he repeated, shaking his head. "Follow me to my office."

He turned and walked inside, and I followed. Once inside, he handed me the official swimming suit for our house and gave me some swimming tips. Despite his aggressive tone, I realized that he wasn’t as bad as he sounded. The Captain was actually a nice man—it was just that his voice was naturally harsh, and he had a short temper. But apart from those little character flaws, he was decent.

That Saturday evening, Mom and I were almost ready for dinner, but Cynthia was still nowhere to be found. I kept peeking through the window, hoping to see her walking toward our house in her radiant gown.

I had asked Mom several times if she remembered to speak to Cynthia’s mom about letting her come over. Just yesterday, I had asked Mom to visit Aunty Paula so she could use the opportunity to request Cynthia’s permission for the dinner. Mom had gone, but I hadn’t seen any proof that it worked.

As for my part, I had already asked Cynthia myself on our way home from school. She had said she needed to ask her parents first. She also pointed out that I should have told her earlier, as her parents might find the invitation too sudden. I had assured her that my mom would speak to them later that evening.

I still remember Cynthia’s reaction when I first asked her about the dinner. It was funny, really, because it was the exact same reaction I had when my mom told me about it.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" she had asked, narrowing her eyes at me suspiciously. There was excitement in her voice, but she was also teasing me.

I had quickly answered, "No, no! It’s just a dinner party. Mom invited me, and I told her I’d like you to come along. She agreed."

"Hmm," Cynthia had hummed, considering it. "I’d love to come, but you know how my mom is. My dad might not mind, but my mom will. She’ll say it’s too last-minute."

"Well, if that’s the problem, then we have nothing to worry about," I had said confidently. "My mom will be coming over to talk to your parents about it after work. That should help, right?"

She had smiled at that. "Yeah, that sounds like a good plan."

Cynthia had then said something that really stuck with me. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was honest.

"These days, I can’t even remember the last time I went out," she admitted. "The only places I go are school and church. That’s it. You know, when my dad lost his job, I actually liked it."

I had frowned. "Why?"

"Because he was home more often," she explained. "He would take me and Mom out almost every Saturday. But now that he’s got a new job—one that Mom says is even better—we barely see him anymore. He’s always working. Everything is boring now. And Mom… she claims she’s fun, but honestly, she’s just too stingy to spend money on anything fun."

I had laughed at that because, in a way, I could relate.

Now, standing by the window, I was growing impatient. Cynthia still wasn’t here, and I was beginning to think her mom had refused to let her come.

"Mom, are you sure you talked to Aunty Paula?" I asked, turning to her.

"For the tenth time, yes, I did," Mom replied, laughing. "Be patient, she’ll come."

I sighed and looked outside again. The sky was already growing dark. Maybe I should have gone to pick her up myself.