Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [82]
Pure Springs College was founded in 1915 by an oddball named Thaddeus Fox, a Harvard-educated steel magnate who thought that the traditional model for education bred “slow-witted, morally questionable dullards.” So he set up the Pure Springs College campus smack dab in the middle of one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. Each year, a new class of fifteen young men (and only men) “with keen minds and unsullied hearts” who have grown disillusioned with traditional schools and “wish to pursue wisdom in its purest form” are admitted to the college after subjecting themselves to a rigorous application process that includes writing no fewer than ten separate essays answering questions on topics as varied as gravitational lensing and the semiotics of the Teletubbies. What makes this school like none other is that it is run completely by the student body. The Pure Springers are in charge of all the school's administrative duties, including admissions and the hiring and firing of faculty. Tuition is free, and the students support themselves by working on a cattle ranch.
“So there's no one in charge,” I said.
“They're all in charge,” Mr. Flutie said.
“I don't get it,” I said.
“Each kid has a job that keeps the place up and running,” Mr. Flutie said. “Rancher, butcher, mechanic, cook, and so on.”
“So what is Marcus's role?” I asked.
“He has two,” Mrs. Flutie said. “He's junior farmer and librarian.”
I imagined Marcus in overalls and a straw hat. Pitchfork in one hand, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in the other.
“I know what you're thinking: that it's a cult, or worse, one of those boot camps for troubled kids where some poor child winds up dead from dehydration,” Mrs. Flutie said. “We thought the same thing.”
“You thought the same thing,” Mr. Flutie interrupted. “I thought it sounded like the greatest place on earth.”
Mrs. Flutie put her hand on his unmangled knee. “As crazy as it sounds, this place has molded the minds of some of the best and the brightest. Nobel Prize winners, politicians—”
“That newscaster's son, whatzisname . . . ,” Mr. Flutie interrupted.
“Billionaire businessmen, novelists—”
“You know, that guy on that show . . .”
“Once we found out more about it, we knew it was the kind of place that could unlock Marcus's potential.”
I was still skeptical. “I still don't see how with all that freedom and testosterone it doesn't turn into Lord of the Flies. And add a keg . . .”
“Well, we don't worry about that because there are only two strictly enforced rules, and the first is no drugs or alcohol,” Mrs. Flutie said. “You can understand why we found that one appealing.”
“And the second?”
A pause. And in the silence, I could hear every clock-tick of time passing me by. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
“Total isolation,” Mrs. Flutie said finally. She folded her hands in her lap, a gesture of acceptance.
“Meaning?”
“If he leaves, he can't come back,” Mr. Flutie said. “And no one can visit.”
“I know this must be very upsetting to you, Jessica. We felt the same way.”
“You felt the same way,” Mr. Flutie said. “I thought it was just the thing to get his head screwed on right.”
“I wish . . . ,” I began, not knowing exactly how I wanted to finish that sentence. I didn't realize that I had started crying until I felt the warm rivulets coursing down my cheeks.
Mrs. Flutie therapeutically squeezed my shoulder. Her voice got deeper, more serious.
“Jessica, words cannot express just how much we loved seeing Marcus develop such a positive relationship with you.”
“You were the best of the lot,” Mr. Flutie said, obviously unaware of how being referred to in that manner might be a tad upsetting to me.
“Marcus was a troubled spirit long before you entered the picture.”
“‘Troubled spirit,'” Mr. Flutie grumbled. “Pain in the ass is more like it.”
“Surely you can understand why Marcus might need to put Pineville behind him,” Mrs. Flutie said. “There are a lot of bad influences around here. People from his past who don't understand that