I was listening to the song California's Burning by Augustana when I wrote this and even though the song has absolutely no relevence, it's where I got the idea for the title.
Disclaimer: After a few one-shots, I would hope people would've figure out that Heist Society doesn't belong to me.
There was a time when honor meant something at the Colgan School, when school property was respected, when the faculty was revered—when the school kitchen never would have been set on fire due to a particularly wealthy eighth grade boy.
Of course the boy denied it indignantly, saying that he would never do such a thing. After all, he was the fifth W.W. Hale to attend Colgan and he could think of no greater shame than destruction of the school his forefathers had so dutifully attended.
"In fact," Hale said, "I'm appalled that I would ever be accused of such a horrible thing!"
"You can stop now, son." Everyone at the hearing immediately turned to W.W. Hale the Fourth, so none of them saw the flash of emotions that flashed across the younger Hale's face—joy, pain, satisfaction, anger—before he settled with a small smirk.
"Hear now, sir," Headmaster Franklin said through gritted teeth, "this boy set fire to our kitchen! What will the students possibly eat?"
"Allegedly," Hale piped up. "I allegedly set fire to the kitchen."
"It was you," snapped the headmaster. "I know it was. You've been nothing but trouble since the moment you stepped foot on this campus!"
"Ouch," Hale said insincerely, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"I suggest expulsion," the headmaster said. Hale didn't think it wise to mention that he thought this to be a very good idea as well.
"That's a bit harsh, don't you think, Headmaster?" W.W. Hale the Fourth asked.
"I also think that he should be charged with arson," Headmaster Franklin growled. Hale wished he could be afraid of the threat. But all it did was fill him with hope. After all, his parents would have no choice to stay for something of the sort. They would stop leaving, at least for a short while. Maybe they would even visit him when he was in prison. Or maybe they'd just buy his ticket to freedom.
Hale's father was quiet for a moment and the headmaster was sure he had won. He was wrong.
"Would you look out the window, sir?" the elder Hale asked politely. The headmaster did so. Hale followed his gaze and inwardly swore.
Parked in front of the school was a beautiful 1958 Porsche Speedster.
"That's yours," Hale's father said. "If you let this slide with simply expulsion. After all, you don't have any proof that my son did this, do you?"
"Well...no," the headmaster admitted, never having taken his eyes off the convertible. Hale imagined all the horrible things he could do to that car. His favorite was the fantasy of setting it on top of the fountain in the quad, water shooting out of its headlights.
"And my father, as I recall, made a very charitable donation to Colgan School's art program." Hale had forgotten how his father's voice changed to a purr when he knew he had victory by the throat. Hale had forgotten a lot of things about his father in the seven months they'd been apart.
"The stoves always have been slightly faulty," Headmaster Franklin said. He was too busy thinking about how good he would look behind the wheel of that Porsche to remember that the stoves were changed just last month.
Hale fought to urge to confess. He nearly spoke up, telling the whole room how he had been bored the previous night, so bored and claustrophobic and angry at the world that he decided to burn something down. He wanted to tell that smug headmaster (and his father while he was at it) how he hadn't used the stove at all. Instead, he'd used a lighter, gasoline, his school file, and a wastebasket. Simple, but effective.
If the headmaster were to search the roof, he would find everything he needed to prove Hale had set the fire.
But Hale kept silent and impassive, knowing that the headmaster would never again so much as wonder about W.W. Hale the Fifth and the mysterious kitchen fire.
"If I could have one suggestion," Headmaster Franklin said, pulling himself out of his fantasy. "I would prefer it if all other Hales never set foot at Colgan School ever again."
"Enjoy your new car," was all W.W. Hale the Fourth said before guiding his son away.
Hale didn't mind being scolded by his parents. If they cared enough to yell at him, that meant they loved him, right?
All the same, he barely heard their words. It was a very old argument anyway.
"If we let you pick the school, will you stay out of trouble?" Hale's mother asked desperately.
I have a suggestion: why don't you take me with you instead of leaving me at home? Or better yet, why don't you stay with me? I don't want to be alone anymore.
"I'll become a model student," Hale said aloud.
"Go do it then," his father said. And then Hale's parents were heading towards the door.
"Send us the name when you've picked it," his mother called back. "And a letter from the headmaster."
"Yes, Mother," Hale said. He closed his eyes as the door slammed behind him. He collapsed onto the couch.
They were gone again. They must trust him more than he thought they did if they were willing to let him pick a school without them finding out if it was fictional or not.
Suddenly, Hale was sitting ramrod straight, his eyes wide and calculating. An idea was forming in his mind, possibly his most brilliant idea yet.
"Marcus," he called. "I need you to help me with something."
Marcus shuffled into the room, a slightly wary look on his face. "What is it, sir?" he asked.
"We're going to create a school, Marcus," Hale said.
"That could take quite some time," Marcus said.
"My parents won't notice," Hale said dismissively. "We have all the time we need."
"Very well, sir," said Marcus. "And what are we going to call this school?"
Hale thought about it for a long while before finally saying, "We're going to call it...the Knightsbury Institute."
So...review?