2. A Night Out and a Blunder or Two
Roughly two months after Archibald Snatcher turned thirteen, so did one young master Charles Portley-Rind, the son of the most influential and wealthy family in Cheesebridge and heir to the leadership position of the Cheese Guild. Normally, when such an event happened, it passed by the working and lower classes completely, reserved only for the rich and the famous. However, in an attempt to "remind this town that our family cares about the lowborn, even if not as much as the well-bred, of course," in young Charles' own words, invitations went out to families of all classes to attend a party hosted by the Cheese Guild and sponsored by the White Hats. Children ages ten to fifteen would be given the run of the ballroom to socialize with Charles while adults would gather in other parts of the stately Portley-Rind manor.
"This is it!" Gabriel crowed, waving the invitation in the air. "This is how we get our foot in the door, Amelia! When we arrive and remind the Portley-Rinds of how much we have contributed to this town, we'll be under consideration for the next White Hat for sure!"
"Of course, dear." Amelia nodded routinely. Gabriel didn't even notice how hollow the gesture was.
Amelia addressed her son next: "Archibald, you'll want to look your best. We don't want to make a bad impression on the Portley-Rinds and their friends."
"But of course!" Archibald nodded his agreement. "I can have something ready in time for the party."
From then until the event, he spent his time working on repairing some of his old garments and combining them with a freshly sewn waistcoat. At the end of it all, he turned up one very smart suit that was primarily bright crimson, one of the two colors he thought suited him best.
...
"Now remember," Gabriel told his son as the three Snatchers made their way up to the Portley-Rind residence in the late evening, "young Master Portley-Rind barely knows you. You must treat him with decorum. Shake his hand, look him in the eye, and wish him many happy returns."
"Of course," Archibald replied. "I'm not stupid. I know how this works."
"And Archibald, dear," Amelia said cautiously, "not to judge, but, erm, perhaps you've had enough to eat for the night? You'd best, er, leave whatever cheese they have out for the other guests. You wouldn't want to look a glutton. You….you also don't want you-know-what to happen."
"It only happens SOMEtimes," Archibald argued. This was a lie.
"Still…"
"All right, Mother, all right."
The doorman opened up the entryway to where the young guests populated the ballroom. It was easy to tell who had come from what sort of family. While many of the children wore formal wear that was slightly shabby, others were decked out in lavish suits and multilayered ballgowns. Archibald caught himself wondering just how many of these pieces had been worked on by his very own family; he thought he recognized a few articles.
"Mr. and Mrs. Snatcher," the doorman addressed, gesturing to a side door leading to where the adults had gathered. "This way, if you please."
Archibald was left alone in the sea of young guests, keeping to the walls as he observed the room. Most everyone in it, he realized, he recognized as someone he'd caught whispering about him behind his back. Not a good sign, he thought, for someone poised to be the son of the next White Hat. Though perhaps when that happened, if it happened, everything would change, and every idle gossiper would find himself or herself eating words. Until then, Archibald played a game of who-said-what: this boy here had assumed Archibald was a "sissy" for refusing to join in neighborhood ball games, that girl there had made another comparison of him to a horror novel monster, that boy there had wondered out loud exactly what his mother had done to produce such a "disgusting-looking" child. If it weren't for the goal of keeping up appearances for Charles, wherever he was, Archibald would certainly have regretted showing up at all.
Where was Charles, anyhow? Archibald had never met him in person, and wondered what exactly he looked like. He knew that a Portley-Rind son would be dressed all in white, with flaming red hair. The Portley-Rinds had run Cheesebridge for generations, for better or for worse, and not a one of the bloodline had been anything other than a redhead. Archibald wondered about Charles' demeanor, as well. Obviously, he had to carry himself with grace and good form. Was he a kind boy, or a rude one? One would hope that the heir to the most prominent position in town was good-hearted.
Many of the guests were dancing, and Archibald noted a clear separation: the more well-dressed kept to each other as partners, and those less financially fortunate were left to dance with each other. No one approached Archibald to ask him to dance; he wouldn't have wanted to anyway. If he disgusted this lot this much, he figured, well, then they disgusted him right back.
Still, every so often, one of them would recognize him ("You're the tailor's son, aren't you?") and approach for a greeting, either because it was the routine thing to do in the name of good manners or to silently mock Archibald. Not even staying close to the wall made for a safe hiding place, and he was forced to follow along with the great charade and shake this boy's hand, kiss that girl's hand, shake that boy's hand, kiss that girl's hand.
"If I may have your attention!" The voice that sounded from the top of the stairs at the far end of the room was authoritative, even if immature in timbre. "Yes, yes, I would like to thank you all very much for coming to my party, and I hope that you are enjoying the evening!"
Archibald turned his gaze to the stairway, beholding Charles Portley-Rind for the first time, and his heart seized up.
"If you please," Charles continued, "I will now be taking your well-wishes."
The dancers all ceased, lining up in an orderly row to wish Charles happy returns one by one. Archibald found himself swept into the crowd, though one of the last in line. All the while, his mind raced.
Charles was an incredibly handsome boy, decked out in an impeccable white ensemble. His well-defined facial features were offset by the coiffed mane of red that the Portley-Rinds were so famous for. Archibald couldn't take his eyes off of the boy. Charles was the most beautiful person he'd ever beheld.
There was a certain sort of man, Archibald knew, who did not pursue women in romance, but instead chased after other men. To be one of these men, he had been taught, was one of the worst sins a man could commit. Such a man would never see employment in town, let alone have a chance for the coveted White Hat. And so he had resolved not to be one, thinking it an easy enough task. While he never had found a girl he fancied, he chalked that up to the simple fact that most of them would rather make fun of him than approach him in so much as a friendly manner. Now he was struck with a fear that he'd somehow slipped up, for as the line moved him closer to Charles, he was undeniably drawn to the fire-haired boy, and he couldn't quite drive the thought out of his mind that Charles was gorgeous. How was no one else able to hear how loudly his heart was beating? And a good thing, too, or he would have been given away.
Archibald steeled himself to be cool as he approached Charles, prepared not to betray the treasonous feelings that were taking him over. As they stood face-to-face, Charles flashed him a sincere smile, which Archibald returned. A boy with a smile like that couldn't be bad, could he? Archibald found himself wanting to wish him well with great honesty.
Charles offered his hand, and Archibald took hold of it and politely kissed it before beginning, "Master Portley-Rind, I wish you many happy returns on this, the day of your bi – "
Charles withdrew his hand as though it had been bitten by a snake. "I say, did you just KISS my hand?"
A chill overtook Archibald. That was exactly what he had done, without even thinking about it. Was it because of the feelings of attraction toward Charles he wished he wasn't having? Or was it a mere mistake, caused by a fluctuation of routine, trying to keep track of whose hand to shake and whose to kiss? Whatever the cause, he knew he had to cover for it, and quickly. "Apologies!" He forced a smile. "A mere error, Master Portley-Rind! Can't be the first one to have mixed that one up, can I?"
"The first I've known," Charles replied. "You aren't one of those queer boys, are you?"
"Not at all," Archibald denied. "I suppose now's the time to admit I had been planning that one from the start as a jest. After all, what is life without a little levity?"
"Levity!" Charles laughed. "I should say you've brought it! To think I've had my hand kissed by…who are you again?"
"Archibald Snatcher," Archibald answered, thoroughly aware that giving away his identity would lead to disaster but unaware of what else he could do given the situation.
"The tailor's son!" Charles crowed. "I hope you should all forgive me if I go and give my hand a thorough wash before returning to the festivities!"
Archibald blanched.
"Oh, don't think you've lost all honor," Charles said in a mock reassuring tone. "After all, you've got the honor of the most unattractive person to have attempted to court me!"
The entire ballroom erupted into laughter.
This wasn't happening.
"For the last time, Master Portley-Rind," Archibald said sternly. "I was not trying to – "
"Oh, I know, I know," Charles guffawed. "Why don't you go back to the dance floor? Perhaps you can find a handsome young boy to ask you to dance!"
The laughter grew louder. So this was the demeanor of Charles Portley-Rind, Archibald concluded. Absolutely unkind and without compassion. Why had he expected differently? After all, it was only fitting to match everyone else in the room.
"I've just remembered," Archibald stated. "I've somewhere very important to be."
"More important than my birthday?" Charles retorted. "Now I know you're just trying to save face."
"I've left an order unfinished for a wealthier lord from London," Archibald lied. "Couldn't very well have it fail to ship out tomorrow when he needs it for his wedding, could I?" All the while, he was making his way back toward the door.
"You'd be a fool to leave at this time of night," Charles said sternly. "After all, the Boxtrolls may have come out of hiding."
At this statement, a hush fell over the room. Every child feared the Boxtrolls and their unpredictable behavior.
"They could eat you right up," Charles continued…and then could not hold back from breaking out into a great smile: "Though that might be doing this town a bit of a favor, don't you think?"
As the loudest laughter yet erupted from the room, Archibald slammed the door, closing himself out onto the front stoop. From there, he stormed into the street so he could plan out what to do next.
Inside the ballroom, one boy, also aged thirteen and wearing a waistcoat of blue, wasn't laughing, and he hadn't been since the incident had begun. In fact, as soon as Archibald left, he reached over and tugged the sleeve of the boy next to him. "You shouldn't have laughed," he chastised.
"Oh, really?" the other boy, a Guild member's child known as Westerly Hanson, replied. "It's only that Snatcher peasant. What difference does it make?"
"If he is the tailor's son," the first boy insisted, "then he's very important to this town. We're all probably wearing things he helped make, and as everyone's clothes are so fine, I think he must do a good job. Besides, why should we laugh at him for kissing Charles' hand?"
"You mean Master Portley-Rind," Westerly corrected.
"It's rather arbitrary, isn't it?" the boy went on as though he hadn't heard. "Shake a man's hand and kiss a woman's. Who decided upon that rule, anyhow? Hm. I do hope Archibald is all right. Is no one going to go after him? Well, then, I will!"
"Boxtrolls will eat you," Westerly cautioned, though, looking this boy over, it was clear from his dress that he, too, was lower class…and were those burn marks on his pant legs? He realized he wouldn't mind if the Boxtrolls gobbled this one up as well.
"Boxtrolls don't scare me!" the boy said with a broad smile before making his way to the door. On the way, he passed the buffet table, where all sorts of expensive cheeses had been set out for the party guests to eat. He had the feeling that after public ridicule, Archibald might not be in the mood to talk to anyone, so he'd best take some food with him as a peace offering.
Outside the building, Archibald paced back and forth as he contemplated his next move. He supposed that having made up such an elaborate lie, he should go back home to complete the illusion. However, on the other hand, what if there was a chance for him to save face? He'd just made a fool of himself out of the son of the chief White Hat, and there was no telling what disgrace that would bring his entire family. If he could fix it, then he absolutely had to.
The door to the manor opened, and a short, slender and dark-haired boy clad in a blue waistcoat and sorch-marked pants slipped out onto the street, a plate of cheese in hand. "Archibald Snatcher?" he greeted tentatively.
"What do YOU want?" Archibald snapped.
"I only wanted to see if you were all right," the boy said softly. "It wasn't fair, the way they made fun of you in there. You didn't do anything wrong. They always do that, you know. Make fun of people for the silliest reasons. It's very rude of them."
Was this some sort of trick? "If you've come to ridicule me as well," Archibald growled, "you can leave."
"But I didn't!" the boy protested. "I just know how awful I'd feel if they'd made fun of me. Well, all right, I've learned to ignore them for the most part, but sometimes it's too much to bear all the same. And I'm sorry."
"For what? You didn't do anything."
"I know," the boy insisted, "but I'm still sorry they laughed at you. Here!" He held out the plate of cheese. "I thought you might want something to eat, and you wouldn't feel much like going back in through that crowd to get it."
Archibald eyed the plate, then looked up at the boy. His better judgment told him this was some sort of joke. No one ever acted this sympathetic toward him without some sort of punchline. But he wanted to believe this boy had better intentions. He just wanted something to go right this night.
His eyes traveled back down to the plate. He knew exactly what his mother would say. But he'd just been offered the cheese in a gesture of friendship, and turning that down would be yet another faux pas. Besides, he thought, it was entirely likely that nothing would happen to him this time if he indulged.
So he said "Thank you" and took a bite.
...
The next thing he remembered was waking up in his bed, fully clothed in his mostly-red suit. Gabriel was depositing a swollen leech into a bucket on the bedside table while Amelia looked on in horror.
"…What happened?" Archibald managed to ask groggily.
"Oh, thank the Lord, you're all right…" Amelia sighed.
"We, er…we had to leave the party early," Gabriel stated softly.
"What time is it?" Archibald asked, dreading the answer.
"We only made it home a while ago," Gabriel replied.
So he'd had one of his fits after all. Archibald couldn't imagine what that had done to his family's social standing.
Before any further discussion could occur, the doorbell jingled, indicating someone had entered the shop. A thin voice called out, "Hello? Is anyone there?"
"A customer?" Amelia wondered out loud. "This late?"
Archibald followed his parents down the stairs to find the boy with the burn marks on his clothes standing in the middle of the sales floor. "Are you…" the boy began before catching sight of Archibald. "Oh, you're all right!" He immediately flushed; "I'm so very, terribly, INCREDIBLY sorry! I didn't mean to…I didn't know you would…"
"It's all right," Amelia told the boy.
Teeth gritted, Archibald stepped out in front of him. "You have nothing to apologize for," he insisted, "because nothing of consequence happened."
"Nothing of consequence?" the boy repeated. "But you'd swollen up like a balloon, and were turning all sorts of colors! I was afraid you'd perish right in front of - "
"That," Archibald interrupted, "couldn't POSSIBLY have happened."
"But…" The boy looked up to see the apologetic look on Gabriel and Amelia's faces. He began to piece together what should and shouldn't be spoken of. "I'm…sorry for bringing that up too."
"You needn't be," Archibald insisted, "because there's NOTHING NOT TO BRING UP."
"Understood," the boy said with a nod. "Anyhow, it…it seems you're all right, so I won't keep you." He turned to leave.
"Wait."
The boy halted, looking back at Archibald.
No one outside of the Snatcher family had ever seemed to care that much about Archibald's well-being before. And Archibald couldn't well ignore that. Unaware that he was about to make his first real friend, he asked, "What's your name?"
"It's Herbert," the boy answered cheerily. "Herbert Trubshaw."