The Agency
The following is an excerpt from The Agency, by Monica McGurk, available January 4, 2022 from River Grove Books.
Chapter 1
ORIENTATION
Bath, England
“Pardon me.”
The lanky boy paused expectantly, looking past Bree to the empty seat next to her. Bree inexplicably flushed. He was the first person actually to speak to her, to even acknowledge her existence, since she’d snuck — an hour early — into the campus auditorium to await the convocation ceremony. She’d chosen what she’d thought to be an inconspicuous spot on the side of the wood-paneled room. Now, with the compact space filling up with her classmates, every seat was being claimed.
Clutching her backpack, she pressed her legs awkwardly against the chair and made room for him to squeeze through the row.
He smiled, one crooked tooth marring an otherwise perfect, glossy row. “Many thanks.”
She blurted out nervously, “No problem.”
He brightened as he tumbled, book bag and all, into the chair next to her, peering at her with heightened interest. “Ah! An American, are you? But how can that be? Has the old battle-axe Dean Albourn altered her stance toward the inclusion of residents from the wayward former colonies?”
She blinked at him, trying to parse the meaning from his big words and toothy enunciation. “You can tell I’m American from the two words I spoke?”
He chortled with delight. “With that gorgeous accent, which I take to be Southern? Of course I can tell.” His eyes sparkled. “I’m right. Do tell me I am right. It would be such a relief to find another unicorn with whom I could share the burden.”
“Unicorn?” she asked, feeling herself blush, ashamed at her confusion, again.
He waved a hand around the cozy auditorium, the seats of which were rapidly filling in, bringing life to the stern gothic stone and soaring ceilings. “I’m Norwood’s first ‘manny’!” He waited for her reaction, but she gave him her blankest look. “Yes, yes, I know. Dreadfully poor from the point of view of punning, but it seems the media have taken a liking to it and so here I sit, stuck with it.”
He cocked an eyebrow and looked at her quizzically. “You don’t know, do you? That’s brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” He reached over and clutched her hands. “It’s like you’ve just come in out of the wilderness. You and I will have so much fun together. We will be outsiders, together. Splendid. I’m Dashiell,” he rolled on, oblivious to her discomfiture as he shook her hand ceremoniously. “Norwood’s first male matriculant. Ever.” He gestured at the crowd again and waited for her reaction.
She blinked once more as she realized that, indeed, Dashiell was the only man in the entire room.
“And you are . . .?” he prompted.
“Bree. Bree Parrish. From Florence, Alabama.”
“Bree Parrish. Why, with a name like that you almost sound British.
But here you sit, Norwood’s first American pupil.”
“What?” she blurted. “I’m the first?”
“Surely you knew?” he chortled.
A bustle from the stage drew his attention away from her before she could
deny having known anything of the sort. In fact, it seemed implausible. Suddenly, the bright chirping of the assembled young women diminished to a low murmur. He leaned over and shushed. “It’s the battle-axe herself,” he indicated, as a woman with a very impressive bosom mounted the steps to the lectern. “Brace yourself, my dear Bree. You are about to encounter one of the most fulsome displays of Britishness you will ever have the pleasure to witness in your entire life. Watch, and be amazed.”
A straight-backed woman just slightly over five feet, to Bree’s best estimate, gripped the neck of the microphone, adjusting it from atop a stepstool behind the lectern. “Ahem. Ladies. Ladies,” she repeated, a shard of steel infusing her voice with authority. Instantly, the crowd silenced. “And gentleman,” the woman acknowledged with a tilt of her head toward Dashiell, her nose wrinkling slightly as if she had just taken note of a particularly bad smell.
Dashiell nodded back to her, with a quick wink to Bree.
“Welcome to this opening convocation of this, the one hundred and twenty-fifth year of the Norwood College, where we build not only careers, but families, constructed from the foundations of academic rigor, discipline, sacrifice, commitment, and empowerment. Norwood offers more than just the most preeminent undergraduate degree in child development in the world; if you work hard enough, you may be accepted into its caregiver preparatory program and graduate in parallel with a coveted Norwood Diploma. The diploma, as you know, unlocks the door to unimaginable opportunities — diploma holders care for the children of CEOs, royal families, diplomats. They run their own caregiving institutions and schools. There is nothing else comparable to it in the entire world.
“You are here — one of only one hundred students accepted this academic year, in our most brutally selective admissions process ever — because you have demonstrated, through your academic achievements, a commitment to excellence that is the hallmark for which a Norwood graduate is known, and indeed, revered. Your striving has only just begun, however.”
She paused dramatically, peering over the top of her reading glasses to skewer various members of the student body with an icy stare.
“Look to your classmate on your left.” She waited for the rows of women to obediently swing their heads to one side. Bree surreptitiously noted Dashiell’s jutting jawline and the faint hint of a five-o’clock shadow.
“Now, look to the student at your right.” Row after row of heads swiveled in turn. A few nervous titters split the awkward silence. Bree was conscious of Dashiell taking in her quite average appearance — only a blaze of tangled red hair distinguished her from any of the girls in the room.
Albourn made her point. “Statistically speaking, one of you will not be here by the end of this school year. Moreover, a scant thirty will likely be admitted into the certificate program — into a guarantee of lifetime employment through affiliation with the Norwood Agency — later this year. The standards of Norwood are the toughest of any school in the realm, befitting the sacred duty with which our graduates are entrusted.”
Anxious whispers skittered through the hall as the students looked around, and Bree wondered which of them would be the ones to be shamefully dismissed.
“As evidence of this, I give you Gul Avci, one of our recent graduates and an exemplar of a successful alumna.”
A compact woman stepped forward from the line behind Albourn.
“Avci was an early admit due to her exceptional academic record. She garnered numerous merit citations and led as Head Girl during her time in these halls. More importantly, she has extended Norwood’s reach into her native Turkey, demonstrating how British childcare norms are relevant the world over, taking an almost diplomatic zeal to her efforts.”
Gul nodded slightly, as if this praise was simply her due, and fell back into line.
Looking satisfied, Albourn continued. “As your dean, I will not rest until I am satisfied that each and every one of you has proven yourself worthy of the Norwood name and the grave responsibility entrusted to you. Just like Gul Avci. Our faculty,” she added, gesturing to the row of uptight-looking women behind her, “are here to ensure that you are given every opportunity to succeed. In the next forty-eight hours, you will have ample time to settle in to your quarters, complete registration, and gather the materials indicated in your syllabi.”
Dashiell looked over at Bree and gave an exaggerated eye roll.
“Upon leaving this hall, you will find your first-year study group assignments posted on the wall. These groups are an essential aspect of the Norwood experience. Your group has been carefully assembled to maximize your exposure to the diversity of your fellow students so that you might equally learn from one another.” She dragged the “I” in “diversity” out, unnaturally emphasizing it and rhyming it with “pie.” “For first term, you are expected to work together, helping one another through your assignments and completing group work as designated by your professors. This year, we introduce a new element to the group method: Each of you will have the opportunity to grade every member of your group on every assignment, according to your perception of each member’s preparation and contributions to the group’s efforts.”
A groan ripped through the hall before Albourn continued.
“There will be no exceptions to this rule. There will be no waivers granted for participation in Study Group and no changing of group assignments. Collusion on peer grading will be punishable by expulsion.” She pressed her lips together with grim humor. “By this method, we hope to impress upon you the importance of rules and order, which you will find so instrumental in the development of a sound character in the children with whom you will work in the future.
“Due to the closeness of their working relationships, study groups will naturally be structured as living groups. You will be given your housing arrangements once your entire group has assembled. While we recognize that, in this age of social media, many of you would have preferred to be in contact with your group members in advance, or I daresay even to have chosen them yourselves, we find this method much more in keeping with the Norwood experience. So, too, is the required departure of your parents last evening. Meeting the unforeseen challenges of setting up your new home represents exactly the sort of valiant struggle that will help us forge you into a useful instrument of child instruction. Miss Montoya-Craig, a representative from the upper class, will assist you with locating your group once we have adjourned.”
A dour-looking young woman sporting a pearl-buttoned cardigan emblazoned with the Norwood crest and an equally staid plaid skirt stepped forward on the stage, peering at them with dark eyes.
Dean Albourn raised herself up to her full, tiny, terrifying height. “Now, we shall sing of our sacred alma mater. Margaret?”
Montoya-Craig pulled a tuning fork from the deep pocket of her sweater and struck it neatly, letting the sonorous tone vibrate over their heads. Simultaneously, as if pre-orchestrated, the massive wooden doors to the hall burst open and two neat rows of upper-class students, a mass of beige, floated in along both sides of the auditorium, their voices already raised in song.
