by Lisa Lutz
“I call bullshit,” Linny said.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Ms. Pinsky said you wanted to see me.”
“Linny, grab the paper bag with the cat food from my office,” Coach said.
As Linny slow-walked out of the gym, Keith said, “Pick up the pace, Matthews.”
The girl sluggishly jogged away.
“Did you say cat food?” I said.
“Yes,” said Keith.
“I don’t have a cat.”
“There’s a feral cat that lives near the cottage. He’ll leave mouse carcasses at your door if you don’t feed him.”
“I haven’t seen any carcasses.”
“I’ve been cleaning them up.”
“Why?”
“I figured you had seen enough dead rodents since you arrived,” he said.
“You heard?” I said.
“Got around fast. Kids think you’re a badass.”
Linny returned with the bag of cat food and delivered it to me.
“Well, thank you,” I said.
“I’m going to take five,” said Linny, departing once again.
“The generator working okay?” Keith said.
“Yes,” I said. “I guess Rupert refilled the tank.”
“That was me,” he said.
“Why?”
“That cottage is barely habitable with power. Did you see the gas can?”
“No.”
“There’s about five gallons. That might cover a week if the weather doesn’t turn and you’re really frugal. I wouldn’t plan on an extended stay in—”
“Well, thank you,” I said. “If there’s any way that I can repay the favor.”
“It would be great if we could start a fencing club,” he said.
“I don’t fence,” I said. “I believe we already had that conversation.”
“Did we? I don’t remember.”
“Have a nice day,” I said, swiftly departing.
* * *
—
When I returned to Headquarters, I found Jonah Wagman sitting alone in my classroom, in his assigned seat. Fourth row, aisle three. There was a bright-red apple in the middle of my desk. I picked up the apple and checked my watch. It was one-thirty, technically office hours, but high school students rarely took advantage of the practice. I considered the time to be an extended lunch period.
“Can I help you with something, Jonah?”
Jonah finished chomping down on a jawbreaker. The classroom had a faint cherry odor.
“I was wondering if you’d be my faculty adviser.”
“That’s a thing here?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your old adviser? Did he die?”
“Nah. Mr. Ford’s alive. But I’d like to switch to you. He was my adviser for like two years. Change is good. Adults are always saying that.”
“You already have two classes with me and you want to spend even more time together. We just met, Jonah.”
“I promise I won’t come to your office hours every day. Just occasionally. And if, at any point, you are unhappy with the situation, I will seek advisement elsewhere.”
“Who is Wainwright?” I asked.
“Please don’t make that a condition for becoming my adviser.”
“What are my job responsibilities as adviser?”
“To advise,” Jonah said.
“What do I get in return?”
“I don’t know. I can get more apples. Do you like other fruit?”
“I like bananas. But I can get my own.”
“What is it that you want, Ms. Witt?”
“Tell me what happened to Kate.”
Mr. Ford
Witt was late.
Claude sat across from me in the booth, her leg jackrabbiting the floor. Her eyes toggled between her phone and the door, waiting for new blood to arrive, like a crack addict anticipating her fix.
Evelyn, next to her, leaned against the wood paneling, her eyelids hovering between open and closed, like a pair of broken garage doors. Always tired. I’ve noticed that the bags under her eyes have gotten worse. I saw a picture of her when she was younger and she was kind of hot. Two kids later, a lot of summers outdoors without sunblock, I think she’s given up. Her husband travels for work, doesn’t help with the kids, probably fucks other women on the road. Sometimes, during lunch, I give Evelyn the key to my quarters to take a nap. Invariably, when I return, she’s made my bed and washed my dishes. I should stop giving her the key, but it’s so goddamn nice to come home to a clean kitchen.
Primm was too close as usual and she reeked of Shalimar. I sat on the edge of the booth and she still managed to brush against me, to find some excuse to touch my hand, my arm, my leg, to engage in eye contact that resembled a staring contest. She must have unbuttoned her blouse before she walked into the bar, because her tits were hanging out. They’re her best feature. Unfortunately, Primm thinks it’s her hair. The sheer volume is extraordinary. Every time she turns her head, a ringlet grazes my neck. Claude and I used to play a game where we’d try to come up with something nice to say about the entire Stonebridge faculty. Claude would always get stumped on Primm. We used to joke about it, back when we used to joke about things. It’s not funny anymore. Fuck, none of it’s funny—Claude’s anger, Primm’s desperation, Evelyn’s exhaustion. The day started wrong with the shower turning to ice. My apartment in Dickens has a private shower, but it is unfortunately connected to the same sketchy hot-water heater as the communal ones. I would make the trek to the Wilde Bathhouse, but the last thing I need is to see naked Keith before I’ve had coffee.
Primm inquired about Claude’s home life. Claude, voice Antarctic, told her things were the same. Primm asked more questions about Claude’s mother. Every week, we replay this loop, with Primm picking at scabs on a feral dog. I keep meaning to tell Evelyn to stop inviting Martha to drinks night.
I was bored. I looked at the time on my phone. I decided I’d leave if Witt didn’t show in ten minutes. Claude made a crack about me checking to see if my agent called.
They never call, she said.
Sometimes I like Claude, but she’s dangerous, which is probably why. She’s the woman who wraps her fingers around your neck and it feels rough and fun, but then she squeezes too hard and you can’t breathe.
The three of them started talking about Witt, chopping her up into little pieces and reassembling her into a dummy they could play with. They dissected Witt’s decision to live in the cottage. Claude thought it was austerity; Primm, bad judgment; and Evelyn, wise. Their opinions were more personally revealing than insightful.
The dirt-digging began after that. Primm brought it up, but in truth we were all deeply curious about Witt’s move from plummy Warren Prep to mid-tiered Stonebridge. Primm had overheard Greg say that Witt spent the summer at a monastery.
“I should talk to her about leaving her Buddhism at the gates,” Primm said.
Evelyn and Claude had a laugh. Primm didn’t think it was funny. Claude then thought it was even funnier. She was just trying to rile Primm up. When Claude can’t bear the feeling in her gut, she jabs at anything close enough to hit.
Most of the time I feel like I’m trapped in an elevator with Muzak playing.
For some reason that sentence caught in my head. Claude said it one day after we fucked. That’s how she feels all of the time.
I clocked the door to make sure Witt hadn’t arrived yet. Evelyn tried to toss some chum to distract Claude and Primm from their mutual hate by delivering the stale news that Witt is Len Wilde’s child. Primm said she’d read one of his books—Shadow Room, something room? She prefers Grisham. Primm looked at her watch and said that Alex wasn’t coming. Evelyn still thought she’d show. Claude, impatient, sent a text.
Hugh,
the tattooed guy who runs this joint, leaned over the booth and delivered a fresh whiskey to Claude and a chemical-green beverage to Evelyn. Evie is always ordering something ridiculous. I checked my watch again. Witt had four minutes to arrive before my self-imposed deadline. Primm tried to get table service from Hugh, holding the empty pitcher of beer over her head. He refused to look at her.
I went to the bar and ordered two pints. I didn’t want to be stuck finishing a pitcher with Primm if Witt didn’t show. Keith was sitting at the bar, watching an Orioles–Yankees game. We did that guy nod exchange and said hey. He had this smirk like he knew something about me. I wanted to punch that smirk off his face.
I gave Primm her pint, hoping it would take the edge off her desperation. I knew she’d mistake it for a chivalrous gesture, a note of attention.
The conversation had moved on to Witt’s mother. Claude had a vague memory of reading an essay about Nastya Witt. She was trying to remember the title.
“Did you ever read that, Finn?”
“No,” I said.
I don’t know why I denied knowing about it. Shit, I practically knew the essay by heart.
“The Cruel Muse,” it was called. Sometime after Hidden Window was released, Leonard Witt wrote a piece for The New Yorker. The essay, which detailed the subversive ways his wife incentivized his writing, became legend.
Primm wasn’t interested in discussing the lore of Witt’s lineage. She just wanted to poke holes in her character until she was a human Wiffle ball.
“I don’t know what, but I know something happened there,” Primm said. “According to her employment records, Witt left halfway through the spring semester. Personal reasons.”
“There are hundreds of non-scandalous reasons why someone leaves their job,” I said.
“Just look at her, Finn; she’s a mess. You know what I think? I think she had a nervous breakdown and that’s why she left Warren. Let’s just make a pact to keep an eye on her.”
Claude, like a coiled snake, hissed, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Evelyn, words slurring, said, “Okay. Stop. You’re both being mean girls.”
Claude leveled her eyes at Primm and said, “At least I’m good at it.”
I looked at the time. Alex was now two minutes past my deadline. I was trying to calculate whether the possibility of fucking Witt was worth the torture of this night. Claude slid out of the booth and said she had to use the bathroom. The time to leave would have been before Claude excused herself. I was trapped.
Evelyn then began this preposterous verbal debate with herself about whether she’d have another drink and what kind of drink. It was all noise, just so we wouldn’t have to listen to Primm talking anymore. But Evie was tired and soon ran out of steam. Primm gladly filled the vacuum by inquiring why Claude took so long in the bathroom.
One grasshopper too many and reliable, reasonable Evelyn becomes ornery.
“She’s. Fucking. The. Bartender. In. The. Bathroom, you clueless, clueless woman. She fucks him every time we come here. How have you never noticed that?”
Ms. Witt
I didn’t know what I was walking into.
It looked like they were about to leave the bar. Then they froze, like in an action shot. I swear they looked blurry. Finn ushered me over and shoved me into the seat next to Martha Primm. He seemed hell-bent on having me act as a barricade between him and Primm. Across from us sat Claude and Evelyn, with so much room between them I felt a pang of jealousy.
“You’ve all met, right?” said Finn.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Primm said.
She wasn’t even trying to sound sincere.
The foursome traded uncertain glances. It was all so weird that it threw me off-balance. Finn got up and asked me if I wanted a drink. Of course I wanted a drink. Why else was I there?
I asked for whatever was on tap, because I didn’t want to waste time with decision-making. I needed a drink.
Finn left us to order. I spotted Keith, sitting at the bar. I waved at him. I don’t think he saw me. I asked why he wasn’t part of the drinking club.
“I don’t think he likes us,” Primm said.
“Speak for yourself,” Evelyn said. “Keith and I always sauna together.”
“You’re late,” Claude said.
That was the first thing she said to me, come to think of it.
“Sorry. I lost track of time,” I said.
I guess they took happy hour very seriously at Stonebridge.
“We almost left,” Claude said.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” I said. “I have so many questions.”
I recalled my conversation with Jonah earlier that day. In exchange for signing his adviser card, he told me what happened to Kate. When I asked a follow-up question, Jonah reminded me that follow-up questions were not part of the deal and he cautioned me against being too inquisitive. His exact words were: “Curiosity killed the cat could be the school motto.” I heeded his warning without abiding by it.
“What kind of questions?” Primm said.
“Basic school dirt,” I said. “I tried to get it out of Finn, but he wasn’t giving it up.”
“I’m surprised,” Evelyn said. “He’s always struck me as the kind of man who would last in a torture session no more than thirty seconds, maybe a minute. And we’re talking light torture—minor sleep deprivation, no waterboarding or toenail disengagement.”
“That’s where I went wrong,” I said. “I gave him no incentive to talk.”
“Why are you thinking about Finn being tortured?” Primm said.
“Primm doesn’t have a dark side,” Evelyn explained.
“Or if she does,” said Claude, “it’s really dark. Like bodies-buried-in-her-yard dark.”
The vibe at the table unsettled me. I wasn’t clear on the dynamic. I asked how long all of them had been teaching at Stonebridge. Finn had clocked four years; Primm, five; Claude, seven; and Evelyn, nine.
“But Claude is a lifer,” Evelyn said.
“Lifer?” I said.
“I went to school here,” Claude said.
“Keith is also a lifer,” said Evelyn. “In fact, he’s done more time than anyone.”
“How much time?” I asked.
Evelyn shouted over to the bar, “Hey, Keith, how long have you been teaching here?”
“Fifteen, next year,” Keith said.
I watched Keith’s cold gaze track Finn as he returned to the table with a pitcher of beer.
“Fifteen years,” said Primm.
“I think she heard that,” said Claude.
Finn delivered an extra pint glass for me. He huddled three glasses together and poured the beer in circles. Barely a drop hit the table. The librarian steered the conversation back to my original question.
“So. What do you want to know?” Claude said.
“Who are the predators and who are the prey?” I asked.
“Predators. Prey,” said Primm dryly. “That seems a bit cynical.”
“I get it,” said Evelyn, ignoring Primm. “You want to know what you’re dealing with.”
“Just rattle off the primary lions and pumas and a few Bambis or bunnies, and I’ll sort out the rest of the animal kingdom,” I said.
Primm said she had to use the restroom. Finn and I cleared out of the booth. I started to sit back down, but Finn yanked my arm and switched places with me, taking the inside seat for himself. It was like an aggressive game of musical chairs. We shifted our three pint glasses, placing Primm’s untouched beer in the outer seat.
“Very smooth,” Claude said to Finn.
“Thank you,” Finn said.
I had no idea what they were talking about. Claude slipped a notebook from her satchel, ripped out a blank page, and began jotting down names.
“The Ten?” I said.
“Each class is roughly one hundred students,” Claude said. “The popular club calls themselves the Ten because they’re the top ten percent.”
“Please don’t mistake that for the top ten in academic performance. There is simply no correlation,” Evelyn said.
“None at all,” Finn echoed.
I looked over the list:
Emelia Laird
Tegan Brooks
Hannah Rexall
Rachel Rose
Gemma Russo
Adam Westlake
Mick Devlin
Jack Vandenberg
Jonah Wagman
Gabriel Smythe
“You’re missing Amy Logan,” Evelyn said to Claude.
“Then it’s eleven,” I said.
“The Ten aren’t always ten,” said Evelyn.
“But this year they are,” said Finn. “Amy Logan isn’t one of them. Although, arguably she’s Ten-adjacent. None of them would mess with her.”
“So, it is ten,” I said.
“There’s a new kid who just arrived. Nick Laughlin. From England. He vaguely resembles a young Mick Jagger. I have him for European history. I’d bet a week’s salary that he’ll be admitted to the club,” Evelyn said. “Any takers?”
Primm returned as the table declined Evelyn’s offer.
“Are you comfortable, Alex? I can take the middle, if you like.”
Finn squeezed my arm, signaling that I should stay put. Things were beginning to make sense.
“I’m okay,” I said.
Primm scowled and boxed me into the booth.
“What were we talking about?” she said.
“The new kid. Nick Laughlin,” said Evelyn.
