The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  I asked Mel if she deliberately modeled the style after any particular author. She smiled and said she was in a Dashiell Hammett mood. It was the kind of unselfconscious creativity that can only come from a brain still in wild flux.

  “Well, that was interesting,” said Tegan.

  “You’re a nut, Mel. And I mean that in the best possible way,” said Adam.

  “I would rethink the Grape-Nuts,” said Jonah. “You have all of the fun cereals and then Grape-Nuts. That seems out of place.”

  “I think the Grape-Nuts add depth and crunch to the story,” Norman said.

  Jonah seemed to be mulling over Norman’s comment.

  Nick, whose piece did not incite as much conversation, looked deeply disturbed, like he’d just moved into a halfway house for adolescents plagued by a rare form of early-onset dementia.

  “Can I have a show of hands on who knows what their thesis project will be?” I said.

  About a third of the hands rose, some only to half-mast.

  “If you don’t, you have a grace period of two weeks to figure it out,” I said.

  What I didn’t say was that it was kind of weird that I had nineteen writing students and only a handful had any real interest in writing.

  * * *

  —

  After my conversations with Gemma and Whitehall, I wondered whether I could teach effectively while seeing so many of the boys as potential villains. I knew that my bias was dangerous. That’s why I worked so ardently on decoding those Q&A’s. I needed to know that at least some of the boys were inherently good.

  I got sloppy during my office hours. I left the papers splayed on my desk while I ran to the lounge for a crappy cup of coffee.

  When I returned to my classroom, Jonah was sitting in his assigned seat. The papers that had covered my entire desk when I left were now stacked in the corner, facedown. Jonah had his journal open and a pen poised over a blank page. I picked up the stack and turned it over. On top was this Q&A:

  What do you love? GR

  What do you hate? The Darkroom

  If you could live inside a book, what book? Sense and Sensibility

  What do you want? Peace

  Who are you? I don’t know yet

  I had scribbled F and the initials of three possible girls in my senior class. They were crossed out with a pencil. M and JW were printed right below. I didn’t know what to say.

  “You said they would remain anonymous,” Jonah said, eyes focused on his notebook.

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  I felt caught and guilty. I couldn’t decide whether Jonah was scolding or disappointed. When he finally raised his chin, I caught a smirk.

  “You thought I was a girl,” he said, shaking his head in mock indignation.

  “Sorry. It was Sense and Sensibility. It’s rare for—”

  “That’s very sexist of you, Ms. Witt.”

  “You’re right. I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted,” Jonah said.

  “Why that book?” I said. “It’s a great book, but to live in it?”

  “Nobody calls out the brother and his lame wife for taking the sisters’ money. I kept waiting for it to happen and then it didn’t. I get that it all worked out in the end, but—”

  “You want to live in the book to fix it?”

  “Exactly,” said Jonah.

  I put the Q&A’s into the bottom drawer of my desk and diverted my attention to other classwork for the rest of the period. I wanted to respect Jonah’s anonymity, yet I was compelled to notate this new piece of information.

  I scribbled in my notebook. GR = Gemma Russo.

  When the bell rang, Jonah packed up his bag.

  “Ms. Witt?” he said. “Be more careful, will ya?”

  Norman Crowley

  What do you love?

  Bright Eyes, Reservoir Dogs, PB&J sandwiches, CS

  CS = Claudine Shepherd.

  I love her more than any of those other things. It’s not a pining, romantic-crush kind of love. It’s the kind of love you feel for someone who sees you as you really are.

  The part of my origin story that was missing was what happened after I dared to insult an editor. It didn’t end with the humiliation of that night. I became the primary punching bag for every dickhead at Stonebridge. Every prank you think you’ve heard of, I lived. My clothes were burned; my dorm room ransacked; my locker welded shut; I couldn’t take a shower in the gym without the risk of waterboarding or worse. I can’t say I was surprised when they pissed on my bed. But it did leave me with few sleeping options. I’m not an expert on the average urine volume per piss or the absorbent qualities of the average cut-rate mattress, but my guess is that the fluid in question was not single malt, if you will, but a blend. I asked Rupert if he could change my locks and get me a new mattress. The mattress, Rupert said, would take a couple of days.

  I thought about trying to go to a motel. I had some money stashed away, but I’ve heard they only book adults or people with credit cards. I went to the library after hours and hid under one of the large study desks until Ms. Shepherd left for the night. There’s even a bathroom in the library, which made my sleepover not only convenient but civilized. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and went to sleep on this old couch that was probably pretty gross but not damp. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in weeks. I should have set an alarm, but I didn’t have one. I didn’t even have a phone back then.

  Ms. Shepherd came in early the next morning and caught me. She asked me why I was sleeping in her library. I told the truth, that someone (not me) peed on my bed and it was too damp to sleep on.

  “That’s disgusting,” she said.

  “It is!” I said.

  “Who peed on your bed?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I think you have an idea,” she said.

  “Maybe, but I can’t prove it.”

  Shepherd sat down on the other end of the couch and said, “You don’t have to name names, but tell me what happened.”

  I told her the Nietzsche story.

  “Did you really call them knuckleheads?” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “What word did you use?” she said.

  I didn’t answer at first.

  “Norman, I’ve heard all the words,” she said.

  “I said douchebags, then megadouchebags.”

  “Excellent,” she said.

  “Huh.”

  “I think that was the right word or words for your bed-wetters. Get ready for class, Norman.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “No. But don’t sleep in my library without consulting with me first.”

  I braced myself for more trouble from the megadouchebags, but then another day or two passed, and then a week, and nothing happened. I never found out what Ms. Shepherd did, but I know she did something.

  These days, if I’m not in class, the dining hall, or asleep, I can usually be found in the library. Everyone has a story about Claudine Shepherd. The way she looks, the way she acts, it’s like she doesn’t belong here. People need to provide a narrative to explain her. I heard she used to date the drummer of Pearl Jam and that she briefly lived with a Colombian drug lord. I also heard she has a nipple ring. Another rumor involved a tattoo of butterfly wings across her entire back. What is true is that she lives in that big house that looks like a crumbling ski chalet on the east side, where all of the rich people live three months out of the year.

  The true things I know about Ms. Shepherd are kind of weird and at odds with how she comes across. She lives with her mother, who has some disease or dementia. I saw Ms. Shepherd off campus one day. This was before the whole library-sleeping incident. She was pushing an old woman in a wheelchair into the medical building where I see m
y shrink. Ms. Shepherd was dressed as always—the heels, the blouses that tie at the neck, and her shiny, shiny hair. The old lady wore a big flowered dress and so much jewelry, you got the feeling she never let it out of her sight.

  That day was weird, though. I don’t know how to explain it. It was like steam hovering over a cup of coffee, but over them instead. Ms. Shepherd never looked at me, didn’t speak to the lady, and had this look on her face. It wasn’t an expression but the absence of one, like it took everything in her power to stay in control.

  We never spoke about that day. Sometimes I wonder if she even saw me. Shepherd likes to keep things light. She treats me like a girlfriend, which I really don’t mind. She likes to gossip and talk trash, and, with a few exceptions, we like and dislike the same people.

  * * *

  —

  I was in the library one day in late September, when I heard Shepherd’s heels clicking closer. New Nick had just walked in, roamed the stacks briefly, and then left, looking disappointed or something.

  “What do we think of the new kid?” Ms. Shepherd whispered as she sat down next to me.

  I told her about the stupid origin story that he read in Witt’s class.

  “He said, ‘His Holiness had the softest hands I’d ever touched.’ ” Then I told her that Ms. Witt said, “Don’t sell yourself short. I bet you have some pretty soft hands.”

  Shepherd let out this deep, throaty laugh. It’s like the best laugh you’ve ever heard. Then she leaned in again, conspiratorially.

  “And what do we think of Ms. Witt?”

  “We like her,” I said.

  A minute later, Mel walked in. I guess I was looking at her for a while.

  “Norman, quit staring. It’s creepy. If you like her, you have to talk to her.”

  “It’s not like that,” I said.

  “Just be cool,” Claude said, as she returned to her desk.

  I’ve known Mel since we were kids. We grew up in the same town. I think we even took some art class together when we were like five. Since coming to Stonebridge, we’ve barely exchanged a word. It’s like we don’t know each other. But I do know her. Her old nervous habit of looping her hair around her finger looked violent now. I wanted to ask if she was all right but knew that would seem weird.

  I was about to leave when Gemma sauntered in. I saw Ms. Shepherd clock her arrival and scowl. Gemma sat down and talked to Mel, which was weird because I never saw them together. Also, the way they were talking was weird. They both looked like they had stiff necks or something. Gemma made me nervous. One time I saw her break into Byron Manor, where Dean Stinson lives. She entered through the back door empty-handed and left with a full backpack.

  After Gemma and Mel were done talking, Gemma casually roamed the aisles, like she was browsing in a shopping mall. Then she pulled a book off the shelf and shoved it in her book bag and walked right out of the library. I glanced at Ms. Shepherd to see if she noticed the theft. She did, and she didn’t say a thing.

  Then I turned back to Mel. She was talking to Enid, which made me feel better. I guess I was worried about Mel. She’d seemed off lately, kind of jumpy. I thought maybe I knew why. When I saw Mel’s scores posted in the Darkroom, I was gutted. I hated her for being so naïve. Or maybe I hated myself because of my role in this organization. I told myself I was a reluctant cog in the machine, and yet I was so vigilant about a breach that I assigned a new password every week, which was delivered to the editors in a self-destructing email. They all got off on the spycraft of our secret society and I was the gatekeeper of this douchebag regime.

  But this time, when I saw the breach, I didn’t batten the hatches; I opened the door.

  Gemma Russo

  Almost a month had passed since the photo of Kate Bush was first unleashed, but Tegan’s obsession with it had not diminished. Tegan couldn’t stop gaping at the photo, nor could she stop talking about it.

  “I didn’t think it was possible for a girl to have that much hair down there. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was wearing a merkin.”

  “What’s that?” Emelia asked.

  “It’s a wig for pubic hair,” Tegan said.

  “Why would anyone wear a wig on their Sally May?”

  I still haven’t gotten the entire etymology behind Emelia’s use of the southern name in lieu of vagina, but I think it vaguely relates to men naming their penises, even though I have never met a guy who does that.

  Tegan was apparently an expert on the merkin:

  “In the 1800s, prostitutes used to wear them. Sometimes they’d have to shave their pubes to control lice.”

  “Gross,” said Emelia.

  “Or they’d don a merkin to hide evidence of a venereal disease. Now sometimes actors wear them if they’re doing a period drama.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “For what?” said Tegan.

  “You’ve figured out your senior thesis project. Write what you know, they say.”

  Tegan ignored me and held up her phone with the picture on full display.

  “How could she get to the age of seventeen without doing anything down there? I mean, she’s on the verge of pubic dreads. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

  “You’re really being a dick,” I said.

  “Gemma’s right. That picture never should have gotten out,” said Emelia.

  Tegan returned her attention to her phone, but I could see that snaky vein pulsing in her forehead. Sometimes I feel like Tegan and I are vying for Emelia’s soul. It’s rare but so satisfying when Emelia levels mean-girl charges against her other BFF.

  My phone was buzzing. I didn’t dare look at it while I was in such tight quarters. I laced up my running shoes and said I was going to run some wind sprints.

  In case one of them was glancing out the window, I kicked it across the square a few times. It always eases the straitjacket feeling I get when I’m around Tegan too long. Coach Keith saw me from across the field and told me to relax my hands. I shook them loose and nodded at him. He started to shout more instructions about my form. I nodded agreeably. Then my phone buzzed again. When I retrieved it from my pocket, Coach scowled and walked away. He hates mobile phones. He says only Maxwell Smart should have a phone on him at all times. I have no idea who that is.

  Mel had sent two messages asking me to meet her at Tolkien Library. I crossed the square and headed inside.

  Shepherd was doing whatever it is that she does. She looked up at me and looked away. I could feel her eyes on my back as I strolled down the aisle. I found Mel ducked behind her computer in the reading nook. I was anticipating major progress. Mel looked up, annoyed. Her eyes were rimmed red and swollen into a double squint.

  “Looks like you got maced,” I said.

  “Allergies,” Mel said. “And, thank you.”

  “Have you talked to Kate?” I asked.

  “She’s not sure she can trust you,” Mel said.

  “Maybe you could vouch for me.”

  “Maybe,” said Mel.

  “Have you gotten anywhere with your assignment?” I said.

  We were doing that thing people do in spy movies, where you’re sitting next to someone, talking, but you never look at them. I think it works better on a park bench than on a library couch.

  “Not yet. It’s complicated,” Mel said. “Have you figured out Waffles yet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “How many waffle-loving Red Sox fans who hate blowjobs can there be in the senior class?” Mel said at full volume.

  “Shhh,” I said.

  I noticed Norman watching us from that corner of his. And then Enid came over to talk to Mel about some physics question. I didn’t linger, because Mel and I rarely talked during the school year and I was paranoid about looking conspiratorial. While Enid and Mel conversed abou
t projectile something (not vomiting), I checked out the computer section. There was a book called Hacking for Dummies. It seemed like something Mel ought to have, although I hoped she wouldn’t take offense. I shoved it in my backpack and left the library.

  * * *

  —

  I decided that Mel and I needed to start meeting in private. The next day, I sent her a text with very specific instructions.

  Gemma: Meet today at 4:00 p.m. at top-secret location.

  Directions: Take the southeast entrance to Headquarters. Use the stairwell on your left and follow it to the basement. Listen for jangling keys and make sure you weren’t followed. Abort plan if either is the case. Otherwise, walk to the end of the hall and knock on door B-43. Delete this message.

  Last year, while snooping around Headquarters, I found myself a nice corner office in the basement. It was just an extra storage room, but it was my storage room. I found the key, tidied it up, and made it my own. This is where I go when I need to get away. No one knows about it. I’m vigilant whenever I enter or exit the basement, and I always have a story and then a backup story in case I’m questioned.

  It’s a pretty cool setup. A threadbare couch from an earlier generation’s lounge sits next to a shelf that I’ve packed with books. There’s a lamp I use for reading. I have an electric kettle and a drawer loaded with snacks, tea, and coffee. There’s an old green chalkboard that I can slide in front of the door, in case any of the staff decides to take a glance inside. It’s been over a year now and I’ve kept the place to myself. I would have preferred to keep it that way. But I couldn’t risk being seen in public with Mel, especially since she wasn’t particularly adept at subterfuge.