The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  I was going to have to tell someone eventually, if it was true. I thought Claude might have some advice.

  “I think a student came by Finn’s apartment in the middle of the night.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Claude said.

  Then she picked up her phone and began texting.

  “Please don’t—”

  “Relax,” Claude said. “I’m confirming my own suspicion.”

  My phone buzzed. Finn again.

  Finn: That was Martha.

  Finn: Did you really think…?

  I wrote back.

  Witt: Sorry.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said to Claude.

  “Now you know,” said Claude. “Although being desperate enough to screw Primm isn’t exactly a winning trait in a man.”

  The news did little to assuage my overall discomfort.

  “What’s the problem, Witt?” Claude said.

  “I have a bad feeling. There’s something going on at this school that isn’t kosher.”

  “I think that’s safe to say about any institution,” Claude said.

  “Do you know about the blowjob contest?”

  “I suppose I’ve overheard some chatter,” Claude said casually.

  “It doesn’t worry you?” I said.

  “Inappropriate behavior, boundary pushing. Isn’t that all part of adolescence?”

  “The boys are ranking and reviewing the girls’ sexual performance on a secret website,” I said.

  “Would you be surprised if they shared that same information in a locker room? The only difference is that they’re writing it down.”

  “I think it’s more problematic than—”

  Claude stopped paying attention. She looked at her phone and her expression flattened. She took a sharp inhale.

  “Everything okay?”

  “My mother had another fall,” Claude said. “I have to go.”

  “Anything I can do?” I said.

  “Nothing that’s legal.”

  * * *

  —

  As I walked up the main drive to campus, I spotted Alyson Mosby, a student from my second-period class, standing at the front gate with at least five pieces of luggage. Her head was down, and she was staring at her phone.

  “Alyson. What are you doing?” I said. “Are you taking a holiday in the middle of term?”

  When she looked up, her expression was stolid but her cheeks ruddy from crying.

  “Hey, Ms. Witt. No. I’m going home.”

  “For how long?” I said.

  “Forever,” said Alyson. “I mean, until college.”

  “You’re leaving Stonebridge?” I said.

  A black sedan pulled in front of the security gate. A man in a suit circled the car and confirmed that Alyson was his passenger. He popped the trunk and began loading her luggage.

  I heard a girl shouting from a distance, “Wait. Wait up, Alyson.”

  I turned and saw Linny hurtling toward us. She was carrying a paper bag in her right hand and something wrapped in a napkin in the other. Alyson shut the door and rolled down the window.

  Linny delivered the napkin item first. “Here’s a waffle for the road.”

  “Thank you,” said Alyson.

  Linny offered the next item, which had a neck and was contained in a paper bag. It was better if I didn’t know.

  “This is a goodbye gift from all of us,” said Linny. “Fac fortia et patere.”

  “Huh?” said Alyson.

  “Do brave deeds and endure,” Linny said.

  “Back atcha. Let’s go,” Alyson said to the driver.

  The window rolled up. The car disappeared down the main drive.

  “Why did you give Alyson a waffle?” I said.

  “Because she loves waffles,” said Linny.

  Something tripped in my memory bank.

  “Is she also a Red Sox fan?” I asked.

  Linny gave me a sidelong glance.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Waffles and Red Sox. I had been pulling allies only from my senior thesis class. A paper must have gotten misfiled. The ally I had mistakenly given Gemma appeared to be the next victim of the Darkroom. I asked Linny where I could find Gemma.

  “How would I know?” Linny said.

  There was an odd tough-guy cadence to her delivery, which confirmed that she was lying. I didn’t have the energy to negotiate. I offered Linny five dollars.

  “I need to talk to Gemma. Can you take me to her?”

  “Follow me,” Linny said, pocketing the cash.

  Gemma Russo

  Three hours after Alyson opened the box, she sent a farewell text to Kate, saying that she was dropping out of Stonebridge. She wished us all the best on our mission.

  We all sent a flurry of texts, begging for an explanation. When an hour passed with no reply, Kate was sent on a reconnaissance mission.

  Mel and I waited impatiently for Kate’s return.

  Our waiting styles, I learned, are incompatible. Mel paced and chomped on things. I stretched out on my couch and tried to chill. I put my earbuds in and blasted Pinback.

  “What are you listening to?” Mel said.

  I pretended that the music was drowning out her voice, but she was too agitated to pick up on any social cues.

  “Do you have speakers? Why don’t you have an audio system?” Mel said.

  I didn’t remind Mel that we shouldn’t be blasting music in a secret office, because I was still pretending I couldn’t hear her. I really could have used some alone time right then.

  Kate returned. The second she walked in the door, I knew we’d lost. At least the Waffles/Red Sox battle.

  “She’s leaving. I can’t talk her out of it,” Kate said, shaking her head.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “What was on that drive?” said Mel. “Pictures?”

  “Worse,” said Kate. “Mike had made a video of them doing it. And then he bequeathed a file of the video to the editors upon graduation.”

  “Did Alyson know the file existed?” I said.

  “No. He filmed her in secret,” said Kate.

  “Douchebag,” said Mel.

  “She could go to the police,” I said. “She could destroy him. She was, what, fifteen when that tape was made? We could probably get the police to investigate. I mean, isn’t there some law against distribution of child pornography?”

  I was getting amped at the prospect of a takedown on a much larger scale.

  “Gemma, get over yourself. No one is going to the police,” said Kate.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Because she doesn’t want to,” Kate said, in that slow-talking way you communicate with annoying children.

  “Did you even try to convince her?” I said, picking up my phone. “Let me talk to her.”

  “Stop,” Kate said. “Think. Think it all the way through. She goes to the cops. Wait—no. She has to go to her parents first and tell them. She has to show her parents the sex tape. Then, what, they go to the police? The police need to see the evidence. So then a bunch of male police officers are watching her have sex. Then the police have to consult with prosecutors about pressing charges. More people watch the tape. So, the only way to get justice is to endure one humiliation after the next. She’s sixteen. Let her get on with her life.”

  “If everyone stayed silent—” I started.

  “Shut up, Gemma. You don’t know what it’s like to have people look at you that way, like…like they have a piece of you. And what do you care, anyway? Why is this your fight?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t have a good answer. I could pretend that my quest to bring down the Darkroom was entirely born out of moral outrage, that I was defending my big si
ster, Christine, or the dignity of all women, but the truth was that I started this fight just to have a fight. But then it became something different. It’s part of me now. I talk a lot of shit about Stonebridge, but I love this place. Stonebridge saved me. I wanted to save it.

  “Do you have any alcohol or weed?” Mel said. “The tension is killing me.”

  “There’s some vodka in my desk drawer,” I said.

  Mel rummaged through my desk. “There’s no vodka. Where else could it be?”

  “There’s a pint of Absolut in a paper bag,” I said.

  Then Kate started looking through my desk.

  “You must have misplaced it,” said Kate.

  “I don’t misplace vodka,” I said, as I began to search the drawers. “Where is it?”

  I don’t remember hearing a key in the door. The next thing I knew, Linny entered the office, followed by Ms. Witt.

  Mel, Kate, and I froze in place like we were in the middle of a larcenous act.

  “Ms. Witt insisted on seeing you,” Linny said casually.

  “What is this place?” said Ms. Witt.

  “Headquarters,” said Linny.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  It felt like everyone in the room needed an explanation for something, except maybe Linny.

  “Why is Alyson leaving?” said Witt.

  “Speaking of leaving,” said Mel. “We have to be at the thing. Right, Kate?”

  Mel was yanking Kate by her sweatshirt.

  “Don’t leave on my account,” said Witt.

  “She knows,” I said to Mel and Kate.

  “Knows what?” said Kate.

  “I know about the Darkroom and the idiotic blowjob contest,” Witt said. “And I just ran into Alyson. What happened?”

  Ms. Witt settled in on the couch. Linny offered her a cup of coffee. Mel and Kate made to leave again, but Witt started talking about how she gave me the wrong Q&A. Mel and Kate wanted to know what Ms. Witt was talking about and then I had to tell them that I hadn’t stolen the assignments; Witt had given them to me. I think I lost some street cred with that confession. Ms. Witt, on the other hand, gained some.

  Mel and Kate ended up sticking around, giving Ms. Witt a rundown of the last twenty-four hours.

  Ms. Witt closed her eyes and mumbled, “It really is the Bada Bing Club.”

  Linny said, “What’s the Bada Bing Club?”

  “The boys don’t know about your conspiracy, right?” Witt said.

  “Conspiracy,” Mel said. “I love that word.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “The editors have noticed that the girls are more suspicious, that we’ve been talking. They’re trying to quiet the ones they think are the most vocal against Dulcinea. But I don’t think they know that we’re working together.”

  I made that statement convincingly, though I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. But unless we had a mole, I didn’t see how the boys could’ve figured out there was a faction of girls working to bring them down.

  “You know what I don’t get,” said Witt. “How are there enough blowjobs going on at this place to justify creating a contest around them?”

  “Stonebridge didn’t invent giving head,” said Kate.

  “I know. But it does seem weirdly pervasive,” said Witt.

  “Sometimes you just want to hook up. We can’t all wait until we’re in love,” Mel said.

  “But there are other sexual acts, and a blowjob only gives the guy pleasure. And if you’re going to pleasure someone, they ought to be worthy of it. I would be far less baffled if everyone was just screwing. But it’s so one-sided.”

  “They expect it,” I said.

  “Who cares what they expect?” Witt said.

  “Sometimes it’s easier than sex,” said Kate. “Like you feel like you’re in control.”

  “Does it really feel that way?” Witt said.

  Kate shrugged.

  “Well, if you’re choosing to give oral, you don’t have to have regular sex,” Mel mumbled.

  “You don’t have to have any sex at all,” Witt said loudly.

  “We know that,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not judging. I just want to understand the logic of it, you know?” said Witt.

  “Logic isn’t really part of sex,” said Mel.

  “It could be,” said Kate.

  “You’re right,” Witt said, as her eyes darted about the room.

  Witt approached the old green chalkboard. “Do you have any chalk?”

  Linny found a couple of pieces in the desk and passed them to Witt.

  “Turn around so you can see the board,” Witt said.

  Mel, Kate, Linny, and I reconfigured our space so we had a full view of the chalkboard. Witt scribbled the question Should you blow him? at the top. We laughed. I don’t think Witt thought it was funny.

  “Let’s start with a very simple question,” Witt said. “Do you want to? Is this something you really want to do? If not, then no.”

  Witt wrote the question on the board along with a swooping arrow that led to a giant NO in the bottom-right corner.

  “Second question,” Witt said. “Are you sure?” The small no below the question led back to the giant end NO.

  “What if the answer is yes?” said Linny.

  “Okay,” said Witt. “If yes, then let’s ask another question. Has he gone down on you? If not, no. If the answer is yes, how many times?”

  Sometimes Kate or Mel or I would add a question. Most answers led back to NO. Ms. Witt made sexual choices seem so simple, like basic math.

  When she was done, she put down the chalk, dusted herself off, and said, “Any questions?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Lesson over,” Witt said.

  After Ms. Witt departed, Mel stood in front of the chalkboard, scrutinizing the flowchart.

  “Can you read her writing?” Mel said.

  “Not if I didn’t already know what she’d written,” Kate said.

  “We should make a copy,” I said.

  Linny had already found a sketch pad and began redrawing the flowchart in a legible script. When she was done, she held up the sketch pad proudly.

  “What should we call it?” said Kate.

  “A blowchart,” I said.

  Announcements

  Good morning, students of Stone. Wainwright here to wish you a happy Monday, October 12, 2009. Today will be a breezy sixty degrees. Lunch today is a choice between mushroom-and-bulgur loaf or pasta Bolognese with a green salad on the side.

  Is anyone here on Facebook? I have ten friends so far and counting. There’s also a Wainwright fan page, where I will be posting the transcripts of announcements for those who missed them or for personal reference. What?

  I have a note that I am supposed to read from our nurse, Ms. Hanning. Ahem.

  There has been an unusual uptick in cases of poison oak. If you have a new rash, please wash all clothes that have come in contact with the rash and use soap and water on your skin. Ms. Hanning has extra bottles of calamine lotion if the commissary has run out. Should you have an extreme allergic reaction—if your eyes swell up or you have trouble breathing—please call 911. Calamine lotion is for topical use only.

  That’s all, folks; don’t forget to check out my Facebook page. I have pictures of poison-oak rashes, for those who are interested.

  One more thing. The suggestion box is for suggestions written on paper. It is not a trash can. That should be obvious, considering the slot is just a half-inch thick and the box doesn’t look like a trash can and it says suggestion box right on it. The next time I find a banana peel inside, we’ll eliminate our suggestion program.

  Gemma Russo

  Ms. Witt, pacing in a pair of thick wool socks, was deliveri
ng one of her very rare lectures.

  “When you write fiction, you’re creating your own universe. There are no rules. Write whatever you want to write; structure it however you see fit. You live in a world where virtually everything is out of your control. You cannot predict anything that will come next. As you get older, you will see how often the universe can disappoint, alarm, or undermine you. Fiction can reflect all of that, but here’s what’s important: When you write, every word is of your choosing. You own that world. You can turn it upside down, send it into space, deliver it into the ice age. You are the god of the page. So enjoy the one thing in your life you can lord over.”

  “What happened to your shoes, Ms. Witt?” Adam Westlake said.

  “Rupert confiscated them at the door because they were covered in mud.”

  “Maybe you should invest in a pair of rain boots,” said Mick.

  “Would you stop scratching?” Tegan said to Gabe, who, along with a dozen or so boys in Dickens, had gotten a bad case of poison oak. We still had no idea about the identity of our avenger. But she was escalating.

  Norman, Jonah, and Adam were spared. Was it by design or just luck? Ms. Witt walked over to the window and gazed outside. There was a steady flow of rain and the skies were gray.

  “Wainwright said it would be clear and in the sixties today,” she said.

  “Gotta love that man,” Adam said.

  “Do you?” Witt said, returning her attention to the classroom.

  She asked again about Wainwright’s identity.

  “You already know who he is,” Adam said, trying to sound like a sage or Yoda.

  Ms. Witt rolled her eyes and said, “I give up.” Then she switched topics.

  “Several of you are now more than three weeks late with your senior thesis proposal. I’m trying to be reasonable here, but if I don’t have a thesis statement and an opening chapter, scene, stanza—but, please, no epic poems—by the end of the week, there will be a price to pay.”

  “Like what?” said Nick Laughlin. “Will you leave pebbles in our shoes or make us sleep on the floor?”

  By now that essay about Witt’s mother, “The Cruel Muse,” had made the rounds on campus. I had read it a few months ago, when Greg first told me about her impending arrival.