by Lisa Lutz
Kate was younger than the rest of the class. She’d just turned sixteen. I told the editors to take the photos down. I suggested it was child pornography and could potentially get us in a load of legal trouble. Mick Devlin said he’d call his father and check. I really wish I had a recording of that phone call.
Mick got back to me right away and told me to cool my jets. Sixteen is legit and Vermont has notoriously lenient pornography laws. Yay, Vermont. Good for you. I went over his head and told Jack Vandenberg we were playing with fire. Jack instructed me to take down the photos. I got some backlash from some of the heavy Darkroom users—a few guys wrote scrooge, prude, pussy, on the message board outside my dorm room, but Adam and Jack came to my defense. I remember Adam patting me on my back like we were old chums and saying, “Don’t worry, we got your back.”
I smiled and said thanks. God, I was a pussy. If I could fight I would have punched him. But this was all I had.
It was decided. The photos came down. I really thought that the modification would put a dent in the Darkroom activity. I was wrong. Without pictures, those dickheads had to use their words. You’d think it would be less disgusting. You’d be wrong. It was basically a wash.
I don’t think Mel saw it that way. It had been more than a week since I sent the second anonymous message, which was basically an instruction manual on how to break into the Darkroom. After the photos came down, Mel replied to Bill Haydon’s message, requesting a private meeting. I ignored her; Bill Haydon had done enough. A day later, Mel sent a message directly to me.
To: Norman Crowley
From: Mel Eastman
Re: we need to talk
Meet me at Mo’s at 4:00 p.m. sharp. And please convey my gratitude to Bill.
Damn. I should have known Mel would figure it out. I also should have known that she wouldn’t just accept the gift and move on. If you gave Mel an inch, she’d take a football field.
I skipped cross-country practice and went into town. Mel was alone in the back of Mo’s. She offered me a fresh cup of coffee and placed a paper plate with Oreos between us. I sat in one of those old student desks. Mel looked tired and a little crazy. Like those gamers who stay up all night jacked on energy drinks and Adderall.
“How did you know?” I said.
“Bill Haydon? Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy? You were on a le Carré kick all last year.”
I drank the coffee and remained silent. Anything I might say could be used against me somewhere, sometime.
“Why did you take the pictures down?” Mel said.
“I didn’t put them up. I didn’t even look at them.”
“You looked at a few,” she said.
I looked at my feet.
“You let me into the Darkroom,” Mel said. “You wanted me to see it. Right, Norman?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said.
She put her hand on my arm and said thank you again. I nodded.
“Why did the pictures come down? They don’t know that I’m in, right?”
“No. They don’t know anything yet. They’ve been paranoid lately. Technically some of the pictures are child porn.”
“Right,” said Mel. “So it’s just a coincidence that they took down the photos a few days after I got in?”
“Yes,” I said.
Mel reached into her backpack, pulled out a notebook, and leafed through it.
“Who are LennyBro, mADSKILLz, and TonyStarx? And why are there so many Hefs? I assume it’s a Hugh Hefner reference?”
I nodded. She knew too much. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. If Mel wanted to, she could ruin me.
“Let’s talk about the birds,” she said. “There are only four types of birds, right?”
“Mel, please don’t tell them what I did.”
“I’ll never rat you out, Norman. Not ever.”
“Really?”
“I promise. Back to the birds,” she said.
“There are five birds,” I said.
“Hawk, loon, sparrow, owl,” Mel said, consulting her notes.
“There’s another bird. Look for that one.”
Mel searched through her notes.
“I don’t see any other bird,” she said.
“Keep looking.”
I could have told her more, but if she found it on her own I had plausible deniability.
“Can I ask you something, Norman?”
“All you’re doing is asking me things,” I said.
“It’s a different kind of question.”
“Okay.”
She started to say something but stopped. She removed her glasses and wiped the lens with the bottom of her shirt. She held them up to the light. They were still filthy. She sighed, gave up, and put them back on.
“When I look at what the editors have written about us, I have to wonder how they see us. Do you know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“Like, are we even human?”
Announcements
Good morning, students of Stone. It is Thursday, November 12, 2009, which means tomorrow is Friday the 13th.
Here’s a little trivia for you: Triskaidekaphobia is the scientific term for fear of the number 13. It’s all hogwash if you ask me.
We’re expecting another sunny day, with a brisk breeze and maybe a few high clouds. For lunch today, you have a choice between pizza à la king or a bulgur-and-Tofurky meatloaf. Interesting.
Let’s talk about the elephant in the school. We have a lice outbreak, I’m sad to report. Housekeeping asks that you put all your sheets in plastic bags. Laundry should also be put in tied plastic bags. I believe it suffocates the lice. Fresh sheets will be supplied once you confirm your delousing. You can pick up a supply of RID at the main office. Please check out my Facebook page for more information on lice eradication and prevention…Well, I am sorry to hear that. You know there’s a suggestion box.
What was I saying before I was interrupted? You need to suffocate the lice. Ah, okay. I’m being told to cut it short today.
Last business: All students who plan to remain on campus for the Thanksgiving holiday must give notice by next Monday to admin. That’s all, folks.
Ms. Witt
There wasn’t just a light drizzle outside. It was biblical. It had been pouring rain for three days. I even went into town and bought a pair of rain boots.
When Wainwright started in on the lunch menu forecast, I raced out of my classroom, through the hall, and down the stairs to admin.
“Ms. Pinsky, where’s Wainwright?”
“I have no idea,” she said, refusing to make eye contact.
“You too?” I said.
I was done with this game. I stalked the first floor of admin, shouting at the top of my lungs.
“Wainwright. I need to talk to Wainwright!”
A few instructors opened their doors and asked me to keep it down, but I kept going until Greg emerged from his office.
“Where is Wainwright? I will not return to my classroom until I see him,” I said.
Greg just ticked his head in the direction of a door behind the stairwell.
There was a placard that said ELECTRICITY ROOM, DO NOT ENTER. I put my ear to the wall and heard Wainwright’s distinct drone. I turned the knob and swung open the door.
Rupert, the groundskeeper, sat in a small room—more like a closet—behind a desk with a tube microphone just below his chin.
“…for more information on lice eradication and prevention…”
He looked up and tried to shoo me away.
“You’re Wainwright,” I said.
“Excuse me,” Rupert said, covering the mic. “Can I help you?”
“Look outside, Rupert. It’s raining!”
Th
e room had no windows, which undercut my argument.
“Is it?” he said.
“You always get the weather wrong.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. Then he dropped into a whisper: “Got to get back to the show.”
Rupert said something about a suggestion box and I left.
My class was in stitches when I returned.
“Ms. Witt,” said Adam, “you look disappointed.”
“When an entire institution manages to keep a secret, you kind of expect it to be earth-shattering.”
“Come on,” said Amy Logan. “You were a little surprised, right?”
I shrugged. “I still don’t get it.”
Later, during my office hours, Jonah gave me his take on the Wainwright conspiracy of silence.
“What you have to know is that just about everyone likes Rupert. Other than the two or three kids each year who want to join the A/V Club. Also, you want to stay on Rupert’s good side, because if you lose your keys, you’re screwed without him. Anyway, Rupert’s secret identity is what he needs to feel special or something. Every year there’s someone who doesn’t know, and it’s fun to let Rupert have that win. I like it because it’s the only time I think we’re all together on something, you know? There are so many bullshit secrets at this school. It feels like a good secret to keep. It makes someone happy.”
* * *
—
It wouldn’t stop raining. The mud was so thick it felt like I was walking on a giant piece of chewed-up gum. After my boggy commute home, I fed the generator one more time and left my boots right inside the front door. I performed my usual sweep of the cabin, searching for electronic devices and double-checking the foil seal on the windows. Once satisfied that I was safe from any observation, I changed into my pajamas and crawled under the covers. The rain on the tin roof was deafening, and a musty, moldy smell overpowered the cabin. I had to admit that living here was not a sustainable option. And yet I remained resolute about not residing in student housing.
That was the third or fourth time I thought about quitting.
That night, I graded papers. It was a two-part assignment. The first part was eavesdropping on a conversation and transcribing it. After that, my students would take the real dialogue and make it interesting. I have no idea what Gabriel Smythe was thinking. He took a scene from The Dark Knight as his “found” dialogue and rewrote it in pig Latin. I’mway otnay away onstermay. I fell asleep. I must have slept hard. The relentless rain had the effect of a white-noise machine, lulling me into a deeper and deeper slumber. I even slept through the sound of water as it breached the crack in the doorway and quickly flooded the room. But it wasn’t the sound of my home becoming a river that woke me; it was several loud thuds on the door.
When I finally came to, I thought I was in a dream. Papers, shoes, and several pens floated around me.
“Alex! Alex! Wake up.”
It was Coach Keith’s voice. There was about a foot of brown water surrounding my bed, which was the only safe island in the room.
“I can’t come to the door right now,” I said.
“Are you okay?” Keith said through the door.
“I’m not drowning, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Mind if I come in?”
“It’s locked. And I don’t know if I can get to the door.”
“Not a problem.”
Keith unlocked the door and entered the cottage, wearing Wellingtons and an anorak. He resembled a young Greg.
“You have a key,” I said.
“Rupert is on his way with sandbags,” he said, wading over to my bed.
“How’d you get a key?”
“I had a key,” he said. “I used to stay here sometimes.”
Coach Keith turned around, offered up his back, and said, “Hop on.”
He gave me a piggyback ride out of the cabin, grabbing my rain boots on the way out. He carried me up a hill and set me down under the awning of a Douglas fir. The sun was rising as the rain was beginning to abate.
“Shit. My phone is inside,” I said. “It’s on the table. My clothes are in there too. And there might be a dry jacket in the closet.”
“Be right back.”
While Keith was salvaging my personal items, I had a sudden revelation.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You are the note-leaving nutjob,” I said, aggressively pointing at him when he returned with my belongings.
“I think informant might be a better term,” Keith said, delivering my phone and the wrong jacket.
“Why?” I said.
“It sounds better than nutjob. Isn’t that obvious?”
“No. Why have you been leaving me notes?”
“I wanted to point you in the right direction. There’s something wrong with Stonebridge,” Keith said.
“I figured that out already!” I said.
“Good. Now you can do something.”
“Why don’t you do something?” I said.
“Because I can’t. The students here don’t like it when you fuck with the status quo. Four teachers before you had to resign under questionable circumstances. Mason Roberts, computer science, went to the dean about a disturbing website he saw. The next thing I heard, he was accused of inappropriate physical contact by five different boys. Faith Cooke, calculus and carpentry, resigned after two years and never taught again. I don’t know if anything happened there, but it did seem odd since she was only thirty-five. And I think you know about Mary Whitehall. And then there was a chem teacher four years ago—I can’t remember his name; he walked out in the middle of class, drove away, and never came back.”
“So, what am I supposed to do?” I said.
“I think you’re on the right track, for what it’s worth. The kids have to crumble this bullshit from the inside. If the girls revolt, the entire school culture will change.”
I shoved my feet into my waterlogged boots. I cringed from the sensation.
“You should have warned me about the brownie. I ate it all in one sitting.”
“Who gives one brownie as a housewarming gift? You give a plate of brownies. One brownie means it’s special.”
“That’s not something everybody knows.”
“I think it is,” he said.
Keith hadn’t been able to salvage anything else. My clothes were in cubbyholes under the flood line. Keith told me there was a room where they kept extra uniforms.
We crossed paths with Linny on our way back to campus.
“Go eat breakfast,” Keith said. “And make sure you’re in the gym for PE today. I think we’ll do suicides.”
Linny squinted, like a bad guy in a Western, and toggled her gaze between Keith and me.
“Your vacation is over,” Keith said to Linny.
“Goddamn it,” Linny said.
She stomped off toward Dahl.
“She knew you wrote the notes, didn’t she?” I said.
“Yeah. She’s been blackmailing me for two months.”
Keith took me to a large room in the basement of Beckett Gym, which had a giant mound of mismatched clothes and two racks of boys’ and girls’ uniforms. Keith pulled a plaid skirt off the rack.
“This should fit,” he said.
“Dream on,” I said.
Keith left me to piece together an outfit for the day. I found a pair of boys’ trousers that were too big in the waist and too tight in the ass. I belted them with a tie, threw on a large white shirt and a navy-blue cardigan. I kicked off my rain boots for fear of trench foot and plucked mismatched socks and sneakers from the lost and found.
I arrived early to room 203, which was preferable to making a grand entrance in my ridiculous ensemble. As my students filed in, I got a few sidelong glances. Once the entire class had arrived, they were in full-blown
hysterics. I took a bow and explained my housing and clothing crisis.
“Call me crazy,” Adam Westlake said. “But you’re somehow making it work.”
“Would you mind terribly if I took a picture?” Tegan said.
“No pictures,” I said.
“You look like an escaped mental patient,” Gemma said.
“Oh my God, it’s Friday the thirteenth,” Bethany Wiseman said. “You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”
Jonah was laughing so hard, I thought he might be sick.
“If you don’t stop laughing, I’m going to send you to the nurse’s office,” I said.
I felt like an exotic creature on display at the zoo. There were several random visitors that morning, all trying to get a glimpse of me. Keith, when he dropped by a few hours later, didn’t say a thing about my look.
“I took some of your drowned clothes and sent them to the laundry. They should be ready at the end of the day,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No problem.”
“We’re done with the note business, right? If you have something to tell me, you’ll just tell me,” I said.
“Yep.”
“I don’t understand why you’ve stayed here so long.”
“It’s home,” he said.
“There are other homes,” I said. “This one isn’t so great.”
“Now you’re insulting my home,” he said.
“That was not my intention.”
“I know this place is messed up, but I think it’s worth trying to salvage.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Greg wants to see you at lunch. You need to discuss alternative living arrangements.”
* * *
—
