by Lisa Lutz
“What’s this?” Linny said.
“A token of my appreciation for your impressive work as the shower terrorist.”
“A cupcake?”
“It’s your favorite, right?”
“Thanks,” she said, deadpan.
What did she want, a parade? We were busy. We had a mission that was time sensitive. If I had been smart, I would have dispatched Linny with various duties just to keep her occupied. Instead, I told her to keep her head down. I didn’t want her association with me on the editors’ radar. I told her to keep her distance from my team until we’d finished phase one of our plan.
“But I’m on your team,” Linny said.
“You’re right. But your job is to pretend you’re not.”
* * *
—
Back on campus, I crossed paths with Tegan, aka 4Swallow202. She looked like she’d been hit with the flu. It was the first time I felt sorry for her. Really sorry.
One hour until summit, I was back in the dorm with Emelia. Tegan was AWOL. Em had changed into street clothes. I asked her where she was going. She said that she and Nick were hanging out. She said they had texted throughout the entire holiday. Things were getting serious, she said, as she reapplied lip gloss, the color of watered-down blood. I asked Emelia whether she had any plans to screw Nick in the next week or so. She said no. I asked her to keep me posted. She asked me why I was being weird. I said no reason. I wanted to tell her that Nick Laughlin had entered scorecards for Hannah Rexall and Rachel Rose, but it went against Ms. Witt’s no-shaming directive. If I’d thought Emelia was actually going to blow Nick, I would have intervened.
I left early for the summit at Keats. When I arrived, Mel and Kate were already there, biting their nails in anticipation.
* * *
—
It wasn’t how we thought it would be, standing in front of our classmates, watching, as they adjusted to this new version of a world they thought they understood. To see their intimate acts judged and criticized, like a gymnastics routine, went far beyond your average betrayal. The game screwed with how you saw yourself. You weren’t just a patsy; you were a slut.
Their reactions were as varied as their scores.
Sandra: Is this a joke?
Amy: I don’t know what I’m looking at.
Tegan: Where did you get this?
Hannah: What are the other scores like?
After the first flurry of questions, there was chaos, like at a hostile city-council meeting, everyone shouting over everyone else. And no one understanding a single word. I stood on top of the teacher’s desk, trying to quiet the frenzy.
Mel pulled out a whistle from her pocket and blew hard. The fact that she had the foresight to bring a whistle impressed me. The sharp sound pierced the fury and everyone quieted down.
“We didn’t do this to humiliate anyone,” I said, feeling like a street preacher on an impromptu soapbox. “We thought you had a right to know what was being said about you. If you think it’s love, affection, or even respect, you’re a fool. The winner of the Dulcinea Award wins nothing. She is celebrated for one thing and one thing only. At least a prostitute gets some money when it’s over. What does the winner of the Dulcinea Award get? If you’re okay with this sad Stonebridge tradition, we won’t judge you. If you want to fight back, if you want to help us shut down not just the Dulcinea contest but the Darkroom and the culture at this school that objectifies, uses, and exploits us, then stay. Because we have some ideas.”
I sat down on the desk as Mel, Kate, and I waited to see what they would do. They murmured in clusters, occasionally parting with one assembly and entering another. At some point, Amy Logan made her way over to me; it looked like she was cutting out.
She handed over her card: 4Swallow112.
“I admire what you’re doing here, but this isn’t me. 4Swallow112 is someone else.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never sucked dick in my life, and I don’t plan on it,” Amy said.
I thought about my fake entry. “Some of them are fake,” I said. “They’re just the guys being—”
“Maybe, but I’d think one of those assholes would be a little more accurate with his details. Whoever wrote this shit references a long, shiny ponytail, see?” she said, holding up the card. “He likes to grab it when…you know.”
“You’re right,” I said, taking the card.
We were so busy decoding names and copying data that we forgot that the coded names were human beings. Just like the guys did.
“Good luck here,” Amy said. “It’s about time. If you need anything, within reason, let me know.”
“Just don’t tell anyone,” I said.
“Not a word,” Amy said.
The chatter quieted down. I saw a few tears slide down pale cheeks and some hands close into white-knuckled fists. Tegan stepped forward, keeping her composure as cold and as solid as a frozen steak.
“What’s the plan?” she said.
“I’m glad you asked,” I said. “Phase one: business as usual.”
“With a twist,” Mel added.
Ms. Witt
The girls took their time. They were cautious. They had a plan. I thought it was a good one. What other choice did they have? Another misguided seminar on sexual harassment or an “investigation” by Ms. Primm? Dulcinea and the Darkroom and all the other bullshit had to be brought to light.
“When the word gets out, I won’t just have a few allies anymore. I’ll have an army,” Gemma said.
An army. The word sticks out now. Back then it sounded like bravado, something girls her age appeared to be lacking.
Gemma said they would empower their classmates with the truth. If every girl knew the gritty details of the contest, how could they go on being unwitting participants? Gemma, Kate, and Mel had done their job. I began to question whether I had done mine.
I read Finn’s book. Mr. Finch. He mangled the truth just enough to call it fiction, but there was no way he could claim plausible deniability. His imaginary school, Wingate Academy, had its own sex games, code names, and wildly inappropriate teacher-student relationships. The novel indulged in Zodiac-like cryptology, which was how the illicit paramours communicated with one another. To his credit, he much improved upon the Stonebridge ciphers.
One of the novel’s main characters was a befuddled headmaster who could walk into a sex den and remain utterly clueless as coeds screwed beneath the sheets. The primary conflict in Mr. Finch revolved around the murder of a PE teacher. And the Finn stand-in, the titular Mr. Finch, was so busy fending off the advances of sexually adventurous girls that he went slightly mad at the end.
While Finn’s book had many departures from the Stonebridge story, one thing was clear: He knew. And if Finn knew, others did too. I just had to find out who.
A week had passed since the end of Thanksgiving break, and Claude hadn’t yet returned to Stonebridge. I sent her a text to check in and she suggested I meet her at Hemingway’s.
I locked up my classroom and headed into town.
Hemingway’s was empty except for an old man at a table and Claude at the bar with Hugh. I greeted her with a quick hug. She had the sweet-and-sour odor of someone in the midst of drinking who’s still metabolizing her last hangover.
“I’ve had a head start. You should catch up,” Claude said.
I ordered a beer. Claude tipped back the rest of her bourbon and tapped the bar for another.
“Maybe you want to slow down,” Hugh said.
“Maybe you want to pour faster,” Claude said.
It had only been two weeks since I last saw her, but something was different. I couldn’t place it. Everything was as impeccable as usual. But I had the sense that her clothes and makeup were more camouflage than an expression of style.
“How�
�ve you been?” I said.
“Alex, I don’t need another human sympathy card. Just drink your beer and relax.”
I chugged a third of the pint and started to talk. Claude pointed to my beer and said, “Finish it.”
Claude wouldn’t speak another word until I did. With one beer down, Hugh delivered another pint. Claude raised an eyebrow, as if she were waiting for me to demolish the second beer.
“No, Claude. I’m drinking this one on my own time.”
“You’re not as fun as I’d hoped you’d be,” Claude said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“That’s okay,” she said. “No one is.”
“So, are you coming back to Stonebridge?”
“Of course,” Claude said. “What else would I do?”
“I thought maybe you’d sell the house and take a long vacation.”
Claude smiled. At least the mechanics of the expression looked like a smile. It didn’t feel like one.
“Maybe later. I need to finish out the year,” she said.
She slid her empty glass forward and tapped it lightly. Hugh poured a stingy shot.
“So, Witt, what have you been up to?” she said. “Did you and Finn ever hook up again?”
“No. But I did read his book.”
“You get that there’s no equivalency to those two acts, right?” Claude said.
“I do,” I said.
“So, how was it?”
“It was derivative.”
“We’re talking about the book, right?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t most novels?” Claude said.
“In the broadest sense, sure. But Finn’s novel borrows extensively from Stonebridge. There’s a whole story line about a contest just like the Dulcinea Award.”
“Dulcinea?” said Claude. “What’s that?”
“You know. The blowjob contest.”
“It’s called Dulcinea? That’s so odd,” Claude said.
She seemed more disturbed by the name than the nature of the award.
“Why hasn’t anyone tried to stop it?” I said.
“How? News flash: Teenagers have sex with each other,” Claude said.
“It’s not normal, Claude. It’s so…organized. The boys manufacture relationships in order to enroll unwitting participants.”
“Look, Alex, I get it. You’re a feminist and it looks bad,” Claude said. “But they’re still better off than we were at their age.”
“I disagree,” I said. “But I won’t belabor the subject.”
“Are you sure this isn’t about your stalker last year?” Claude asked.
I knew the information was out there. But Claude’s reminder wasn’t just about what happened at Warren. I wondered again who made the video of me.
“Who told you?” I said.
“Finn. He has a gift for getting information out of people.”
Finn got that information from me. I didn’t bother correcting her.
“Were we this fucked up at their age?” I asked.
Claude laughed. “Being fucked up isn’t cured by age.”
* * *
—
The half-mile walk back to campus felt endless. I was so tired, I didn’t notice Keith sitting in the stairwell of Beckett. I practically tripped over him on my way to the apartment.
“What are you doing here?” I said, stepping around his rangy frame and continuing up the stairs. Keith followed after me. There was a paper bag on the floor in front of my door. I picked it up, looked inside.
“I had to guard the brownie and provide clear instructions,” he said. “Don’t eat the whole thing.”
“You want half?” I said, unlocking the door.
Keith followed me inside the apartment.
“You really shouldn’t even eat half of that,” he said. “It’s not a regular brownie. I feel like you’re not entirely grasping that concept.”
“No, I get it. I just think you should be able to eat a whole brownie and also get appropriately high.”
I turned on the overhead light and kicked off my shoes. Keith turned off the light and walked over to the window.
“The trees,” he said. “The girls keep cutting down the trees. Look.”
It was dusk. There was still enough light to see a stretch of woods with five felled trees.
“All the shit that’s going on here and you’re worried about the trees?”
“I’m not worried about the trees,” Keith said. “I mean, I kind of liked that young oak at ten o’clock. But it takes a lot of work for a grown man to chop down a tree. I’m worried someone is going to get hurt. Linny has been going at that maple for almost a week. Her hand is covered in blisters. Even the blisters are a badge of honor. I’m scared for her. For all of them.”
I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. I was so tired. I could have slept for days. Keith brought me a glass of water.
“Were you drinking?” he said.
“With Claude.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Did you sleep with her or something?”
I hugged my knees to my chest, giving Keith a place to sit.
“No. Why do you ask?” he said.
“Because you’ve known each other about twenty years and you don’t speak. That usually means something has happened.”
“She makes me uncomfortable,” he said.
“You make her uncomfortable. Why do you make each other uncomfortable?”
“When I was a student here, there was some weird shit going on between a few of the teachers and students. Mr. Goode, history. I saw him flirting all the time. At first it didn’t seem like that big a deal. I see now how—anyway, it wasn’t just flirting. Junior year, maybe, I saw him in the classroom one night. He was with Claude. They were—”
“Having sex?” I said.
“Yes. I didn’t know what to do. It was different then. I thought I should talk to Claude and see if she was okay. She was furious that I said anything to her. She said if I told anyone, she’d say I raped her.”
“Fuck. So that was it. You never told anyone?”
“No. I didn’t. I mean, I was a kid.”
“Was it just him?” I said.
“No. The English teacher, Mr. Walters. I would see him with this senior. I can’t remember her name. What was really weird was that everyone knew. They didn’t hide it. No one seemed to care. I didn’t understand much back then; I just knew it wasn’t normal. I tried to talk about it once to Dean Woolsey. He was Claude’s stepdad. I figured he’d want to know. He told me that I must have misinterpreted what I saw. Then I graduated.”
“You don’t think that’s still going on? Teachers and students?”
“I’ve never seen it. I think the problem is mostly the Darkroom shit.”
We sat there for a while, saying nothing.
“Do you know what happened at my last school? It seems to have gotten around,” I said.
“Does it have something to do with the aluminum foil?” he said.
“So you did hear?”
“No,” Keith said. “But aluminum foil on windows requires some motivation. I’m just pleased to know that it wasn’t aliens or the government. It wasn’t, right?”
“It wasn’t,” I said.
“Do you want to tell me?” he said.
“Not right now.”
“Okay. Do you want me to make you some tea?” Keith said.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
I stretched out my legs. And closed my eyes again. Keith took my foot in his hands and began kneading the arches. It felt too good. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted him to stop or stay the night.
“What are you doing, Keith?”
<
br /> “I’m trying to make you feel better. Don’t be so suspicious.”
“It’s this place,” I said.
“Full disclosure: I, um—well, you know. I have other motives.”
“You want to have sex with me?”
“Sure. But I’d like to do other things as well.”
“Like what?”
“Okay, bowling was what first came to mind. And I have no idea why,” he said.
“I think I’d rather have sex with you than go bowling.”
“It’s not an either/or kind of thing,” Keith said.
I asked Keith where he was staying these days. He was back in a vacation home about two miles from the school. I told him he could stay over if he wanted. He told me to get off his bed, then. And gently kicked me off the couch. I appreciated his lack of presumption. I kissed him. Or maybe he kissed me. I told him he could sleep in my bed. He asked me if I was sober. I told him I was sober enough, but if he wanted to administer a field sobriety test…He asked me to close my eyes and touch my nose. I must have passed.
He kissed me again and we stumbled into my bedroom, removing each other’s clothes. I had no regrets.
* * *
—
When I woke up the next morning, I saw a text from Gemma.
Gemma: Dulcinea is dead. The war has begun.
PART IV
The War
I trust no one, not even myself.
—Joseph Stalin
Gemma Russo
A few of the swallows wanted to shoot the messenger. Seeing their scorecards was like catching a reflection of their worst selves.
We swore them all to secrecy, emphasizing the importance of restraint. Showing our hand at this point would give the editors leverage. The first mission for the swallows was to go back to their rooms and live their lives for the next twenty-four hours without letting on.
Kate had been reading The Art of War. She climbed up onto the desk and took her turn preaching.
