The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  “The email is ready to go,” I said. “Do you really want your friends to know your hobby is collecting dirt on them?”

  That was a lie. Kate had just sent a draft to a select list of recipients.

  “Linny,” I repeated. “Give her back.”

  Adam looked inside the bag. He sent a text and clocked the north exit of his dormitory. Linny and Jack emerged from the boys’ dorm. Adam nodded. Jack let go of Linny. She ran toward me. Adam picked up the bag and gave me a salute.

  “It’s been fun, Russo,” Adam said, as he returned to Dick House.

  Mr. Ford

  The new year didn’t feel new. It felt like an old pair of shoes, the soles worn so thin you might as well walk barefoot.

  I clocked out of all things Stonebridge during winter break. I didn’t check Blackboard, respond to emails, or grade a single paper. Primm, however, was relentless with her text updates, so I was more informed than I would have liked. I phoned Claude once, after I learned that Greg had suspended her, pending an investigation for misconduct. I didn’t know if someone told on her or she had confessed. I was just glad that I could stay out of it. When I spoke to Claude she was drunk and seemed unconcerned with the allegations.

  “The age of consent in Vermont is sixteen. He’s seventeen,” Claude said.

  “Well, then it’s okay,” I said.

  “Fuck you, Finn,” she said.

  I’ll never forget that.

  I returned to campus the Sunday evening before classes were to resume. I poured a drink, opened my laptop, and braced myself for the influx of messages on the Blackboard system.

  There were about thirty student messages that could wait and the usual administrative shit, including five missives from Primm that I didn’t bother reading. There was also a message from Claudine Shepherd, which was odd. If Claude was suspended, why would she use Stonebridge’s communication portal to send me a message? Anything she wrote would now be under extreme scrutiny.

  I clicked on the header.

  To: Finn Ford

  From: Claude Shepherd

  Re: Important. Read immediately

  Dear Finn,

  I don’t like how we left things. I was being an asshole. I apologize. My mistakes are my own. And you’ve always been a good friend to me.

  Please come to my house as soon as you’re back.

  Yours,

  Claude

  I texted Claude, telling her I was on my way. I grabbed my coat and keys and walked to the parking lot behind Dickens. I got into my car and took the main road off campus. As I was leaving, I saw Gemma and Adam sitting on a bench together. They looked like two spies in an old movie, trying to act like strangers.

  I drove straight over to 344 Crestview Drive. I remember being relieved when I saw Claude’s car in the driveway. I don’t know why. In retrospect, I wish she had run, dyed her hair, changed her name, and found an old man she could swindle out of every last penny.

  I knocked on the door and waited. I knocked again. I knew she kept a spare key under a dead plant—at least she had two years ago. It was still there. I unlocked the door. I entered the house and I called her name. I called her name again. I don’t know why.

  I sat on the couch in the living room, debating whether to call the police and let them make the discovery. I didn’t because there was a reason Claude wanted me to find her. I walked down the long hallway, opening one door after the other.

  I think I was stalling. I knew I’d find her in the master bedroom. She was wearing a black cocktail dress. She’d even donned a pair of strappy red sandals, one barely hanging on from the tip of her toe. A plastic bag was cinched around her head and an open bottle of pills lay by her side.

  There was a note scribbled on the nightstand.

  Remove the bag.

  She was so goddamn vain.

  As I pulled the plastic over her head, it smudged her lipstick and eye makeup. I took a tissue and tried to fix it.

  My phone rang. It scared the shit out of me. I felt like I might have been having a heart attack.

  I looked at the screen. It was Alex. I sent her to voicemail and called 911.

  Gemma Russo

  Linny was dripping wet and shivering when Jack released her. I put my arm around her and rushed her back to Woolf Hall.

  “What the hell happened in there?” I said.

  “The showers,” Linny said. “Hot and cold. Hot and cold.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  “No. Keith fixed the water heater after that kid got burned. I’m just cold.”

  “How did they find out?” I said.

  “I told them.”

  “You moron. Why did you do that?”

  Linny’s eyes narrowed; her tone was seething.

  “Because I wanted them to know. No one sees the contribution I made to the cause. You all get to walk around with your shaved heads, swinging an ax, and everyone knows who you are and what you stand for. They should know who I am and what I’m capable of.”

  Linny and I were in the hallway outside the lounge. Amy had seen us from the window and brought a blanket to wrap around Linny.

  “Let’s get you in a hot shower,” Amy said.

  “No more showers!” Linny shouted.

  “No more showers,” I said.

  “Change of clothes, then,” said Amy.

  “Where is everyone?” I said.

  “Your friends are in the lounge,” Amy said. “You might want to talk them down.”

  Behind the door, I found the four of them sitting around one of the study desks. Kate had researched online how to make Molotov cocktails and raided the art department for supplies. The tabletop was covered with old T-shirts, scissors, and bottles.

  “Make sure to wipe down the outside of the bottle,” said Kate. “And, Tegan, that’s too much fuel.”

  “I love the smell of turpentine in the evening,” said Tegan.

  “Is this necessary?” I said. “We got Linny. It’s over.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to have a backup plan,” said Kate.

  “You should make one,” Emelia said. “I find it therapeutic.”

  I sat down and cut a long swath of fabric, poured the combustible solvent into the bottle, and shoved one end of the cloth down with a chopstick. I looked at my handiwork for a moment. The revenge it symbolized offered no comfort. Not then, at least. I remember feeling empty, deflated. I thought I’d have a sense of completion when it was all over. But it was a nothing feeling. There was no satisfaction.

  Then Amy showed up at the doorway to the lounge. She beckoned me over.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Linny said that they stripped her naked in the shower. They took pictures. She wants to know if you can get the pictures back.”

  The nothing feeling was gone.

  Ms. Witt

  It was the last day of winter break. Keith wanted to stay in and watch a movie. I kept looking at my watch. Greg was supposed to call me at around nine, after his meeting with the board of advisers.

  “Where’s my phone?” I said.

  “The meeting isn’t over yet.”

  Keith had confiscated my phone earlier in the evening.

  “The cultural apocalypse will be traced back to these things,” he said.

  “I’m pretty sure it’ll be the Kardashians,” I said.

  I had a bad feeling. I thought it was about my fate. Not anything else. I demanded that Keith return my phone. He had hidden it outside in a planter, which struck me as a very odd hiding place for a phone. When he returned it, the home screen was ablaze with messages. I read the text story in reverse time, trying to make sense of it.

  Jonah: BTW, I locked the editors in the lounge.

  Gemma: We need you. You have to come back. No one is h
ere.

  Jonah: Don’t respond to his text.

  Jonah: Norman wants me to tell you they took his phone.

  Norman: Linny was taken hostage. I don’t know what they’re doing to her.

  “Shit,” I said. “We have to go back to campus.”

  “Alex, it’s better if you—”

  I showed Keith the message about Linny.

  “I’ll fucking kill them,” he said. “Who’s on watch tonight?”

  We grabbed our coats and got into Keith’s car, doing fifty in mostly thirty-mile zones to campus. As he drove, I left desperate messages for Greg, Finn, and Evelyn.

  I didn’t know what we were racing toward or what we might find. I didn’t think it could get any worse. I was so naïve back then.

  Gemma Russo

  I can’t recall every detail. I sent Jonah a text. I thought he should know about the pictures.

  Then I told my bomb-making comrades what they had done to Linny.

  We discussed strategy.

  We implemented a plan.

  We said that we had to fight back, that it was our moral imperative. We topped off the bottles with turpentine. I remember the smell stinging my nose.

  I remember circling Dick House. We spotted the editors in the first-floor lounge. We tried to open a window, but it was either locked or stuck.

  We took our axes and smashed out three windowpanes.

  We lit three Coke-bottle torches. We all ducked for cover after launching them into the lounge, like soldiers do in movies after they pull the pin from the grenade. It was a bit of a letdown at first. There was a small flash of light inside, but it took a while to build. But then the fire lit up, big and wild, and it matched the feeling we had inside. Once the room was ablaze, we ran back to Woolf Hall and got rid of the evidence.

  We were breathing so hard it sounded like a windstorm.

  We heard the alarm. Then the sirens from the fire truck, then the ambulances, then the police. We didn’t know that the editors were trapped in the lounge.

  We looked outside from our top-floor perch and saw boys running out of Dickens. Then someone pulled the alarm in Woolf. There was no orderly evacuation. Everyone was running for their lives.

  We knew we weren’t on fire, so we waited until most of our dorm had cleared out before we evacuated. Tegan thought we should stay inside and hide. She said they would be coming for us, that we stood out with our shaved heads. Mel said it was more suspicious if we took cover. Kate seemed surprised that the fire had taken hold.

  “Did we do that?” Kate said.

  Outside, we stood in plain view and watched the flames. They were the color of a sunrise I once saw.

  We weren’t thinking clearly. I know that. I couldn’t remember the last time we were.

  We watched and waited, like everyone else. We were scared and we were proud.

  The adults finally showed up. Ms. Witt, Keith, Finn. Primm finally showed up. She was on duty that night, but she always goes to the bathhouse. Without knowing what had gone down, Primm pointed the finger at us. Ms. Witt shoved her. Primm fell on her ass. Mr. Ford had to physically restrain Witt. I was glad she’d come back. I wanted her to see what we had done.

  We didn’t know the boys were trapped in the lounge.

  The fire was extinguished. The paramedics took someone out on a stretcher. I thought that was the only injury.

  A uniformed police officer started walking toward us.

  We didn’t run. We stayed. We cooperated.

  Norman Crowley

  Adam had been stashing away dirt on his cohorts for years. According to Mel, it was his insurance policy in case of disloyalty. It was brilliant how the girls used his insurance to undermine his authority. While Adam was busy with the exchange, Mel or Kate or all of them had sent an email to Adam’s “friends,” detailing some disturbing shit that he’d gathered. I never saw the email. I just knew I wasn’t mentioned in it.

  Whatever information the email contained had the desired effect. After Linny was released, the guys returned to their rooms and discovered who Adam really was. Mick, Jack, and Gabe then confronted Adam when he returned to the lounge.

  I could hear him pleading his case: “Dudes, come on. Those swallows are setting me up. You can’t believe those bitches.”

  Jonah came to my room and showed me a text from Gemma.

  Gemma: They took pictures of Linny in the shower.

  I felt sick. I’d heard her screaming. But I just thought it was the cold water.

  “Any sign of Finn?” Jonah said.

  I shook my head. Jonah banged on Carl Bloom’s door.

  “I need your bike lock. Now,” Jonah said.

  Carl just handed over his U-lock, no questions asked. Jonah used it to secure the double doors to the lounge.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “We need to keep them contained.”

  Bloom had his phone to his ear. “Ford’s not answering.”

  “Where’s a fucking adult when you need one? You can’t escape them the rest of time,” Jonah said.

  Jonah handed me his phone.

  “Keep texting or calling until you get someone. Does anyone have Coach Keith’s number?” Jonah said.

  “He doesn’t believe in cellphones,” said Carl.

  I looked at Jonah’s phone and saw that he had already texted Witt. I sent her a few more messages.

  The editors started banging on the lounge doors. They had only just realized that they were locked in. Jack was growling threats. The entire floor was vibrating. I didn’t know what they would do if they got out. I was scared. We needed help.

  “Linny is fifteen,” I said. “It’s—it’s child pornography.”

  “Fuck it,” Jonah said. “Call 911.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Carl said.

  We were beyond knowing what was wise or not.

  “I have a bad feeling,” Jonah said. “Make the call.”

  I dialed 911 while Jonah moved a bureau out of Carl’s room and used it as a second line of defense against the lounge doors. I didn’t know what to tell the operator. I just gave her the address and hung up.

  Jonah’s phone buzzed with two more texts from Gemma.

  Gemma: Get out of there.

  Gemma: Get the good ones out.

  I heard glass break. I figured the guys were busting out the windows since Jonah had locked them in. Then the fire alarm sounded and we ran outside. We thought one of the girls had set it off to screw with us. I didn’t know about the fire until I smelled the smoke.

  Ms. Witt

  I don’t remember the exact order of events. The sirens were deafening and there were so many lights, from the emergency vehicles and flashlights and the fire. Students were spilling out of Woolf and Dickens and congregating around the square. A girl was shouting that people were trapped in the lounge. Then three boys seemed to jump through fire, right out of the window. Gabe first, then Mick and Jack.

  Keith and I ran over to the boys.

  I asked the boys if everyone was out. They said yes. I believed them.

  “Where is Linny? Is Linny in there?” Keith asked.

  Keith was holding Mick by the collar of his shirt and shaking him. A fireman pulled him off.

  “We don’t have her anymore,” Mick said. “She’s with the girls.”

  “Find her,” Keith said to me. “I have to clear the floors.”

  Keith ran inside the building.

  A squad car arrived, followed by a fire truck and then an ambulance.

  More and more students spilled onto the square. The boys were escaping, rushing out of the building, fighting through the crowds; the girls slowly walked outside to regard the spectacle.

  I spotted Linny on the square, watching the fire. She was weari
ng a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head, shivering. I asked her if she was okay. She just nodded and stared at the flames.

  Two firemen aimed hoses through the broken windows. Jets of water eventually turned the fire into smoke. Another two firemen entered Dickens. A police officer approached and asked who was in charge. I said I didn’t know.

  I overheard a fireman talking to a policeman. He said something about a homemade explosive.

  Then I saw Gemma and the other four girls, huddled together by Keats Studio.

  After that, Martha turned up. Where had she been? She delivered a piece of paper to one of the officers and then she pointed at the girls. The school was on fire and she was playing snitch.

  I thought the girls were going to run, but they didn’t. I wanted to talk to them, to remind them not to say anything. But then Martha got in my way.

  “What did you do?” I said.

  “I gave the officer a list of girls to arrest. You shouldn’t be here. I thought I was clear on that,” Primm said.

  My nails were digging into my palms. I had never wanted to hit anyone so badly.

  Someone stopped me. I don’t remember who it was.

  * * *

  —

  When the fire was extinguished, the campus smelled like the end of a barbecue. The girls had been transported to the Lowland police precinct. Keith opened the gym while the fire marshal inspected the building. No one knew when or if the boys would be allowed back in their dorm.

  I waited alone in the Lowland precinct for three hours while Greg was at the hospital, awaiting news of the injured and communicating with their families. There was a desk officer behind a glass partition. Behind him was a metal door. Every time someone opened the door, I could see the girls, handcuffed to a bench.

  When Greg finally arrived, he approached the duty officer and identified himself.

  “I’m the dean of students at Stonebridge Academy. May I see the girls?” he said.