by D. A. Maddox
But he didn’t. If Savannah chose this, then she was doing so to have the experience. To break a barrier, as she’d suggested to him on the park bench. Scott had no doubt it was going to be a rough night, no matter what. If Savannah went through it and still felt she’d been given soft treatment, thanks to him, she’d feel cheated. And in the bizarre reality they’d both slipped—or stepped—into, she’d be right.
He went on:
To me, this is a test. You guys want to see if I can pass it. I can. I’ll do it.
He thought, Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be fun in some weird way. One way or another, I won’t have to think about what I might have missed when it’s over. I won’t have to worry about not knowing what Savannah went through.
She might back out. You could end up there alone.
But in the final analysis, that wouldn’t change his decision. He hoped she did back out. Let him cruise this trial by fire, or whatever, on his own. Then Savannah, if she still wanted to go out with him, could choose some crazy, well-defined adventure that they could share on their own. Skydiving, some stupid shit like that. People prepared for skydiving. Trained for it. Still an adventure.
Focus, he said to himself. Finish.
I’ll make it through whatever your precious “selected” recruits have to make it through. When it’s over, I’ll keep your secrets. I’ll play by all of your rules. It’ll be enough for me to know, and for you to know, that I did it.
Maybe we can try to be friends again later. Not sure, but maybe. Understand I’m not doing this to be one of The Select.
But I’ll do it—and then I’ll walk.
His finger hovered over the mouse, over the “send” button. He was in very serious danger of actually thinking, right now. If he thought too much—
“God,” he said, “what am I even doing?”
And pushed it.
No one answered that email, but ten minutes later, someone named “Malcolm” sent Scott an email of his own.
See you there.
****
The awkward part came fifteen minutes after Jeopardy! and the end of the sausage and pasta casserole. With Alisha settling in at her desk to finish off her Commonalities of Western Languages homework, Savannah closed her laptop and slipped on her lightest jacket, a zip-up red and white felt hoodie—and waited for it. There was no avoiding this. She was breaking routine, right at the start of the silent study hour, and Alisha would do more than just notice.
She swiveled in her chair and tilted her head. “You gonna tell me, Sis?” she asked evenly.
Oh, boy, Savannah thought. That’s me on the spot.
She could have made up any number of reasons, if she had taken the time to do so. But she’d never entertained that option. It was bad enough, allowing The Select to intimidate her into keeping secrets from her best friend. It wouldn’t compel her to lie—and if that was a disqualifier right out of the gate, so be it.
Alisha held her hands out, palms up. “Anything to do with the missing box? Or none of my business?”
Savannah busied her hands checking for keys—the locker key, in particular—her face scanning the floor for anything she may have missed. “If it were just me, I’d tell you everything. I’m sorry, Alisha. It’s not my secret to tell. I’ve been invited to a … party, sort of.”
“Anyone I know?” The hurt in her face was frank, on full display.
“I don’t know,” Savannah answered her.
Alisha began to swivel back around to face her work.
“Seriously, Alisha, I don’t!” Savannah nearly yelled, drawing her attention back. The selfish part of Savannah felt like asking if she needed permission to do this, to go somewhere and do something without having to report it. Christ, she’d told Alisha every embarrassing detail from the last “wellness” visit. Or, well, most of it, anyway…
“That can only mean one thing, then,” Alisha said, coming out of the chair. Before Savannah could brace herself for it, Alisha took her into an embrace. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Savannah hugged her back, hard. “I’m not sure of anything right now, Sis. But I think so. I feel like I have to.”
“When will you be home?”
Savannah shook her head, holding off tears. Afraid that if she spoke, they’d fall.
I don’t know, Alisha. I don’t know anything, anything.
“We’ll still be the same after?” Alisha asked. “BFFL, all that sappy crappy?”
It was an acronym Alisha had never used before. Hearing it now forced a laugh from Savannah, and that allowed her to make words. “Best friends for life,” she said. “Nothing ever changes that. I promise.”
Alisha pulled back. Savannah’s face was dry, but her friend’s was a soaked mess.
“Good luck,” she said. “I’ll wait for you.”
Part Two
A Night on Campus
Chapter Seven:
Purity
“One more year,” Dad said. “That’s all I ask.”
“I’m no good,” Scott insisted, much as it hurt him to say it aloud, especially to his own father. “I don’t want to play anymore.”
“You’ll be back with Tony again this year. He’ll help. Son, it just takes—”
“Dad, I suck, okay? They don’t want me on the team.”
Behind them, Mom busied herself over the stove. Chicken Cacciatori was an experiment for her, a recipe she’d gotten from Tony’s dad. It required all of her attention. There was no attention left to spare for this battle, no time to defend her son, to stand up to Gregory Lachance. Scott understood these things only too well.
His father wanted another baseball player in the family, and he was used to getting what he wanted. Who could blame him? His elder son, Matty, was a starting pitcher at Chester High. For five years, from the age of seven, Scott had tried to improve. For five years, he had watched his friends get better, advance to the upper leagues. And in all that time, he’d never gotten noticeably better himself.
“You’re doing it to yourself, son,” Dad said. “You’re not giving yourself a shot. You’re talking yourself into believing something that doesn’t have to be true.”
Dad never yelled. He didn’t hit. He attacked with reason, or his version of it. And he didn’t listen. He never listened.
Scott stopped talking.
“One more year,” Dad said. “After that, if you do your best and still want to quit, then okay. Give your dad that much. Meet me halfway.”
****
Nine years later, Scott looked over the Commons and thought, Herd animals. And once again he was glad he didn’t belong to a fraternity, that his dorm building was on the outskirts of the university proper. Nights around here were creepy, even when he wasn’t mentally prepping himself for the hazing of his life.
The silent study hour was etiquette, not law. From eight until nine, it was understood that doors and windows would be shut, curtains drawn, and electronic devices muted. Students working together would use their “library voices” during partner study. Those without pressing matters of academia bearing down on them—common enough on a Friday—might consider watching TV, headphones on, or reading. It wasn’t law, but it was the Bridgemont Way.
Most of the nearby sorority and frat houses obeyed it. School security was typically out and about during this time, patrolling in their quiet electric Rovers, ready to make polite “inquiry” of any disturbance. Students planned for this time, made use of it, and tended to resent anyone who didn’t.
And so it was that Scott found himself practically alone when he returned to the Commons at 8:30. Not totally alone, though. There, by the Career Counseling and Financial Aid building, were two students in collared white shirts and black pants, exactly the same things he was wearing. And in the unseen distance ahead of him, he could hear an engine rumbling—a gasoline engine.
The lack of laces in Scott’s shoes made for some awkward moments. The shoes kept wanting to come off, which forced him to go slowly. Th
e undershirt beneath the dress shirt was rough cotton, and it irritated him. Since baseball, Scott had never participated in a sport that required him to wear a jock strap, and he wasn’t much for going commando, so the seat of his black pants against his otherwise bare ass felt almost indecent. The straps chafed.
It’s their dress code, he reminded himself. If you’re gonna do this, do it right.
He had his backpack with him, though. That might be a violation. Mentally, he shrugged off the thought. No one had said he couldn’t.
But the two guys ahead of him, now passing the shuttered and quieted Alpha House, hadn’t brought backpacks.
Scott made himself hustle forward, catch up to them a little. One of them looked back his way, but neither slowed. They just kept walking.
They were younger than he was. The one who had looked back was clearly scared.
Headlights.
The gas-powered vehicle rolled forward out of the shadows from right where Scott had judged it to be. It was a pickup truck, all black. The University Moose logo was nowhere to be seen on it. And as it drew closer, stopping first by the two men still ahead of him by thirty yards or so, Scott could see that it definitely wasn’t school security.
They were students, too.
They weren’t wearing pledge clothes, and both of them were female.
****
Savannah stopped at her locker and took a steadying breath before opening it.
The gym had been deserted apart from one kid at the front desk and a few disapproving young faculty members who had come to exercise sans students. Savannah unzipped her hoodie and recovered the key from her jeans. Annoyed teachers are the least of your worries, she thought, wishing Melody were here, supposing her to have already come and gone.
Footsteps. Hard shoes or boots. Savannah paused. And very nearly shrieked.
A man stood at the end of her locker aisle.
She jammed her finger in the direction of the exit. “Wrong turn, jerk,” she said, trying to muster both strength and calm, neither of which she felt. “Get out of here.”
He wore all black. It was like a karate uniform, almost, a sharp-collared V-neck shirt with sleeves that flared at the wrists, leather vest, and pants that flared at the ankles. But the vest was tucked in, and he wore an ordinary black leather belt, no sash. Clipped to the belt was a shiny black rod of plastic with a rubber grip and a two-pronged steel tip. He looked like a collector’s action figure with a secret weapon.
How had he gotten in here?
He’s one of them, she realized. Of course, he is.
He was young enough to be a student, probably no older than she was. He had black hair, like Scott’s, but it was grown-out, pinned in a man bun. Unlike Scott, his eyes were pale, blue bordering on gray, cold and appraising.
Select or not, Savannah still growled at him, “You have three seconds before I—”
“I’m supposed to be here,” he said, his voice oily-thick with self-satisfaction, “but you’re not. And you left your house in your normal clothes. That’s an infraction.”
“I’m not at the Student Union yet!” she retorted, nearly yelling. “Now, leave!”
He snickered at her. Literally snickered. “Quiet, Miss Savannah…”
She realized she was still pointing. She put her hand down, fuming at him.
“I’m your escort, Miss Savannah,” he said. “You are Savannah Miles, yes?”
Hands on her hips. “Yes. How about you give me your name, too, so I get it right when I report you to campus police?”
Tough words, but she was shaking—and not just from anger. This is it, she thought. It’s starting. Oh my God, it’s starting.
“Russell Darter,” he replied, unfazed. “Friends call me Rusty. Until the blindfold goes on, you can call me that. Later, too, if all goes well. But you’ve threatened me, Miss Savannah, and that’s another infraction. I recommend you talk no more than is necessary for the time being. Do you understand?”
Savannah’s answer was not to answer.
“You were undressing,” he said, checking his watch. “Please continue. You’re cutting it close.”
Savannah’s mouth opened in shock, but she held her tongue.
“You should already be in your purity garb,” he said. “Get changed.”
“Well, God, maybe if you’d turn around first, I’d—”
“Take your clothes off,” Rusty said, stern and implacable. “Time is wasting, Miss Savannah. Unless you prefer to opt out? If you do, I’ll go, and it’s all over before it starts.”
She thought about it. If she could get through this part, there’d still be time to back out later. She wouldn’t be out of chances until after the countdown.
“If you don’t opt out,” he continued, adopting a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, “I watch. You could have avoided this by leaving your house the right way, Miss Savannah.”
Savannah fairly ripped open her locker. “Stay there, then,” she snapped. “Asshole.”
“Third infraction, Miss Savannah. I’m disappointed. Everyone says you’re an excellent student.”
She set out her “purity” garments on the bench and slid out of her jacket.
Rusty’s eyes tracked her every movement. She could feel their searching heat on the flesh of her arms, which pebbled with gooseflesh as he stared at them. She turned her back on him to take off her shirt.
“You’ll need to lose that necklace,” he said.
She ignored him. She reached for the gown.
“No,” Rusty said, his voice spiking with sudden anger. “That’s a purity robe. You will not put it on over your other things. You want to roll the dice with Veronica and Malcolm on the stupid necklace? Feel free. See what happens. But you will put on your purity clothes the right way.”
Savannah’s face felt the heat of every drop of blood in her body as she shucked off her bra. You just want to see me naked, pervert, she thought. You’re making that bullshit up as you go. Every scrap of common sense she possessed urged her—begged her—to bow out now. But the heat in her blood wasn’t just in her cheeks. As she peeled off her shoes and socks, as she unbuckled her belt, she felt it between her legs. She was being made to strip by a man her own age. A stranger. Not a doctor. The humiliation was unfathomable, dizzying—and maddening, the more so because she knew she could end it with a word.
Down with the jeans. It was warm in the locker room, but her legs—the backs of her knees—seemed to sense a breeze that wasn’t there. Motherfucker, she thought, tugging her panties down. It was a word she’d never said aloud in her life. Motherfucker.
“You have a very nice ass, Miss Savannah,” Rusty said.
“Oh,” Savannah said, her tone unrefined acid, snatching the gown up again, drawing it over her head and down her body with all possible speed. “You approve of it, do you?”
“Very much,” said Rusty, much more conversationally. “I approve of that ass wholeheartedly and without reservation—even though I didn’t get a very long look at it.”
“Time’s wasting,” Savannah reminded him.
“True, true.”
Apart from her arms, the purity gown did an excellent job of covering her, right down to the calves and up to the neck. Savannah thought it best to let her hair down, make sure the pendant stayed covered along with the rest of her. She put on the slippers, but she dithered before wrapping herself in the shawl.
“Not a long look at all,” Rusty said.
Show him you don’t give a shit. If you’re going to do this, own it.
Before considering her strategy with the panties, Savannah lifted the hem of her purity robe.
And then just stood there, mooning him for a solid ten seconds.
“Do you think,” she then said over her shoulder, allowing just the breath of a pout to creep in, “we could bring my infractions down to two, Rusty?”
Rusty’s eyes were bulging. Had she been facing him, and five feet closer to him, Savannah could have tipped him over with
her finger.
“Why … yes, Miss Savannah,” Rusty said at length. “In fact, I can only recall one.”
****
The last pitch caught him looking. Strike three. And just like that, Scott Lachance was out—as was his team, the Chester Triple A Brewers. The groan from the home crowd, all seated in a rack of aluminum bleachers, was collective. It included both of his parents, as well as his older brother.
At 12, he’d aged into the Triple A League, even though he’d been absolute shit in Double A for two years running—and it didn’t take him long to find his place: right field, last in the batting lineup, and on the bench for half of every game. Three of his teammates were neighborhood friends, but as the season had progressed, they’d stopped being so friendly. They no longer talked to him, not even Tony.
Still standing at the plate, awash with defeat, he thought, They’ll never talk to me again.
Coach Guarneri waved him over without speaking, and Scott returned to the dugout. Straight to the back he went, farthest he could get from the impending post-game talk. He sat and lowered his head. He saw only the concrete floor and the cleats of the kid next to him.
But that kid stood up and walked away from him, farther in, closer to the coach and the speech, just as soon as Scott had sat down.
The Brewers had been two-time regional champs who’d advanced to state before being eliminated. Now, that two-year reign of supremacy was over, on a one-point loss in the regular season with runners on second and third, and with Scott Lachance at the plate.
He cried, and he didn’t care that everyone could see him.
Tony came over. Sat right next to him. Scott looked up, met him eye-to-eye.
“You fucking suck, man,” Tony said.
****
That had been the end of baseball for him. The end of Dad picking sports for him. From that point on, Scott didn’t belong to any group, club, or sport he hadn’t chosen himself. Until now.
“Who said you could bring a fucking backpack?”
