Then the man blinked. Now he was an ordinary person with a bored expression. “Shouldn’t you be off chatting with your friends?” He nodded toward the ice cream tent. I detected more than a little disdain in his voice, as though to have friends among this crowd was the worst of all options.
I considered responding that I didn’t have any friends here, but I didn’t want to provoke him. “Sorry to bother you,” I mumbled, and hurried away without looking back.
The line in the ice cream tent was long, which was good, because it gave me something to do. I wondered what kind of ice cream Edward Murrow liked but decided he probably wasn’t a dessert person. I wondered about Lily Morgan’s pre-frosh social. As the headmaster’s daughter, she must have had people flocking to her, if only to ingratiate themselves with her father. I imagined Lily as a girl whose life was a string of parties, dances, and dates. And at least one person had been genuinely in love with her. Lily, marvel of my life.
At the front of the ice cream queue, the scooper—an older student who looked like he’d rather be spending his last days of summer freedom playing violent video games—handed over my cone and nodded for me to scram. I peeled away from the line and was again stranded alone. I edged through the tent until I found an empty spot from which to scan the crowd. The groups of students seemed to break apart and reconstitute in new configurations every few seconds. It was dizzying to watch. There was just a single person who wasn’t moving: the red-haired stranger. His gaze zigzagged through the crowd, but when he found me, his eyes slammed into mine. He shook his head like I’d disappointed him—like I owed him something. This made no sense, but I felt rattled anyway.
When a student moved in between the stranger and me, I ducked into the crowd and tunneled through, moving away from his skinny body and red hair. Then I turned and fled. I spent the rest of the hour in the girls’ bathroom, eating my ice cream in slow bites, waiting for my parents’ return.
Ever since my mom caught me talking to Murrow, I’d been forced to confer with him on the sly. I stopped speaking to him aloud each night before bed and instead directed silent thoughts and questions his way. Maybe talking to an apparition was abnormal, but I didn’t care. I’d read enough biographies and broadcast transcripts to fill in Murrow’s side of the conversation, and if I was ever in doubt, I had only to follow one dictate: tell the truth, no matter how much it hurts. With this knowledge, I’d imagine Murrow in the room with me, the two of us speaking frankly about school, or the despicable state of the broadcast media (always a favorite topic), or my journalistic ambitions. It was a stark contrast to my conversations with other adults. Back in Boston, you could put a teacher or a parent within three feet of me, and within seconds I’d be drowning in pep talks and sympathetic smiles.
The night before I started school, I was in need of an intelligent exchange, something to distract me from the strange man at the ice cream social. I could still feel his gaze worming through my head, yanking at my secrets and fears like loose threads. I was hoping he worked in the creepy Development Suite and I’d have to see him approximately never.
It was easy to conjure Murrow. I thought about him for a minute and then there he was, standing on Lily’s pink carpet in a Savile Row suit and his signature red suspenders. The glowing eye of his cigarette pierced the dark. It winked at me like it knew something I didn’t.
“Thank God a person doesn’t have to smoke three packs a day to be considered a real journalist anymore,” I said. “It’s a disgusting habit.” Sometimes I called on Murrow for commiseration and ended up getting persnickety with him instead.
Murrow exhaled a cloud of cancerous smog.
“You lost a lung—or did you forget that little tidbit of your biography?”
Murrow pulled on the cigarette and said nothing.
“And you weren’t even sixty when you died, which makes you pretty selfish. Think about how much more you could have done for journalism, and political integrity, and—”
“Iris.” Murrow’s face hovered in the dark, close enough for me to smell his cigarette breath. “I know you’re unhappy about being here. But think of Nye as a challenge. Have you ever known me to rest on my laurels?”
Even Edward R. Murrow sometimes spoke in clichés, which only proves how ubiquitous and insidious they are.
“What kind of challenge?” I sat up in bed.
“Well, I suppose”—and here Murrow spewed a stream of reeking effluvia from his lips as he considered his answer—“that your new home presents a challenge to do more than merely survive.”
I looked at him, puzzled.
“I know you plan to join your school newspaper,” he said. “But think beyond participation. Your goal should be revolution.”
“You should be careful with that kind of commie talk.”
Murrow chuckled. “Good night, Iris,” he said, his figure growing hazy. “And Iris?” Murrow sounded thoroughly pleased with himself. “Good luck.”
The room was silent. The darkness pulsed with tiny crackling dots. My eyes finally heavy, I drifted off to sleep, wondering why I really could smell Camels in the air.
The next morning, my dad dropped me off at school on his way to the hotel, and I walked through the long, vaulted corridors of Prisom Hall, my trusty briefcase at my side. Uniformed figures were everywhere, like in a room of mirrors, endlessly reflecting pleats and plaids. Comedians joke about members of other races looking identical, but they hadn’t seen anything like this.
Inside my wood-paneled locker sat a sheet of paper with a newspaper-like masthead.
THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE
“Carrying the Torch of Prisom’s Party since 1923”
New-Student Edition
The rest of the page was blank. Then I noticed a small index card.
Dear Ms. Dupont. Welcome to your very first day at Mariana Academy! We are certain you will find this school to be everything you expected. Breathe deep.
I breathed.
You are smelling the rarefied scent of privilege being taken for granted. Your copy of The Devil’s Advocate is blank as a symbol of your own clean slate at Mariana. For the sake of this community (and for your personal safety), we implore you: don’t give us any muck to rake.
Sincerely,
The Editors
I looked around. A tall, dark-haired boy stood a few lockers down, organizing his books. “Excuse me,” I said, following the length of his gangly body until I located his face. (The face, it should be noted, wasn’t unattractive.) “Do you know what this is?” I held out the blank newspaper.
“New students get those.” He resumed putting away books.
“But what’s Prisom’s Party?” Whoever they were, I didn’t like the fact that they knew which locker I’d been assigned before I did. Meanwhile, the boy didn’t turn his head, and I couldn’t tell if he was rude or just shy. “I’m Iris,” I said.
“Peter,” he mumbled, still focused on his books. “Just don’t cheat or lie and you’ll be fine.”
Was the presumption at Mariana that I would? The indignity!
I walked into biology, and like a smack in the face, there stood the austere man from the ice cream social, his orange hair a volcanic eruption atop his pale forehead. He lorded over the teacher’s desk, his eyes following me to my seat.
The man cleared his throat, kneaded his hands together, and ran his fingers through his frantic hair. He looked angry, as though we’d already done something egregious.
“I’m Dr. Kaplan,” he said, his voice grainy. “I hold a PhD in microbiology from UCLA. For the purposes of this class, however, you can call me Mr. Kaplan. I know there are English faculty who insist on the title ‘Dr.,’ but as far as I’m concerned, such an appellation is bullshit unless you can save somebody’s life, which I most probably cannot.”
Mr. Kaplan paused, then nodded slowly. “I raise the topic of bullshit—because I will not tolerate it in this room.”
The double mention of bullshit made a couple of kids
snicker.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Mr. Kaplan said, staring down the offending students. “I know you’re used to being coddled like toddlers or lap dogs, but in this classroom we are going to treat one another like adults. Do you understand?”
The students nodded uncertainly, but my own head felt paralyzed on my neck.
“What about you?” Mr. Kaplan’s eyes whirred into my face like drill bits.
“I understand,” I peeped.
Mr. Kaplan nodded and began pacing back and forth in front of his lab table. At the end of the room he paused and turned, fixing those laser eyes on us. “In addition to studying microbiology, I am also an entomologist. Currently, I am working at the University of Massachusetts, examining insect colonies that have been bamboozled by patterns of climate change. And though we all know how much your headmaster likes to have a couple PhDs on hand, I assure you that I am not a trophy teacher. I am here to give you something you have not had thus far in your studies: namely, an education in science.”
My classmates stared at their desks.
“I am familiar with this school and its reputation.” Mr. Kaplan paced with his hands clasped behind his back. His cuticles were swollen and raw. “I know you all work hard, but I am doubtful as to whether you think hard. You do what you are told. You strive to succeed within the parameters your parents and teachers have outlined. But do any of you truly know what success means?”
For me, success meant a cover story for the New York Times Magazine or an editorial position at the New Yorker or a Pulitzer Prize. So what did Mr. Kaplan know that I didn’t?
“For the next few weeks,” he continued, “I will be replacing the usual biology curriculum with a unit on my academic specialty—extremophiles, the extreme-loving microbes from which all life originates. I am sure you’ve never considered it before, but at this very moment microbes are swarming in your intestines and crawling on your skin. Microbes were the first life on earth, and they transformed it from a planet with a serious identity crisis to the comparatively stable hunk of rock we know today. Three and a half billion years ago, the earth was a crucible of cell-sizzling radiation, oscillating temperatures, and environment-altering earthquakes. The atmosphere was mostly methane, carbon dioxide, and water vapor. Miraculously, a couple billion years later, microbes learned to photosynthesize. It is thanks to microbes that you and I inhabit a lovely green planet where the atmosphere doesn’t burn our skin off and the ground only occasionally cracks open beneath our feet. And the relatives of those very first microbes haven’t changed. Some of them live in boiling water. Others can be frozen and resuscitated. Still others sustain pressures that would crush a Mack truck, let alone your own nubile bodies.” Mr. Kaplan paused and looked from face to quivering face. “If you think this sounds extreme, you have a self-centered view of the situation. Put any of these extreme-loving organisms in your normal environment and they would die. Just as you would expire instantaneously in their habitats. Any questions?”
The room was silent. Mr. Kaplan stood there looking at us like he was prepared to wait all day. After an uncomfortable moment he started talking again. If anyone in the room believed human beings originated from mud pies, he said, we could pack our things and head over to Blessed Sacrament. “There is going to be no religion in this classroom. As far as this course is concerned, the only religion is science, and the only commandments are the laws of physics. In this classroom we are going to use our minds, not our hearts. Our brains, not our beliefs.” He snarled “beliefs” like it was a dirty word.
“You!” He pointed to a girl with curly brown hair in the second row. “What’s your name?”
“Marcie Ross.”
“Ms. Ross, where did you come from?”
“Uh . . .” Marcie looked both ways as though she intended to cross a busy intersection. “My mother’s womb?”
“You weren’t listening, Marcie.” Mr. Kaplan wagged his finger. “You!” He pointed at a meaty, big-nosed kid. “What’s your name?”
“Christopher Barnes.”
“Mr. Barnes, where did you come from?”
Christopher sat back in the chair and cocked a half smile. “God.”
“You are hilarious, Mr. Barnes. Unfortunately, you weren’t listening either. I said no bullshit. And so you’ll pay attention next time, you are going to memorize the periodic table, down to each atomic mass, and be ready to recite it in front of the class tomorrow morning.”
Christopher’s smile vanished.
“Here’s a copy of the table.” Mr. Kaplan pulled a paper from his bag and handed it to Christopher. “You’ve already wasted thirty seconds of precious study time.”
Mr. Kaplan looked around the room as though challenging any more smart alecks. But even the smart alecks had shrunk into their holes.
“The reason I’m asking where you came from,” Mr. Kaplan said, “is not simply because it forms the basis of our curriculum this year. I am asking you this question because it impacts everything you will do for the rest of your lives! Your biological ancestors were extremophiles, and I am here to help you return to your extremophile roots—metaphorically speaking, of course. Embracing extremity will bring out the characteristics that make you unique and independent—different from everybody else.”
Mr. Kaplan scribbled the word “difference” in large, messy letters on the chalkboard and then turned back to face us. “We are going to have a class slogan this semester: ‘Difference is the essence of extremity.’ Say it with me. ‘Difference is the essence of extremity.’”He swept his hands through the air like an orchestra conductor, and we repeated the phrase in chorus. “Again!” Mr. Kaplan proclaimed, and our voices rose and fell together. Difference is the essence of extremity!
When the room was silent again, Mr. Kaplan looked at us, his brow knitted, his eyes compressed to small points. He scanned the rows, shaking his head. “You!” He thrust his finger at a girl in the third row. The very force of his hand seemed to fling her against the chair. “Why did you just say ‘Difference is the essence of extremity’?”
“Because you told us to.”
Mr. Kaplan nodded. “And do you agree with this slogan?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d have to think about it.”
“Now, this is curious,” Mr. Kaplan said. “Why would you recite a slogan if you weren’t certain you agreed with its message?”
“Because you’re the teacher,” the girl answered, shrinking against the chair. “If we don’t do what you say, then we’ll get in trouble. Or get a bad grade.”
Mr. Kaplan nodded. “Do you know what I’m seeing at this particular moment?” It was unclear whether this question was rhetorical, but everyone seemed to make the same calculation: talking = possible beheading. “I’m seeing twenty young people who are utterly afraid to think for themselves. I see that you are willing to repeat what you are told, without taking any time to think through what you are saying.”
“My name is Sarah Peters,” the girl beside me announced with a haughty cock of her head. “And you tricked us! You didn’t give us time to think about the slogan before you asked us to say it.”
“Thank you for speaking up, Ms. Peters. But I did not trick you. I proved a point. You all need to take some risks, even though there may be repercussions—like a bad grade or being forced to memorize the periodic table.”
I was surprised to see Christopher Barnes actually smile at this remark, as though his chore had suddenly become a mark of distinction.
“If all you needed from this class was a textbook and an exam, there’d be no reason for me to be here. But you need so much more. I am here to teach you biology, of course, but I am also teaching you how to think about biology.”
I perked up. Yes, I thought. He’s right. But the kid next to me, a boy with sandy hair and freckles, didn’t seem so convinced. He put his hand up slowly, like he was afraid Mr. Kaplan might bite it off at the wrist.
“But wh
at you were saying about extremophiles . . . Are you telling us we’re extremists?” he asked. “Like Al Qaeda?”
Mr. Kaplan grabbed a piece of chalk and started attacking the board. “‘Extremophile,’” he said, “comes from the Latin extremus, meaning extreme, and the Greek philia, meaning love.”
He stared at us as though he’d just imparted the meaning of life, but the class stared back with various expressions of terror and dismay. Except me. What I’d just witnessed from Mr. Kaplan was the most amazing pedagogical display I’d ever seen.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Kaplan said, snapping his eyes at my face.
“I’m Iris.” I swallowed. “Iris Dupont.”
“And why are you smiling, Ms. Dupont?”
When he used my last name, shivers scurried up my arms, as though his invocation of Ms. Dupont had transformed me into a different person. I was the focal point of the room. I realized I could shrug and look away, uniting with my fellow classmates and giving myself a fighting chance of social solvency at this school, or I could speak my mind, thereby aligning myself with Mr. Kaplan and irreparably destroying my reputation before I even had the chance to build one. I looked over at Christopher Barnes, who was furiously reading the periodic table. Then I looked at Mr. Kaplan.
What would Ed Murrow do? But of course I knew the answer. “I want to be an extremist—I mean an extremophile.”
I felt nineteen pairs of eyes roll in their sockets, and behind me somebody whispered a snide remark about my briefcase.
“And how will you achieve this extreme status, Ms. Dupont?”
The Year of the Gadfly Page 2
