by Lisa Lutz
“I don’t like the company you keep.”
“But do you like me?”
“I like who I think you are,” I said.
Norman Crowley
I’m not one of them.
I don’t think like them. I don’t approve of what they’re doing. But I have to live with those guys, day and night, and I’ve seen what they do to the ones who refuse to toe the line. If you don’t serve or follow the cult of the Stonebridge leaders, they won’t just shun you; they’ll put a target on your back and keep firing until your flesh looks like hamburger meat.
The Darkroom spun off from chat rooms in the Blackboard system. They were called “locker rooms” in the early days, but anyone could go in them. I wasn’t around back then. The girls’ and boys’ locker rooms in Blackboard still exist, but only the clueless freshmen post anything there. Here’s a brief history of the Darkroom: A guy named Wally Low, whose handle was MadMax, created the first iteration of the site, which was basically a primitive message board in the boys’ locker room. MadMax’s successor, the first Hef, who chose to remain anonymous, supposedly built the Darkroom after one of his classmates was suspended for posting a detailed description of his girlfriend’s breasts on MadMax’s original message board. The girlfriend somehow saw the post, recognized what I believe was a reference to a mole, and filed a formal complaint with the school. Hef expressed in his mission statement when the Darkroom was first launched that he wanted to create a safe place where guys could talk about their innermost desires. And post exploitative pictures of women.
* * *
—
When I returned to Stonebridge for my sophomore year, the Nietzsche dude and his henchmen were gone.
I was invisible again.
The Darkroom had changed guard with the new year. Oscar Chang, a junior, was tapped as the gatekeeper, the primary administrator and password protector. The senior class was woefully underpopulated with PHP-literate students in 2008. When Chang’s mother got a job in Frankfurt, the editors began searching for a new gatekeeper.
The editors, as they like to be called, are members of the Ten who oversee the contents of the Darkroom, including the Dulcinea Award. They’re the guys who determine who has access to the site and at what level. Adam, Jack, Gabriel, Mick, and Jonah are editors.
Mick is definitely the face and hair of the organization. I’ve heard it takes a full hour to get the volume and chaos that he’s aiming for. Mick runs the board meetings and it always seems like he’s in charge. He’s certainly the one who gives me my marching orders. But there’s an intense consigliere relationship between Mick and Adam, which makes me wonder who is really calling the shots. Jack is obviously the muscle. He’s also weirdly obsessed with the security of the website. He’s always inquiring about the health of the firewall. Gabe’s the guy who makes everyone feel better about himself. I can’t come up with another reason they keep him around.
And then there’s Jonah, who is technically an editor. He has a password and a login, although I can’t recall ever seeing him post content. Jonah tries to pretend he’s just a jock, but I’ve had enough classes with him to know he’s also a slummer.
My role in this organization started a few years ago, when Jonah’s older brother, Jason, was on the editorial board.
Editorial board. I can’t believe how stupid it all sounds. Anyway, Jason recommended me for the job because Jonah told him I could code. I wasn’t being welcomed into the Ten or anything like that. But when they asked for my assistance in maintaining and protecting a secret portal for communications among the elite, I felt honored. And relieved.
I had only heard of the Darkroom back then. It was a nebulous idea that seemed harmless enough. Then I saw it.
I wish I’d had the courage to refuse the editors, to leave them scratching their heads trying to navigate the back end without crashing the system. I didn’t just keep the Darkroom in operation, I rebuilt and refined it. I created the database for the Dulcinea Award; I designed portals for VIPs to post pictures and other materials; and I implemented the ciphers that identified each unwitting Dulcinea entrant.
I was not coerced, blackmailed, or cajoled into playing my role in this screwed-up game. I was a good soldier, at first. But, later, I was waiting for the smallest reason to become a turncoat.
Mr. Ford
Must meet. Keats. 7:45 p.m.
You will not be disappointed.
MD
At 7:30 P.M. on Saturday, the note, inscribed on gray linen card stock, was slipped under my door.
They used to just knock, deliver information, make their requests, and leave. The cloak-and-dagger shit gets old fast. I could have blown off the meet. I’d planned to stay in that night and work on the latest notes from my agent.
I wanted to ignore Mick. But the kid rarely oversold his information. He’s like a drug dealer who has reliably good shit. Still, I kept him waiting.
Inside, Mick Devlin sat on a large wooden desk, legs crossed, with an unlit cigarette poised in his hand. Only the front right corner of his white oxford shirt was tucked in; a tie hung around his neck more like a scarf, and his hair was so disheveled I began to wonder if he ever washed it. Lazy and rich was his brand, I suppose. He sure nailed it.
“Ford, good man. Always so prompt. One of my favorite things about you.”
For fuck’s sake. I’ve got to take Gatsby off the required-reading list.
“What is it?” I said.
Mick held out another square of artisanal paper. It contained a handwritten shopping list for the liquor store. He laid a hundred-dollar bill on top of the list.
“That was a one-time deal. I’m not making a habit of it,” I said.
“Ford, good man, what if I told you I acquired some intelligence so sublime you would buy out an entire liquor store just for a glimpse of it?”
“I’m not in the market for information anymore,” I said.
Mick fought back a sneer. Having a marginally intelligent teenager regard you with superiority can put a man into a deep psychological trough. I really needed to sell that goddamn book.
“Not even information on the mysterious and strangely fetching Ms. Witt?” he said.
“I know all about her family,” I said.
“This is different. Something very unfortunate went down at Warren.”
He got my attention. I agreed to get the booze and Mick coughed up his dirt. Was it worth it? Don’t know. But I’ve found that you have better luck with women if you know their deepest shame.
* * *
—
I delivered the liquor stash to a spot by the Douglas fir marked with an X. You’d think someone in authority would have noticed the hiding place by now. It’s only about ten feet into the woods.
I stood there for a long time, at the base of campus, debating whether to go home or go see Witt. I wanted to warn her, although I didn’t know if there was a way to do that without incriminating myself. I used the dim glow from my phone and walked carefully along the fire road until the light from the cottage came into view. I remember hearing a faint ringing noise in the direction of campus. It sounded like a fire alarm. I didn’t go back. There’s always some dickhead setting off the alarm just for the hell of it.
I knocked on Witt’s door. Inside, a voice, not Alex’s voice, said, “It’s open.”
I debated walking away, but the voice had an accent and I knew at once who she was and I wasn’t going to pass up my chance to meet her. I opened the door. There she was, on the floor, her back against the wall, wearing reading glasses and reviewing a sheaf of papers.
The cruel muse.
The essay itself was better than anything the man had written since his debut novel. After the Witts’ divorce, Len claimed that he’d overstated her influence—that her methods had in fact sabotaged his work rather than enhanced it. But I a
te it up. I’ve been looking for my own cruel muse ever since.
Nastya Witt. Even her name added color to his narrative.
She peered over her reading glasses and asked me if I was lost.
I said I was sorry; I don’t know why.
“I’m Finn Ford. I teach here with Alex.”
“Yes, I assumed so much. I did not think you were a man who wandered the forest at night,” she said. “Alex is taking a shower.”
“Sorry to bother you, Ms….”
“I am Alex’s mother. Nastya.”
“Nice to meet you, uh, Nastya. Are you here for a visit?”
“I don’t plan to move in permanently, if that’s your question.”
Write. Breathe. Fuck. That was her maxim to Mr. Witt. Or so he originally said.
In college, it was our mantra. I wanted to hear her say it. I couldn’t ask; it was stupid. I wanted her to like me.
“Finn Ford. Finn Ford,” she said. “Oh yes. You’re the writer who made my daughter angry,” she said.
“I am sorry about that,” I said.
“You apologize often, like a girl,” said Nastya.
I apologized again and left. Alas, the cruel muse was more fun on paper. She made me want to get drunk, not write.
Ms. Witt
My mother has the energy of an Olympic athlete half her age. Post-hike, she insisted on a quick dip in the ice-cold pond, followed by a walk into town for lunch. After that, we strolled around Lowland for two hours or so. Then we had drinks at Hemingway’s and discussed my father’s latest manuscript, specifically where it went off the rails. The day ended with a late dinner in my cottage—sausage and broccoli cooked on an outdoor flame. As exhausted as I was by then, I needed a shower and maybe a break from my mother, since I knew she’d stay awake until at least 1:00 or 2:00 A.M.
I told my mother I was going to take a shower at the school gym. I didn’t mention the bathhouse amenities. My mother declined, as I expected, citing the earlier pond bathing. She has more faith in the cleansing properties of groundwater than I do. Besides, she looked content, sitting on the stone floor, reviewing my father’s manuscript.
It was after 10:00 when I trudged into the dark woods toward the distant constellation of lit dorm rooms. Armed only with my flashlight, I felt more on edge than usual. I had to wonder if autonomy was worth the cost.
The bathhouse was empty, which unnerved me more than I expected. I should have forced my mother to come with me. I took a shower and dried off in the dressing room. Already, I felt a slight dread about the walk back and wanted to get it over with. I wrapped a towel around my head for the journey. I cut through the first floor of Beckett and strolled down the hallway that led past the free weights and cardio rooms, which was dark at night.
The trip lights flickered on when I entered the corridor. As I passed the girls’ locker room, I heard voices echo into the hall.
A boy first, harsh and cold: No, not like that.
A girl, pleading: Can I stop?
The boy: No, keep going.
The girl: But I’m tired.
Boy: If you quit, it’s a forfeit.
Girl: I’m trying.
Boy: I don’t get off, you have no shot at dulls—
Girl: Okay. Okay. Give me a sec.
They were quiet after that. I had a sick feeling in my gut. I couldn’t be sure exactly what I’d overheard, but I do know that the girl didn’t want to do whatever she was being asked to do.
I saw the red box out of the corner of my eye.
IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK GLASS.
I smashed the heel of my hand against the—not glass—plastic. The fire alarm screamed, stabbing my eardrums. I raced down the hall, out of the building, and ducked under the bleachers by the field. I waited for a minute or two to see who exited the building, but there were at least three other ways out. I walked briskly toward the rear of Headquarters, planning to cut back on Waugh Way.
Headquarters was a dead zone on the weekend. No student was allowed inside. And yet I could see a light flickering on the second floor. I counted the windows from right to left and realized the flicker was coming from my classroom. I rushed to the side entrance of the building and unlocked the door. I climbed two flights of stairs, stopped at the top landing, and listened. My sneakers were squeaking on the marble. I removed my shoes and left them at the end of the hall, tiptoeing down the corridor. The light from my classroom escaped into the hall. I ducked under the window as I reached for the knob and swung open the door.
A fierce scream shook the room as I was blinded by light.
Gemma Russo
After I left Jonah, I didn’t feel like going back to the party or my dorm. I grabbed a flashlight and Rupert’s spare keys—he shouldn’t leave them on a hook in a utility closet if he doesn’t want other people to use them—and headed up to the second floor of Headquarters. My intentions were pure. I wanted to see the Q&A’s. I wanted to know who was on my side. I was in there only a few minutes before a figure with a giant, amorphous hairdo walked into the room. I didn’t know what I was looking at.
I screamed and trained the flashlight on the weird figure. Then I realized it was Ms. Witt wearing a goddamn towel on her head. Witt screamed, then staggered backward, careening off the door and crashing to the floor. “Ouch,” she said, as she got to her feet. She wasn’t wearing shoes, which seemed odd.
I was so scared that I forgot I was trespassing, among other things.
“Ms. Witt?”
“Get that light out of my eyes.”
“Sorry,” I said.
Ms. Witt got up and searched the wall for the overhead-light switch. Eventually the bright fluorescents flickered on.
“Gemma? What the fuck are you doing in here?” Witt said.
That’s when I realized I was caught and in trouble. Ms. Witt rubbed her back and took a seat on top of her desk.
“Are you injured?” I said.
“I’m fine,” she said.
I saw her eyes clock the papers on the floor. The Q&A’s. I had just found them in the bottom drawer of her desk when she lumbered down the hall.
Shit.
I didn’t know what to do. It never occurred to me that she’d be in her classroom so late on a Saturday night. I gathered the papers for her and placed them in a neat stack on her desk, like it was no big deal.
“Sorry,” I said. “They have detention here. Hardly anyone gets it. But that seems like a fitting punishment. I’ll do however many days you think is appropriate.”
“Sit down, Gemma. That’s not how this is going to play out.”
I went for my usual seat in back until she said front row, in a tone that reminded me of my court-appointed attorney. I took Sandra P’s desk, since I’m pretty sure Carl sticks boogers under his. Then I waited as Witt looked over the papers I had been studying.
“Explain yourself,” Witt said.
“Honestly, it was just run-of-the-mill snooping,” I said.
“If you have to preface your sentence with honestly, you’re not being honest,” she said.
Usually I’m better at thinking on the fly, but it’s hard to explain why you’ve broken into a classroom for any other reason besides stealing test answers. I went with that excuse.
“I was looking for test questions and maybe answers?” I said.
“What tests, Gemma? There are no tests in my classes. If you’re going to lie to me, please do it with some flair.”
“Once again, I accept whatever punishment you deem fitting.”
Witt reached up and touched the towel on her head. She seemed surprised to find it there. She removed the towel and tossed it over her chair. Then she picked up the stack of Q&A’s, looking them over thoughtfully. She didn’t say anything for a while. It might have been one minute or twenty minutes. I lost track o
f time. Eventually she spoke.
“What do you love?” Witt said.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you hate?” she said, leafing through the stack.
I didn’t answer.
“Do you hate the Darkroom?”
I guess my poker face isn’t as good as I thought. I should probably play more poker.
Witt placed a Q&A on my desk. “Is this yours?” she said.
What do you love? I don’t know
What do you hate? The Darkroom and Dulcinea
If you could live inside a book, what book? Great Expectations
What do you want? Revenge
Who are you? I’m a spy
I don’t remember answering, but I guess that was another tell.
“So you’re my spy,” she said.
She had so many goddamn questions. It’s not like I could plead the fifth. I had to tell her something but not everything. If I didn’t give up some information, she would march me over to Dean Stinson’s house. I wasn’t sure what he’d do if there was another strike against me. It was impossible to say how punishable this crime was.
Witt asked me if I’d been leaving things at her door. I hadn’t, but I wanted to know what things and who had left them. She wasn’t giving me anything.
“I noticed something unusual about the Q&A’s,” Witt said. “Several of my students—presumably the female ones—gave the answer BJs or blowjobs to the question What do you hate? Weird, huh?”
“They don’t call it a job for nothing,” I said.
“If you hate something, you don’t do it. If you don’t do it, you don’t hate it,” said Witt.
“Is that an example of a tautology?” I asked.
Witt picked up the towel and twisted it back around her head. She walked over to the thermostat and adjusted the temperature. She looked cold and tired. Her eyes glazed over for a second and then snapped into focus, like those old cameras.