The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  While we were debating the merits of each plan, I got a text from Linny.

  Linny: How’s Edgar?

  Gemma: Who’s Edgar?

  Linny: My fish. You fed him, right?

  Gemma: Sorry. I didn’t know its name.

  Shit. I left Mel and Kate to strategize, while I raced over to Woolf Hall, hoping to find a live goldfish. Edgar was still swimming. There was a Post-it on the outside of Linny’s desk drawer that said fish food. I opened the drawer and found the shaker bottle on top of a file folder. I gave Edgar a few extra shakes. He swam to the surface and chomped on the confetti grub.

  I was about to return the fish food to the drawer when I noticed a box of latex gloves shoved in the corner next to the file. The gloves made no sense. Everything in that drawer suddenly became suspicious. I picked up the file and opened it. Inside was a large Ziploc bag containing a little stack of pretty leaves, three to a stem. Not the kind of plant you typically keep in a baggie. Beneath the poison oak were computer printouts of water-heater manuals. I couldn’t believe how blind I had been. Linny was the shower terrorist, the poison-oak perp, and presumably the lice wrangler. I got my phone and called her.

  “Is Edgar alive?” Linny said when she answered.

  “Yes. He’s fine.”

  I had so much to say that I said nothing for a long while. Linny broke the silence.

  “I thought you’d figure it out sooner,” she said.

  “Did you have help?”

  “Not really. I mean, Keith knew and didn’t rat me out. And Rupert had to lend me his keys so I could make a copy.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I promised not to join the A/V Club or make any trouble for him and his fake club.”

  I didn’t say anything for a while as I contemplated how well she had orchestrated the plan.

  “The poison oak, how did you…?”

  “Housekeeping works floor by floor. I contaminated the sheets when they came out of the dryer. The housekeepers wear gloves, so they were mostly spared.”

  “But the lice,” I said. “How did you manage that?”

  “That was just an amazing bit of good fortune,” Linny said. “They got lice all on their own.”

  “Linny. You have to stop. They’ll kill you if they find out,” I said. “Let me take it from here.”

  “But I’ve had the blackout on my schedule for weeks. And my test run went beautifully.”

  A part of me was proud of Linny’s initiative; I was also rattled, because it reminded me that you can never really know anyone, what’s going on in their head and what they’re capable of. We would have to move quickly to shine a bright light on Dulcinea before someone foiled our plans—or before anyone really got hurt.

  * * *

  —

  I went to Ms. Witt’s apartment and told her about our strategy session. I asked her what she would do—gaslight or bomb.

  “Gaslighting is just revenge,” she said. “Will it stop the Dulcinea bullshit?”

  “Eventually,” I said.

  “No,” Witt said. “This isn’t a game of cat and mouse. You’re trying to end something that should have never existed. That’s your priority.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So we go big. We bomb the entire school with Dulcinea scorecards. That should put the whole thing to bed, right?”

  Witt shook her head, got up from the couch, and began to pace.

  “If you widely distribute the scorecards, then everyone can see everyone else’s card,” Witt said, thinking aloud.

  “Right. But the names are all codified,” I said.

  “And it’ll take less than an hour for someone to figure it out. That means you expose every girl who’s participated. You turn the whole thing into a public shaming. Can you imagine what that would feel like? Two humiliations for the price of one.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way.

  “What do you suggest?” I said.

  “Keep it individual. Show each girl what was written about her. Privately, so as not to embarrass her. I guarantee when the girls see those score sheets, blowjobs will become virtually obsolete.”

  * * *

  —

  It took some time for us to hash out our plan. Mel, Kate, and I debated for hours about how to disseminate our information. We eventually decided to go old school, delivering handwritten cards containing each recipient’s score sheet for the Dulcinea Award to her private mailbox in Brontë Mailroom.

  We composed the form letter to be deliberately cold and precise.

  Dear Swallow,

  Congratulations! You have earned entry into the Dulcinea Award, whether that was your intention or not. Below you will find your scorecard or scorecards.

  We realize that your evaluation may come as a shock. Perhaps you thought you were in love or in like. For a few of you, the existence of this contest may come as no surprise.

  Take a moment to look at your review and think about how you feel.

  Are you angry? Do you feel duped? Do you want an explanation or perhaps revenge? If so, please bring this invitation to Keats Studio at 8:00 this evening.

  If you don’t care, if your dignity hasn’t been diminished, all we ask is that you destroy this card and refrain from mentioning it to anyone. If you do not abide by our request, there will be dire repercussions. We are everywhere; we see everything.

  Please do not underestimate us.

  Signed,

  La Resistance

  The rest of the weekend, Mel, Kate, and I hid out in my office and compiled data on each swallow. We placed her scoring sheet (or sheets) in an envelope with her code name on top.

  When we were done, there was nothing left to do but celebrate. I was out of weed, but we knew that Adam had a stash of fine liquor in his room. Mel would have no part of my B&E, but Kate, crazy Kate, was game for anything these days.

  We stole Rupert’s extra set of keys from Milton and began to case Dick House. Once Kate had cleared the first floor, I entered and approached Adam’s door. I had to go through the keys one by one.

  “Someone’s coming,” Kate said.

  With my finger, I marked the location on the key ring where I’d left off and shoved my hand and the keys into the canvas bag. I leaned against the wall, trying to look like I was casually waiting for someone. It was just Norman. I said hey.

  Norman opened his door and said, “Carry on. I’m taking a nap. Won’t be out here for a while.”

  After Norman was inside his room and had plausible deniability, I tried six more keys until I reached the one that opened Adam’s door.

  I swear, we were only looking for booze. I opened his closet. On the top shelf were several bottles of champagne and a few bottles of hard alcohol. I had to stand on a chair to see all the way back. There were sixteen bottles total. I pulled bottles of bourbon and vodka from the back shelf. I could have taken more, but there was no reason to be greedy.

  Most of the school’s walk-in closets had two rows for clothes. Adam used only the front row, where he packed in his shirts, trousers, blazers, trademark pastel oxford shirts, even his gym clothes. Adam’s closet was very un-Adam-like, which is why I explored further. I parted his clothes, like I was doing a breaststroke. That’s when I saw the gray file cabinet. I grabbed a handful of hangers and started moving them to his bed. Kate was keeping watch.

  “Make sure the door is locked,” I said, clearing enough space to access the file drawers.

  Kate regarded the file cabinet and reached in to open a drawer. It rattled as she pulled.

  “Locked,” she said.

  “If the booze isn’t worth locking up, what the hell is in that cabinet?” I said.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Mel.

  Mel: Abort mission. Too risky.

 
; Norman Crowley

  Aside from my paranoid, mashed-potato-deficient Thanksgiving dinner, I was happy that week. Happy that I didn’t have to watch my mother cry through another holiday; happy that there were girls who talked to me without looking over my shoulder, searching for someone better to come along; happy that Jonah made me play tennis with him even though I really don’t like tennis.

  It wouldn’t last, the happiness. I knew that. But I figured I should enjoy it, that feeling of being someone who mattered, who had cool friends. I wanted to stretch it out as long as I could. I felt nostalgic before it was even over. It might have been the best week of my life. I know how lame that sounds now.

  On Saturday night, Jonah, Mel, Gemma, Kate, and I hung out on the rooftop of Dick House. I didn’t worry about overstaying my welcome and I didn’t have to think about being invited. We were all just there, being whoever it was that we were when no one was watching. It would have been weird if I left. We drank really good bourbon. At least that’s what Jonah kept telling me. I pretended not to know whose bourbon it was.

  “Plausible deniability. Yeah, yeah, we get it, Norman,” Gemma said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mel. “We’ll never tell anyone you’re our Deep Throat.”

  I was even happy the next day, when my head was pounding from that good bourbon hangover.

  * * *

  —

  Monday morning, everything was back to normal. I ate breakfast with my roommate, Calvin. Over the holiday, he had played Guitar Hero with his cousins for four days straight. He was convinced he had carpal tunnel. He asked me three times in an hour if his left wrist looked swollen. I said, three times, “I don’t know, dude, I’m not a doctor.”

  In Witt’s class, the Thanksgiving orphans pretended we hadn’t just spent a week together. Jonah didn’t even look at me. I did get a text from Mel. I thought it was a brush-off, like something you say on the last day of school when you know you won’t see the person over the summer.

  Mel: stay cool

  Calvin was studying for a chem lab, so I was alone in Dahl at lunch. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, exactly. I wasn’t sure I had the right to have a steady circle of friends when I had no character, no backbone, no balls. It didn’t bother me much before, but this time was different, because I knew what I had lost.

  Gemma, Tegan, and Emelia were back in their circle, sitting with the Ten; Mel, Kate, and Enid were at the nerd table, heads in books, not acknowledging the others’ existence. When Jonah strolled into Dahl Hall, I looked away.

  Fifteen minutes after lunch began, Gemma stood up and bused her tray. At the door, she locked eyes with Mel and Kate. Gemma nodded, like she was giving a signal, and walked out of the dining room. A minute later, Mel walked out, followed by Kate. I was done with my whatever casserole and wanted to see what they were up to. I cleared my tray and followed them.

  Once outside, I spotted the three of them walking separately toward Headquarters. Gemma, then Kate, took the nearest entrance, and Mel circled around to the other side. I followed a minute or so after Kate. In the first-floor hallway, I saw Gemma standing next to the entrance to Brontë Mailroom, her back flat against the wall. Mel and Kate took their stations by the two distant exit doors.

  Gemma peered inside the mailroom, then took cover. They all looked like cops doing some tactical maneuver. Kate looked over her shoulder and saw me.

  “Hey, Norman,” Kate said.

  “Hi, Kate.”

  I toggled my gaze between Kate and where Mel was stationed at the other end of the hall.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Nothing,” said Kate.

  A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. A text from Mel.

  Mel: We need to keep Brontë Mail clear for 5.

  When I looked up, I saw Ms. Primm coming out of AA. Kate muttered, “Shit.” Mel looked at me with wild eyes. I didn’t know what any of them were up to, but it appeared that Primm was going to foil their plan. I had chosen a side, so I fell in line. I quickly intercepted Primm in the hallway before she reached the mailroom.

  “Hey, Ms. Primm. I was just looking for you.”

  “Hello, Norman, is everything all right?” Primm said.

  “Oh yeah. Definitely. But I would like to have a chat—”

  “Why don’t you make an appointment with Ms. Pinsky and we can talk later on?”

  I walked backward in front of her, forcing Primm to slow her pace.

  “You wouldn’t have time right now? In—in your office?”

  Primm sighed, but she so rarely gets requests for her counsel, she couldn’t resist.

  “Okay,” she said, turning around. “I have a few minutes.”

  Primm returned in the direction she’d come. Mel bent down to tie her shoelaces. She looked up at me as I passed her and mouthed thank you. I felt like I’d just thrown myself on a grenade.

  I thought I could stall Primm. Sit there for a while worrying my hands, and then maybe her phone would ring, or my phone would ring. Who was I kidding? Nobody calls anybody anymore.

  “Norman?” Ms. Primm said. “What’s troubling you?”

  She was smiling. I think it was supposed to be one of those comforting smiles, but it was all teeth and weirdly geometrical. It wasn’t the smile of someone actually smiling. Her hair looked so much bigger when the light hit it. It was kind of hard to concentrate.

  I wondered if the coast was clear. I couldn’t exactly check my phone. I racked my brain for something I could give Primm. A secret that wasn’t so awful. It came to me as I gazed down at the nervous motion of my hands.

  “I can’t stop washing my hands,” I said.

  Come to think of it, they did look a little dry, and I was perhaps overly conscious of hygiene and the general filthiness of doorknobs.

  “Why do you think that is?” Primm said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There are germs everywhere. Even soap dispensers carry potentially harmful bacteria. How are you supposed to be clean if the thing you need to get clean is filthy?”

  Nothing I said was a lie. It occurred to me, I might actually have a problem.

  “Norman, are you sure that germs are what you’re really trying to clean?”

  “Um, I think so?” I said.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I was in Primm’s office. If I ever had anything real to talk to anyone about, like maybe a cleaning fixation, Primm was the last person I’d go to.

  “Do you think it’s possible that your handwashing is a physical manifestation of a psychological need?”

  “Uhhhh,” I said. I was going to let Primm run the clock on this.

  “Perhaps you’re trying to clean your soul,” she said.

  Who wasn’t? I shrugged and looked out the window.

  “It’s okay, Norman,” Primm said.

  I nodded.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  I didn’t know what we were talking about anymore. I pretended to have a bit of a coughing fit as I reached into my pocket and typed a text to Mel behind the cover of Primm’s desk.

  Norman: SOS.

  I sat up and cleared my throat.

  “I think I’m feeling better now.”

  “Are you really, Norman? Because I’m not feeling that, intuitively,” Primm said.

  “No. No. Really, I am. I feel fine. I feel like I could go days without washing my hands. You know what I mean. I mean, not really. But not as often. Just enough to not be disgusting or become ill.”

  “Norman, it’s okay. This is how God made you. You are free to love whoever you want.”

  Primm did that concerned-adult look, but with a weird cartoon precision. I used to feel sorry for her because everyone hated her, but now I got it. I also got wh
at she was getting at.

  “I’m gay,” I said.

  Primm beamed.

  “I’m so proud of you, Norman,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The truth was, if I could do it all over again, I would have come out as gay freshman year. The straight guys would have left me alone and I’d have way more friends who are girls. Stonebridge Academy was not a healthy place for heterosexuals.

  There were three loud bangs on the door. Then I heard Mel’s voice shouting from the other side.

  “Norman! Norman! I need your econ notes. Norman, are you in there?”

  Mel opened the door and flew into the room. Primm got to her feet and gave Mel a stern reprimand for intruding on a private conversation. Mel apologized. I thanked Primm for her time. Mel grabbed my arm and we made a run for it down the long hallway, through the stairwell, and out of the building, where we collapsed on the grass, heaving with laughter.

  “That was awesome,” I said. “Wait, do you even take econ?”

  “No. But I read a biography of John Maynard Keynes last year.”

  “You are amazing,” I said.

  “No, Norman. You’re amazing.”

  It was and is my highest high.

  Gemma Russo

  We choreographed the whole thing the night before. Brontë Mailroom is generally deserted during lunch hour. Mel and Kate kept watch in the hallway of Headquarters while I delivered each personalized invitation to its recipient’s mailbox. Just their swallow handle was inscribed on the outside of the envelope. The only person who saw me in Brontë was the mailroom guy. He barely registered my existence.

  Then we waited.

  I texted Linny to meet me at the Mudhouse during one of her independent-study classes. Linny’s Dick House subterfuge, while misguided and dangerous, was worthy of some acknowledgment or reward. I had her favorite chocolate cupcake waiting for her when she arrived.