The Punishment Club

by D. A. Maddox

  Only Ernie kept his cool. “Wagner or Handel?” he called after him.

  “Wagner, please!” Buddy answered automatically—he was a band kid, not a chorus kid—and noted Ernie took the time to change the intended platter.

  Why the hell am I encouraging this? he scolded himself, bolting out over the porch and onto the lawn. Behind him, the opening swell of “Ride of the Valkyrie” grew rather than diminished in his ears.

  No Hell Day for me, he reminded himself, making good time.

  “Hands on your head, pledge!” a voice called after him.

  Again, Buddy didn’t think. He only did as he was told, even though he rather suspected he didn’t have to. The owner of that voice wasn’t the same one as on the computer. No, the voice that commanded him now was Kevin Carter of the retro bowl haircut and the predisposition to back freshmen up against the walls and threaten them. He supposed he could tell Kevin to go suck eggs, pound sand, fly a kite. But he couldn’t be sure.

  He put his hands on his head, even as the sorority house lawns ahead of him filled with young women, females of the species who gathered for a single purpose: to watch him do this to himself. They were transitionals, same as him. Most would never have seen anything like this before. He charged forward as though in slow motion, his cock rocking right and left and up and down, the music behind him celebrating his self-sacrifice as, everywhere, voices screeched and phones flashed.

  Don’t take pictures. No. Please.

  God, he was about to cry like a baby.

  The Behavior Reformation Laws…

  Circling the tree, he reminded himself that Hell Day was from six in the morning until three in the afternoon. Hell Night was only ten minutes—or as fast as he could be done with this. No one would share these pictures. They’d get in just as much trouble as he would—surely more, since it wasn’t like he’d actually wanted to do this.

  Second circuit.

  But you are doing it, Buddy. Unlike the others, you chose to do it.

  Defiantly, arguing against only himself, he answered, The school should be in trouble, not me.

  Third circuit. He slapped the tree. Started back.

  He put his hands on his head again and ran for the source of the music, finding Beefsteak Kevin right out there on the porch, howling with his friends and pointing at Buddy’s genitals.

  He flailed his way past them, going through the open door.

  Surprisingly, they backed off. He made it back to the staircase in no time. Ernie, yelling after him, assured him he’d had the fastest time yet.

  “Ride of the Valkyrie” wasn’t even half done.

  ****

  11:37, he noted when he had all of his clothes (and his ordinary analog watch) back on.

  No Hell Day for me, he said to himself, hustling back down the hall to his room. No Hell Day for me. Take that, Kevin, you … fucking asshole.

  But he had to be sure. The last one had to be assertive, like the one who had silenced the chat not once but twice. She had to do this—not only for him, but for Emma Jo and even Peter. And for herself. There couldn’t be any doubt.

  Don’t think. Just do. Like she said, it has to be someone.

  When he sat back at his open laptop, Cassidy addressed him right away.

  “Holy cow, Buddy, that was fast.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and he meant it. He clicked her icon. “I’m sorry for this. Good luck.”

  ****

  “Woohoo! Showtime!”

  Cassidy sat with her hands in her lap, gawking at the screen, dumbstruck. Why? she thought. What did I do to you?

  But that was an answer she had already given when the one on the receiving end had been somebody else. Typically, no surprise, Buddy had picked up on that and taken it as his reason to select her. She might have predicted it. She should have kept her stupid mouth shut.

  Mom? she thought. Collette? What do I do?

  Because this was one of those rare things Dad would never hear about.

  Her timer was at 14:40—and Toni was just, like, so happy about it. As for her older sister, even if she were right here and in the moment, she’d probably say, Just get it over with. You’ll be fine. No big deal.

  Not because it wasn’t a big deal. She’d say it because there was no choice, and because she’d done her part in her day. She’d want to bestow upon Cassidy a little courage, even if it was false. Totally false.

  Transitionals did not do this.

  Only, three others already had.

  “Come on,” Toni said, reaching for her arm.

  Cassidy lurched out of her seat, slapped down the twin triangle covers over her pyramid tablet, and reeled on her. Cutting herself off screen was not the bravado that Peter had shown—but, sheesh, this wasn’t as matter of fact as she had thought. “I’m doing it!” she said, maybe a little louder than she’d intended.

  Toni held her palms up, took a step or two back, and grinned. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  Cassidy understood. Under other circumstances, it might not have been a big deal, might even have been sexy. For a long time now, Cassidy had known that she was attracted to both men and women of a certain type. And that was fine. People could like, or date, whoever the heck they wanted, as long as they didn’t break the law while doing it. But that type was not Toni. She didn’t think so, anyway.

  And Toni might not even be gay. She might just be a carnivorous witch.

  Still in her nightgown, underwear, shoes, and socks, Cassidy made for the hall.

  Toni stood in the doorway, arms spread.

  “Toni, please,” she said. “Just let me go and get it over with. And please don’t watch. Not from the window, not from anywhere.”

  Toni put her arms down. She made a face as though her feelings were hurt. “Why not? Everyone else will.”

  And that was true. By the sound of things, outside on the quad it was pretty darn crowded now.

  “You’re—” A hesitation. Cassidy hated how beaten she sounded, just now. “You’re my roommate. You’re supposed to be my mentor.”

  Toni stepped forward. “Then let me help you.”

  Cassidy lurched forward. When Toni took her shoulders, she cried, “Help me after! Let me go! There’s no—” Cassidy never swore. “No freakin’ time!”

  A moment suspended, like an apple falling from a tree stopping mid-air.

  “Go,” Toni said at last, eyes downcast. “I won’t watch. But I’ll be here for you when you come back, if you want.”

  Cassidy let out her breath, not actually having expected to be let off so easily. But she didn’t dwell on it. She took off. She nearly ran her own shoes off.

  She didn’t believe for a second that Toni would keep her word. Cassidy was no idiot. Toni would watch from the window. She’d take pictures.

  At least I’ll be looking the other way, she thought, and we can both pretend it didn’t happen.

  ****

  Cassidy completed the dare—her arms rigid at three and six o’clock, her pale, compact little ass out in the September wind—forgetting to slap the tree until she had just started back, when one of the Delta Kappa boys called out a reminder. Yet no one else had slowed her down.

  She hadn’t let the others down. She was back in the entryway of her sorority house with plenty of time to spare, the voices of her new classmates ringing in her mind, with five minutes still on the clock. And for her, no obligation to choose anyone.

  She allowed Theresa and Faye to help her back into her things. She accepted the hugs, the promises she was done. She took the proffered tissue with a small laugh of her own.

  I did it, Collette, she thought, hurrying back to her room, to her tablet, to call an end to things and declare victory. I did it, Mom.

  No questions, Dad. College stuff. It’s cool.

  She hoped Toni wouldn’t make a thing of it.

  ****

  Toni never did. And she didn’t watch.

  Actually, she lay on her bunk, still in her clothes, answering texts th
rough most of it.

  Toni, what is this?

  That was Farah, the big sister on campus, the one in charge of Hell Day for the freshman girls, among other things.

  Toni texted back, No idea. It’s not from you? Are you just getting up now? Really? What about Doug?

  Dead time.

  Farah: What the fuck is going on? Don’t lie to me. Did you do this?

  Toni: I’m innocent. I swear. As much a surprise to me as anyone.

  And that was true. It really was. Whoever had sabotaged freshman initiation, Toni had no idea. But she was glad Cassidy had been made a part of it. Farah would let her skip Hell Day, probably. That was a good thing. She didn’t want Cassidy tormented by anyone—other than, in some playful, harmless way, herself.

  I kept my word, she thought, rolling over, powering off her phone, facing the wall as Cassidy came back into the room. I didn’t see a thing. Talk to me if you want. I’ll be here.

  When she didn’t, Toni thought, Or don’t.

  ****

  By the time Cassidy was back on screen, everyone knew by the clamor outside that it was all done. In the Dare Dungeon, congratulations abounded. Laughter reigned. Confessions of profound embarrassment from her fellow streakers and eventual relief from the others the order of the night.

  The magic mouth that had summoned them, however—the authors of the original letter—never returned to the chat.

  Whatever it wanted, Cassidy thought, it already got.

  Chapter Two

  Blowup

  Toni scrolled through her most recent pics, her tragically interrupted video, having one last chuckle through an early morning yawn. Emma Jo Swanson had a nicely toned tushie. Doing this is a crying shame, Toni thought. But she deleted everything, including the earlier stuff with Peter and his … peter.

  She wasn’t even tempted to share it. Texting her friends during the fun was one thing, but recording the fun was another. She didn’t dare keep any of it.

  No one would if they were smart. Possession of such “pornography” could get a transitional in serious trouble, although Toni had yet to learn what the nature of that trouble might be. Rumor was, as a senior, she’d find out in this year’s Making the Transition class, but that class didn’t start until later next week.

  It was five thirty in the morning. The sun wasn’t up. In fifteen minutes, while darkness yet held command over their cloistered little world in southern Maryland, she and every non-freshman on campus would awaken the “Chesapukes.” It would be done with kazoos, buckets of iced water, or simple shouting while trumpets blasted “Reveille” out on the quad. A good time.

  Would Farah let the Unclothed Quartet off?

  Oh, those poor saps are going to get theirs, anyway, she thought, sitting up in bed, casting a pitying glance over to the other side of the room where Cassidy had turned to the wall in sleep, still in her nightgown. When this gets out, our phones will get hacked by Big Brother. With a small start, she realized it could have already happened.

  So, yeah, smart kids wouldn’t keep any of it, much less share. Most kids in college were smart.

  But in any population this size, there was bound to be an exception.

  She didn’t have any more time to ruminate on it, though. At that moment, her phone dinged. Both her computer and Cassidy’s powered on, activated from afar by someone with access to their grid. Someone in authority.

  ****

  Peter could not believe what he was reading, but there it was:

  Hell Day has been canceled. There will be no freshman initiation this year.

  Next to him, Carlson stood beaming over his shoulder, fresh cup of coffee in one hand, rubbing the morning stubble with the other. “Smile, man. We’re off the hook. Newbies done got spared!”

  How his roommate had managed to sleep through the chaos of last night, Peter had no idea. Or maybe he hadn’t slept and was still only pretending that he had. Either way, Peter hadn’t yet given him the recap. And Peter had no smile in him. It wasn’t just that he’d done his fair part and wanted the same from his peers—although that thought might move from the back of his mind to the front later if everything worked out okay.

  This can’t be good.

  “Whoa, dude, check,” Carlson said, leaning in, pointing. “From Dean Turner herself. I thought Ernie said—”

  “She pretends Hell Day doesn’t exist,” Peter finished for him, feeling cold gather in the room even though the window was closed.

  “Bizarre,” Carlson said.

  Peter nodded. She knows. We’re busted.

  A second e-mail came over the university inbox. On Carlson’s desk, his phone vibrated. Peter clicked the e-mail open. It was a calendar alert, flagged “urgent.”

  Student and Faculty Bright Box Meeting, 9 AM. Attendance Required. Students are to dress according to code.

  And a third. Peter tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Choking back tears, he clicked.

  Students are to remain in-house. No going outside. Phones are to remain on, in chargers if necessary. No data deletion until directed to do so. Students who disregard this order will be subject to discipline. By agreement with the Office of Behavior Reformation, students who comply will be excused from all punishment associated with possession of salacious materials, provided said materials have not been disseminated.

  “Carlson,” he said, voice steady with realization, his difficulty speaking vanished, “I’m dead.”

  And to think, he’d had a nice, long, lazy morning with his saxophone planned, perhaps checking in on the Hell Day action from time to time.

  “Huh?” Carlson said, bemused. “What?”

  But without another word, Peter rose from his chair and dashed from the room, absently grabbing his shirt from the floor and hauling it on (backward, without realizing it) as he went. He had to call home, talk to Mom and Dad.

  They’d know what to do.

  ****

  I’m in trouble, Emma Jo thought. I just got here, and I’m already in trouble.

  For the first time in my life.

  And, oh boy, the waterworks were threatening—hard. She wasn’t one to cry at the drop of a hat. But she was scared, and this was still a new and strange place to her. She was only nineteen, and transitionals didn’t even know what trouble meant until they were already deep in it.

  She’d just come out of the shower, making sure to towel off in the bathroom and emerge from it wearing that towel like a burrito wrap, and with her underwear on underneath. Theresa, who’d cleaned up first, hadn’t been nearly that self-conscious. And she—a fellow freshman—was still at the vanity, tits out while finishing her hair and makeup. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Toni says we can let it all hang out when it’s just us. After last night, I thought you’d be past all that dumb modesty stuff. We’re sisters now.”

  Emma Jo nodded, went to her dresser. But it was with her back to Theresa that she discarded the towel to pull on her school-issued skirt and her pressed white shirt. This last Theresa had laid out for her, on a bed that had also been mysteriously made while Emma Jo had been trying to clear her head under hot water.

  Hot water, she thought, buttoning her shirt. Going to be in it for a while. Where’s my stupid neckerchief?

  She opened her mouth to thank Theresa, then shut it again. If she spoke, she’d lose it. There was no way Theresa didn’t know—no way she wasn’t thinking the same thing—which was probably why she was playing nice anyway. And after she and Faye had encouraged her last night…

  Practically forced me out the front door.

  Emma Jo sat on the bed, closed her eyes. Breathed. It was still only six thirty. She had to look her Chesapeake best for the stupid Bright Box meeting, and she found herself glad she’d left her hair up and braided last night. She was in no mood to deal with it down. No mood for brushing.

  Theresa, who was now wearing a bra, sat down next to her. “We got scammed, Emma Jo,” she said, shouldering her. “All of us. Admin will kick up
a stink, sure—but when they get to the bottom of it, they’ll see. Whoever wrote that letter, whoever set up that chatroom, that’s who’s going to get it.”

  “You think?” Emma Jo managed, hardly whispering.

  “Well, who the hell should get it, girl? Four freshmen who did what they were told because they thought they had to? This is the United States of America. Truth, justice, all that stuff, right?”

  “Right,” Emma Jo said, suddenly rather heartened. Hearing it like that, it did sound right. They’d been scammed.

  On the windowsill, just over the outlet it was plugged into, her phone dinged.

  Only her phone, not her computer.

  Theresa’s phone, meanwhile, remained unlit and inert on the vanity.

  ****

  Buddy went to it, his cuffs still unbuttoned, tie draped over his shoulders, unknotted and hanging loose like a priest’s stole. He approached it warily. After the earlier all-calls, listening to it rattle against the wood of his desk independently of the other devices in the room, he felt more or less like he was approaching a tightly coiled, pissed-off cottonmouth.

  Ernie and all the other seniors had just gotten a summons of their own, to where or for what purpose, Buddy had no idea. A sidelong glance out the window, however, revealed that the “remain in-house” order either didn’t apply to them or had already been lifted.

  Buddy grabbed his phone without looking at the screen and went first to the window for a better look. The quad was filling with them, pairs and clusters of upperclassmen who moved in a single direction. They exited the quad entirely, passing the academic buildings on the Hub, which included the Faulkner Building (admissions), the Student Union, and the Reagan Building (administration). It was creepy, surreal, the way they walked without speaking, shuffling like zombies from that banned old horror movie, Night of the Living Dead, which his father secretly possessed on two old theater film reels.

  His phone vibrated his hand. Finally, Buddy looked.

  At 8:50, report to the front door of your fraternity house. Reply “yes” if you have received this message.