Four by Four

by Sara Mesa

  Teeny’s mother starts to piece together a response, but the Booty interrupts her:

  “The incident you refer to wasn’t an escape. It wasn’t even an attempt at one, believe me. The girls explained it later themselves. It was natural curiosity, and had the most logical motivation. The girl wanted to visit her mother. It’s absolutely understandable, and it shows she has a good heart. Or do you think people like Celia don’t have feelings?”

  “I just think that she isolates my daughter from the other girls. She spends more time in Celia’s dorm than her own, which is what her father and I pay for.”

  “I happen to think the opposite is true. Celia saves your daughter from isolation. Your daughter is shy. Celia looks out for her, gives her attention.”

  The tension is palpable. The air thick. Both women recompose themselves. The Booty smiles, stretches her legs; the mother weighs the situation, where to direct her strategy next.

  “Consider this a request,” she says at last. “I want her to have friends of her own class.”

  “But your daughter can go where she likes in her free time. I’ll say it again, she’s at liberty here.”

  “Are you telling me that you won’t do anything?”

  “We’ll look out for her well-being, like we do for all the girls. But Wybrany’s ideology is based on respect and harmony. Solidarity with the neediest students.”

  She nods toward the founder’s portrait and sighs:

  “Are you not aware of Andrzej Wybrany’s rules?”

  There is adoration in her voice, in the flick of her wrist and her fingers that unfurl toward the painting, as if to summon the energy it exudes.

  The mother looks up, plumbing the image’s depths.

  “Why don’t other girls hang around with the scholarship students, then? Why my daughter? Does this integration extend only to her?”

  She takes several papers from her purse as she speaks. Papers that could be invoices, reports, judicial sentences. Papers with tight printing. The Booty takes them, reviews them carefully. There is almost no change in her expression, save the slight pulse at her jaw as she hands them back. But her voice is different. Very different.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this information. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Upon further consideration, I do believe you are right. Perhaps we do still have certain areas in need of improvement.”

  She improvises, then. Measures that sound reasonably acceptable to this mother: Teeny will join the girls’ Social Club, she will sign up for their activities and spend more evenings with them throughout the week. The visits she makes to the Specials’ building will be limited. The idea is to offer her new pathways, open doors. And this way, the relationship between the two groups will be enriched.

  “Enriched, yes, that’s the word,” the Booty says.

  “Is there any tea left?” the mother asks.

  There is tea, but it’s cold. Another mother—Valen’s—will prepare a fresh pot. A chubby woman, with graying hair and a servile smile. When she turns her back, the Booty motions toward her:

  “She has work and her daughter gets an education—our philosophy in action.”

  Appeased, Teeny’s mother agrees.

  From the wall, Andrzej Wybrany appears satisfied with the scene.

  FRIENDSHIP

  They become inseparable. No more beatings for Ignacio, no more insults or shoves or name-calling. He doesn’t have time to think about any of that anymore; he’s too wrapped up in other things.

  Héctor turns out to have a rather unnuanced personality. Flat, stubborn, his predictability is quite comforting: Ignacio always knows how to please him, what’s expected, how he will react at any given moment. This knowledge elevates him to a special status: Ignacio becomes untouchable. He hasn’t earned the others’ respect, but at least the whispers behind his back are real whispers now, ones not intended to be heard.

  In the evenings, he supplies Héctor with answers to the homework, finishes his technical drawing worksheets, or writes his essays for him. As Ignacio types, Héctor watches, chewing gum with his back against the wall and his feet on the bedspread. He gives Ignacio affectionate little slaps on the back of the neck, pretend punches that don’t leave a bruise.

  Ignacio’s skin is unmarred now, as even the Headmaster observes when Ignacio goes to his office.

  “Gerasim, my Gerasim. Things have improved for you, haven’t they?”

  The greatest proof of friendship comes when Héctor passes him a blank exam in History class. Her back to the class, the teacher is no one’s rival, now Héctor makes fun of her, mocks her as he waits patiently for Ignacio to answer the multiple-choice questions.

  With each pencil-darkened circle, Ignacio drives a stake into the teacher’s chest, into every girl who ever dared to look at Héctor, into every boy who Héctor could possibly show affection for, some distant, imaginary day.

  Héctor is his.

  Ignacio fills each circle furiously, with pleasure, racking up points for an ‘A’. He is singular, superior, chosen from among all the students at the colich.

  DOUBTS

  She’s put her clothes back on and now the Booty sits across from the Headmaster as they chat about academic subjects, coldly and without rancor.

  They put aside the insults, exhaustion, and disdain. Forget all about it. Once she rolls up her pantyhose and slips on her shoes, the Booty becomes another woman, unrecognizable to the one before. Her tone shifts naturally, like a snake unconsciously shedding its skin. She looks at the Headmaster and they get down to business.

  “I must confess: I don’t trust the Advisor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It isn’t clear what, but he’s hiding something. Sometimes I think he’s been sent here.”

  “Sent here? From where? What for?”

  “I don’t know. From some association, maybe. To look for loose ends.”

  The Headmaster laughs. “An association? What sort of association?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. One that wants to report us, denounce us.”

  The Headmaster stands, tugs at the cuffs of his jacket, paces the perimeter of his large office. The sun is just beginning to set; the days are already longer. The last rays of light filter in, creating shadows that blend with his movements, as if several silhouettes of varying size were crossing the walls, up and down, when it’s only the Headmaster’s rotund figure.

  “Are you afraid?” he asks. “Do you think there’s something we should be denounced for?”

  She stammers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m referring to your conscience. Is your conscience clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Always?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  He sighs.

  “The Advisor is not planning to denounce us. There’s nothing here that he has any interest in changing. You do well to have such a clear conscience. You shouldn’t worry.”

  The Booty feels the conversation slipping away from her. She presses:

  “I think he could blackmail us. I don’t know how, but he could. His attitude concerns me. He’s too close to the Specials. He visits their building and they go to see him. Celia, especially.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? What do you know?”

  “I know about their visits.”

  “And what’s your opinion of them?”

  He shrugs.

  “They obviously have some sort of agreement. But I don’t think it interests us. We all have our favorite students.”

  He says this even though he knows the Booty will find it odd. She objects:

  “If you’re referring to your relationship with Ignacio, I think that’s quite different. I don’t understand why you bring him here, or what you see in that dull, weak boy, but that’s your affair. It doesn’t affect life in the colich. The Advisor’s situation isn’t the same.”

  The Headmaster raises an eyebrow.

  “And
why is that?”

  “There’s something else about his relationship with Celia. It could contaminate things, create false expectations among the students. I think he’s abusing his power, manipulating the scholarship girls. I wouldn’t rule out a premeditated plan. Who knows to what end.”

  “Well, such a plan wouldn’t be entirely unfamiliar to you, now would it? We all manipulate, in our own way. Furthermore, who says he’s the one in control? Maybe the girl wanted a hold on him so she could get something in exchange. These are things you might not understand.”

  “I think he uses psychology and his supposed interpersonal skills to get where the rest of us can’t.”

  “And what would you have us do? Fire him because he gets on well with a girl?”

  The Booty’s eyes flash.

  “I’d like to know that’s at least a possibility.”

  The Headmaster laughs, slapping his thighs. The Booty watches him, confused. She doesn’t understand the joke, not even when he explains the Advisor’s immunity to her. Where he comes from, his power, his assured tenure, all tightly knitted.

  The Booty doesn’t—can’t—understand.

  “I never believed that would be such a deciding factor.”

  “Don’t forget where you yourself come from. Nobody dropped in here from the sky. It’s best for us to put up with each other. Cover one eye and use your other to see. That’s my approach.”

  THE FIELD TRIP

  The first cracks between them appear just a few weeks later, on the field trip to the factory.

  Manufacturing work is also important, the technology teacher explains. The boys have seen the machines in pictures, a video of them in operation, the industrial uniforms, the impeccable organization of the assembly line. Now they will actually get to see one, a real factory. An image is not reality, the teacher says. An image is simply a select piece of reality, pure artifice.

  The bus rattles down the little road that leads away from Wybrany until it reaches the highway, where it continues on, fast and smooth.

  The sky is cloudless. The highway, deserted.

  The boys don’t sing, not today. It’s been forbidden. Headphones sit on the armrests. A tinny female voice prepares them for their visit, explains what the city of Vado was and is no longer, what the city of Cárdenas is and will be.

  Ignacio sits with Héctor. They chew gum, laugh, elbow each other.

  In front of them, there are rows of other boys, their heads sticking straight up above the seats. Still childlike, some of them.

  Blunt and muffled, sound from the headphones comes from around their knees. The cords drag on the floor, fall into the aisle. No one is using them.

  The teacher sits in the first row and watches the bleached, empty landscape. He isn’t keeping his eye on the boys. He eludes his obligation to reprimand them.

  The driver is the father of a Special. He too chews gum, and bounces his leg to the beat of some internal music. His son isn’t on the bus because he’s one grade ahead. He visited the factory last year. It went well.

  “You’ll escape this, if you’re lucky,” the father told him.

  He was referring to the line of men—Chinese, Moroccan, South American, but mostly Chinese—snaking its way to the cafeteria at lunchtime.

  The boy had liked the machines, the assembly line, the sense of rhythm to the work. But he hadn’t liked the line of men.

  The driver prefers the bus to that line, as well. From the bus, the landscape unfolds on either side as he drives by. There’s no landscape in the factory, and the driver likes watching the sun shimmer on the asphalt horizon like a puddle of water, never to be reached.

  He clears his throat to speak to the teacher, but senses his absorption and keeps silent.

  In the back of the bus, Héctor chatters away and Ignacio listens. Héctor takes a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lights it, and shares with Ignacio. Two drags for Héctor, one for Ignacio, and there is just enough smoke in the air for all the others—all except the teacher—to turn their heads to look.

  Here comes the Goon down the middle of the bus, hips knocking into the seats. He pats Ignacio on the shoulder: they’re friendly like they’ve never been before. He squats—he barely fits in the aisle—and takes out a piece of hash. Ignacio doesn’t get it, doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t understand why Héctor widens his knees, raises his voice, pushes him to the side so the Goon can sit down.

  Now Ignacio is standing, swaying between the seats.

  He watches what they do, and it slowly starts to make sense.

  He doesn’t ask questions. He just watches, trying to memorize so he’ll know how to behave in the future.

  They give him a hit. They hand him the joint but he isn’t sure how to hold it. He takes a drag and inhales. His eyes water.

  The Goon is still in Ignacio’s seat. He leans against the seat back, spreads his legs, makes himself comfortable. Ignacio knows the Goon isn’t planning to leave. He’ll have to find another seat.

  Ignacio looks to Héctor and mumbles an unintelligible request for assistance.

  But Héctor’s eyes are half-closed. He smiles, saliva accumulating in the corners of his mouth, pooling as the effects of the hash kick in.

  Ignacio turns and limps away, looking for the spot the Goon abandoned.

  Iván sees him coming and puts his leg up on the seat.

  He taunts him:

  “Not your seat.”

  “We switched. It’s mine now.”

  Iván laughs, pretends like he’s about to spit, staring at Ignacio with his leg outstretched, toes pointed at his stomach.

  Ignacio looks back, desperate, but Héctor’s eyes are still halfclosed in a pleasurable stupor.

  So Ignacio keeps walking, says excuse me, and sits in the only empty seat. Next to the teacher.

  Both pretend they don’t notice what is happening.

  AT NIGHT

  I want to talk to Teeny alone, but they make her come with someone else now. She arrives with Julia and Aurori and already they’re causing quite a stir.

  They peer into our room and sniff around. Not Teeny: she knows it like the back of her hand, and anyway she’d rather sit on the sidelines. She isn’t one to pry.

  They seem surprised that our beds are the same as theirs, that we have colorful curtains, desks, a nightstand per person.

  The only difference is that the Normals have three girls to a room and we have four, plus all the colors, too, which change things.

  They sit on the rug and gossip.

  I signal to Teeny, but she pretends not to notice, or maybe she really doesn’t. She sniffles and listens to the conversation but doesn’t join in. I stop trying to get her attention.

  Valen, Cristi, and Marina are crazed with excitement. It’s something new, the other girls coming here. It makes them proud. Before, we had to be allowed into their spaces, when and how they wanted. Both sides snubbed each other, but today everything is easier, clear and diaphanous, just when nothing matters to me anymore.

  I feel dirty.

  I watch and despise them. They talk about boys, clothes, brands; they criticize other girls, the teachers, the Booty; they describe their parents’ lives—lives which are no longer theirs—the houses, the gardens; they reproduce their parents’ fears, their desires.

  What do they know about anything?

  Do they know even one one-hundredth of what I know?

  Has what’s happening to me happened to them?

  A new force beats in my chest and in part it’s a kind of pride. Something about this dirtiness is gratifying, the feeling that I’m now a few steps ahead.

  Teeny looks up at me, but she doesn’t catch on.

  She only knows the little I was able to tell her, which is plenty, but she doesn’t understand anything.

  I leave and head outside, onto the grounds. I wait for an answer. The lights in the dorm rooms go dark one by one, like blinking eyes.

  But it’s not a code. It doesn’t mean a th
ing.

  A CLASS

  The Advisor sits on the table when he teaches, something the other teachers never, ever do. He crosses one leg, letting the other hang; he doesn’t use books, he likes the Socratic method, even though he doesn’t question the students directly. He either lets them do the asking, or poses questions no one shows any interest in answering.

  He’s teaching the girls today and wants to talk to them about single-sex education, but Celia, her eyes feverish and glassy, interrupts him:

  “Sir, why don’t you ever sit in a chair, like the others?”

  The girls look at her, scandalized, relishing the inappropriateness of her remark. Always showing off, they whisper, she never stops.

  Without moving a single muscle of his face, the Advisor smiles and answers:

  “I prefer the table.”

  “But we’re not allowed to sit on our desks.”

  “Of course you are,” he says.

  The girls are initially confused, but then they start to climb up onto their desks; first the most daring girl, then they all do it, watching the Advisor out of the corner of their eyes all the while. Some sit on top of their books, creasing the pages. A few notebooks fall on the floor. Pens and erasers. No one picks them up. The commotion quickly dies down.

  The Advisor introduces the day’s topic in an orderly fashion, following the script written in his notebook, until Valen interjects without raising her hand. She’s sucking on a piece of candy.

  “But what do you mean by single-sex? I don’t get it …”

  “Our education system here at Wybrany. The fact that boys and girls study separately.”

  Strategies, cognitive maturation, pilot studies: the Advisor argues in favor of the system but no one listens to him; the girls only fall silent when his tone turns interrogative and he addresses them directly.

  “What do you think? Does this system seem good to you? Or are there better alternatives?”

  They don’t answer. They yawn and swing their feet. He doesn’t stop. He looks at them one by one, questioning them with his eyes, smiling the whole time.