The Year of the Gadfly

by Jennifer Miller

  I fished my gloves, hat, and scarf out of my satchel. At 5 p.m. the daylight sagged with defeat. Justin called this hour the gloaming. He had the romantic’s tendency to commemorate a melancholy moment and especially loved dredging up words no one had spoken since the fourteenth century. Nye in winter was the perfect place for such despondency. Our freshman year, he’d suggested that our town welcome sign read, Nye, Massachusetts, Population 9,000—Open for Suicide, October thru May. Prescient words these, though I didn’t know it then.

  I stuffed my scarf into my jacket and tucked my coat sleeves into my gloves. The wind-chill in Nye is like a pack of hornets zeroing in on your neck, a smart missile programmed to find even the smallest patch of exposed skin. My protective layers finally in place, I pushed into the cold, but after a few steps something compelled me to turn back. In the door’s glass window I glimpsed the inquisitive eyes of Iris Dupont ducking out of sight.

  On the first day of school, she’d announced her intention to become an extremophile. I hoped to teach her that extremity was already in her DNA—that it was the legacy of life’s earliest forms. How was it, I wondered as I climbed into the car and turned on the heat full blast, that humans had adapted to conform, long after such conformity was necessary or even advantageous? I stomped my feet to warm them. My students needed to learn new survival traits—how to speak up, break out—but instead of eons, they had only a handful of semesters in which to educate themselves.

  I pulled out of the faculty lot and onto the road. I would give my students a test, I decided, an exam that demanded their individuation. It would be painful for them. But tests of survival usually are.

  Iris

  September 2012

  ON KATIE MILFORD’S orders, I started reporting Marthella Kringle’s obit. All the major papers have pre-mortem obituaries on file for the world’s most famous and infamous personalities, which is morbid but necessary in a time crunch. As for the Oracle—no intelligent person would ever turn to Mariana’s rag for breaking news. Nor could they; the paper appeared only every few months.

  I went to see Mrs. Kringle in the school office, where she answers phones, and sat down with my notepad and recorder in hand. She wore a high-necked black dress and tights that resembled Ace bandages. Her old-woman bosom rested on her lap like a sack of potatoes. She yawned and her onionskin face crackled.

  “Iris Dupont,” she intoned the second I planted my butt in the chair, “formerly of Boston, currently residing at 95 Church, childhood home of Lillian Morgan, daughter to the former headmaster.”

  I gaped, but Mrs. Kringle looked unfazed. “I know the name, address, and class schedule of every student at this school, Ms. Dupont. It is my particular talent. I also know that you are here to extract my life story for an article to be published on the occasion of my eventual expiration, but I will tell you right now, my life is private, besides which I do not trust reporters. Especially novices.”

  She glared at me over her wire-rimmed glasses. They were pushed so far down her nose, I was afraid they’d fall off. Murrow, I begged silently, how do you cajole an unwilling source?

  “However,” Mrs. Kringle continued, “since you are new here, I will take pity on you and relate a few details.” And before I could stop her, she’d launched into a history lesson.

  “In the mid-nineteenth century,” she said, her voice sounding like a rubber band pulled to the point of snapping, “when Charles Prisom was young, an awful stutter subjected him to horrific ridicule at his New Hampshire boarding school. In his letters Prisom recounted an experience of spectacular cruelty in which a couple of nasty boys decided to fix his stutter for good. One night, they burst into his room, held him down upon the bed, and tied a string around his tongue. Then they began to pull. This experiment succeeded in rupturing the central muscle of Prisom’s tongue, and for months he couldn’t speak at all. When the muscle finally healed, he was left with a pronounced lisp, but the stutter”—Mrs. Kringle nodded emphatically—“was gone.”

  “There are letters?” I asked.

  Mrs. Kringle eyed me through her glasses, thick as double-paned windows. “I believe Elliott Morgan is in possession of some. He has quite a collection of local artifacts.” Mrs. Kringle leaned toward me with a conspiratorial air. She smelled of lemons. “Who knows what you might find, poking around that house.” Then she sat back, business-like. “You’ll find the other letters at the Nye Historical Society.” She scratched her cheek, and I was terrified her nail would rip through the skin.

  “After that dreadful experience,” she continued, “Prisom vowed to create a school where no child would ever be subjected to such terror. When he was just twenty-two, his beloved mother, Mariana Prisom, passed away, but her financial legacy enabled him to found an all-boys boarding school in her name. Mariana Academy. The school’s motto was ‘Brotherhood, Truth, and Equality for All.’ He used the remainder of his mother’s legacy to fund the tuition of underprivileged students. This was in 1885. And I will tell you that at that time such a project was unheard of.”

  “Did you know Charles Prisom?” I asked.

  “Miss Dupont!” Mrs. Kringle’s eyelids shot up like window shades. “How old do you think I am?”

  I shrank back in my chair. “Not a day over twenty-five.”

  Mrs. Kringle smiled, the corners of her frown lifting as though by some mechanical apparatus inside of her mouth.

  “So what happened to Charles Prisom?”

  She shook her head like I was an especially foolish person. “He died, of course.”

  “I meant before that . . .”

  She sighed. “In 1907, his son Henry assumed leadership of the school. And then . . .” Mrs. Kringle’s eyes grew bleary as she gazed into the middle distance. “Well, 1921 was not a good year. It was the beginning of the end.”

  “What do you mean?” I perked up.

  Mrs. Kringle leaned forward over her breasts, coming close enough that I could see the profusion of wrinkles etched into the skin around her mouth. “This school is nothing like it once was, what with all the grade grubbing and backbiting and lip locking. And of course, that Prisom’s Party is driving us all halfway to Halifax! It all goes back to those nasty upheavals and the school’s closing.”

  Prisom’s Party had left the blank newspaper in my locker, but I still had no idea who or what they were. “What nasty upheavals?” I asked. “Why did the school close?”

  My need to know yanked me forward, but Mrs. Kringle looked up as though just noticing me. “Miss Dupont!” she exclaimed. “You are late for science.”

  Specifically, I was late for my first science exam, an event that Mr. Kaplan promised would “put the fear of gravity” into all of us “self-assured, overachieving novitiates.” When handing out assignments, my other teachers loved detailing their bullet points with bullet points, but Mr. Kaplan had provided no guidelines whatsoever. “Human nature will guide you,” was all he said.

  I hurried from Mrs. Kringle’s office to the science lab and found a note on the door instructing our class to convene outside the theater. This was odd, but sure enough, Mr. Kaplan was waiting for us before the doors, stiff as a Buckingham Palace guard. Beside him stood a woman in a white lab coat. She wore her brown hair in a low, sleek ponytail and had the airbrushed face of an actress in a pharmaceutical commercial.

  “This is Dr. Van Laark,” Mr. Kaplan said when the class had finally assembled. “She’s a professor of educational psychology at the University of Massachusetts and a colleague of mine from graduate school. As it turns out, her research dovetails quite nicely with my educational project for you all, in particular the discussion we were having on the first day of class about difference. Remember our slogan? ‘Difference is the essence of extremity.’”

  The class nodded unhappily. Mr. Kaplan smiled. “Dr. Van Laark’s work concerns behavioral demonstrations of obedience among emerging adults. I told her there was no collection of intellectually buzzing brains better suited to helping her res
earch and the advancement of science than you all.”

  Dr. Van Laark nodded, her bright eyes flitting from face to face. “I’m not at liberty to provide specifics about my experiment in advance,” she said. “Except that you will find it a mentally challenging and rewarding experience.” She handed out release forms. “These signify your consent. All information collected is strictly confidential.”

  “And if we don’t want to participate?” said Stephen Fry, whose lips were always chapped and flaking.

  “Then you can use this double period as a study hall,” Mr. Kaplan said. “There’s no penalty for sitting out, but I’d encourage everyone to participate.”

  “And our test?” a bunch of people asked at once.

  “This is your test.”

  “But we didn’t study for this!” Marcie Ross protested.

  “Oh, but you did.” Mr. Kaplan nodded slowly. “Just remember our slogan—‘Difference is the essence of extremity’—and you’ll do fine.”

  “You will be participating in pairs of two,” Dr. Van Laark said before anyone could interject again.

  “Safety in numbers,” Mr. Kaplan mumbled. I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me.

  “As the release form specifies, you are not to observe any part of the experiment until it is your turn. You are also not to talk about it until everyone has participated.”

  My pen wavered over the signature line. Murrow, I thought, something isn’t right. Then a shadow fell over me, and I looked up to see Mr. Kaplan. I scribbled my name and thrust the paper at him. “Very good,” he said, and for a moment there was that challenge: I know you, but do you know me?

  “First up,” Mr. Kaplan said, shuffling through the release forms, “are Stacey Markson and Jeremy Binder.”

  They stood up and followed the adults into the theater. For a few minutes people speculated about what was happening inside. Stephen Fry pressed his ear to the door and announced that he heard nothing, so I pulled out Marvelous Species. I’d been carrying the book around school. It was heavy, but I didn’t mind. I liked to have it available in case I ran into Mr. Kaplan between classes. That way, I could surreptitiously slip the book into his line of sight. On the days I had biology, I made sure to be reading it when Mr. Kaplan came to class. He usually arrived early to set up, which meant that if I got there first, we’d be the only two people in the room for a good three or four minutes. The advantages of this were twofold. First, it allowed Mr. Kaplan to see how serious I was about his class. Second, it let him catch me absorbed in what was clearly nonrequired reading. This, I hoped, would pique his curiosity. Sure, I could wag the book in his face and say, See what I’m reading, Mr. Kaplan! But that was crass. Much more subtle for him to see me perusing the yellowed pages and wonder, What’s that girl up to? She’s not like the others.

  The theater doors finally opened, and I instantly raised Marvelous Species in front of my face. When I didn’t hear Mr. Kaplan’s voice, however, I put the book down. Stacey and Jeremy had just come out, and they looked horribly upset.

  “Jesus,” Chris Coon whispered. “What’s going on in there?”

  “They probably answered all the questions wrong,” said David Morone, looking up from Heart of Darkness. “I bet a hot professor chick like Van Laark gets off on making her subjects feel dumb.”

  Mr. Kaplan appeared. He scanned our faces, saw me sitting on the ground like all the others, which is to say reading absolutely nothing, and called for the next two students. “A word of advice,” he added. “Difference is the essence of extremity.” A bunch of people groaned, but Mr. Kaplan just smiled and shut the theater door.

  I resumed my reading, but Mr. Kaplan’s slogan kept doing a little tap dance in my head. I searched for the phrase on my phone and, sure enough, the third hit directed me to a page titled “Famous Sayings of Molecular Philosophy,” where I read:

  “Difference is the essence of extremity” was coined by Dr. Lucinda Starburst, shortly before her death in 1994.

  Lucinda Starburst, I thought. How could such an odd name sound so familiar?

  Dr. Starburst’s pioneering role in the field of molecular philosophy has had far-reaching implications throughout the scientific world. Before she died, she oversaw the founding of a new publication, the Journal of Extreme Studies, published by the University of Massachusetts.

  I saved this page and ran a search for UMass and the Journal of Extreme Studies. Up popped a black-and-white photo of none other than Dr. Van Laark. First on her list of academic papers was an article titled “Eichmann and the Extremity of Obedience.” The Eichmann reference brought to mind Murrow’s description of Buchenwald in 1945, the “rows of bodies stacked up like cordwood.” I felt queasy and had to close my eyes. What’s Dr. Van Laark doing with us? I thought. What’s Mr. Kaplan doing with us? And why do I recognize the name Lucinda Starburst?

  At that moment Kelly McGuinty rushed from the theater. Harrison Cox emerged after her, head hung, looking like a pebble that somebody had kicked in frustration. My stomach began a slow, funnel-like churn. Maybe I could peek in the back door of the theater or, if that was locked, sneak into the sound booth. But you’ve signed the release form, Murrow whispered. You’ve given your word.

  “Sarah Peters and Iris Dupont.” Mr. Kaplan’s voice cut through the hall.

  Sarah stood up and rolled her eyes. “Bringing your briefcase?” She laughed and headed through the doors.

  Home to one-acts and plays, Mariana’s theater is called the Black Box. It’s utterly unlike the auditorium (used for assemblies and musicals), upon whose polished stage you’d expect to see a soprano with serious décolletage belting out high Cs. The Black Box has no formal stage; the design students build new sets for each production, and the school’s website boasts pictures of student actors soliloquizing from suspended catwalks and in boats floating on water. Right now, though, the room was chilly and dark. It was difficult to orient myself because the four walls were mirror images of one another. I felt trapped, and yet something about the Black Box felt vast, as though the tangle of black wires and lights above me expanded into infinity.

  Dr. Van Laark’s lab coat was startlingly bright in the darkness. She stood beside a machine that resembled a sound mixing board but had fewer buttons. Next to each button was a number, starting with 20 and increasing by intervals to 200. On the side of the machine, a label read: Control Panel. Property of UMass. Unauthorized Use Prohibited. Dr. Van Laark led us around a divider in the center of the room. On the opposite side was a second strange machine. This one resembled a stereo. Two wires protruded from the front. On the end of these wires were wrist cuffs. The funnel in my stomach was picking up speed, like the beginning of a small-scale tornado. I looked at Mr. Kaplan, but his face was blank.

  “Thank you again for participating, girls,” Dr. Van Laark said, her lips curving into a fruit slice of a smile. “In a moment, you will select slips of paper with a designation—interviewer or subject. The subject will sit here and wear the cuffs. The interviewer will sit in front of the control panel and read questions from a list. For every question the subject gets wrong, the interviewer will press a button, giving a slight shock. It’s no more than a slight buzz and totally harmless. All right?”

  “And then what?” Sarah asked. “What are you trying to prove?”

  The little tornado in my stomach gained speed, but Mr. Kaplan’s dispassionate expression reassured me. “Just a little shock?” I asked.

  “Totally harmless,” Dr. Van Laark repeated.

  Sarah and I flashed competing glances at each other; neither of us wanted to be the subject. But then I thought about the kids who’d come before us and emerged looking so upset—all four of them, come to think of it, not just the two subjects. Maybe they were instructed to act upset. Maybe all of this was some kind of psychology trick in which the people outside of the Black Box were really the experiment subjects. What do you think, Murrow, I wondered. Is that the catch?

  “Sarah,”
Dr. Van Laark was saying, “why don’t you select first.”

  Sarah plucked a strip of paper from Dr. Van Laark’s palm. “Interviewer,” she announced, like she’d won a prize.

  There was only one other option, but I picked up my paper anyway.

  “Have fun, Subject,” Sarah scoffed, as Mr. Kaplan led her around the divider.

  “Iris,” Dr. Van Laark said, “please take a seat.”

  I looked at the wrist cuffs, my heart beating fast. Dr. Van Laark opened a laptop, and Mr. Kaplan and Sarah appeared on its screen.

  “Now, Sarah,” he was saying. “You should press a higher-numbered button for every question Iris gets wrong. These deliver increasingly stronger volts.”

  I looked in horror at Dr. Van Laark and was about to protest when she put her finger to her lips. Then she leaned down, so close that I could smell her perfume. It was deep and sweet, like a rare, intoxicating flower. “The machines are fake,” she whispered. “You won’t even wear the cuffs, but for each question you get wrong, you must give an increasingly strong reaction. Twenty volts should be a relatively minor yelp. The higher we go, the more intense. Here’s a sheet with suggested responses. Understand?” She placed the instructions before me.

  So that’s the catch, I thought. The interviewer thinks she’s in control, when really she’s the subject. Mr. Kaplan glanced at the video camera that was recording the scene on his side of the divider, and I swear he was looking right at me, his expression full of intimate understanding. For the first time since coming to Nye, I felt confident, even powerful.