The Year of the Gadfly

by Jennifer Miller

  Every time he said my name, it sounded like he was mocking me. “Was the Devil’s Advocate right?” I said. “Was it a symbolic act?”

  “Oh, who the fuck knows why I did it?” Matt rubbed his eyes.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Without looking up, Matt told me that last fall a girl named Sonya Stevens friended him on a social networking site. According to her page, she was a sophomore at Hanley Prep, one of Mariana’s main rivals. She was a cheerleader and the treasurer of Hanley’s Honor Society, the equivalent of our Community Council. Matt and Sonya struck up an email exchange. She was funny and smart and extremely attractive. They had an ongoing game in which they’d send each other close-up photographs of various body parts—an earlobe, elbow, half a nipple—and then guess what anatomical feature they’d shot.

  “She really understood me,” Matt said. “We talked a lot about our schools, our families, the kids we didn’t like. I guess that doesn’t make me look too good, but it’s the truth. Sonya and I felt the same way about a lot of the people we went to school with: how high-strung they were, how jealous. If you’re popular, there’s a reason. If you’re unpopular, there’s a reason. So don’t get on my case about it, you know? Don’t tell me I’m not ‘nice’ enough to be CC president. I accomplished things and I won us a bunch of soccer titles. I was good at my job.”

  I listened, trying to maintain control of my facial muscles.

  “And I was under a lot of pressure, Mr. Kaplan. To keep up with everything. And Sonya understood, because she was under the same pressure. She understood that I wasn’t an immoral person or a mean person or whatever—that I was doing what I needed to do to get by.”

  I exhaled. “All right,” I said. “So then what happened?”

  “So we kept sending each other these pictures, and hers became more and more—well, you know . . .” Matt glanced up, then back at his plate. “She’d be touching herself and doing things to herself . . . and she started asking me to do the same. It was stupid of me, I know, but I was totally obsessed with her. She was so beautiful. I mean fucking gorgeous.”

  He pushed his plate away as though suddenly disgusted and started tearing up. It felt uncomfortable to see this young man, barely eighteen years old, crying in a sea-green diner booth. And I didn’t know what to feel toward him—sympathy, pity, contempt.

  “Did you and Sonya ever meet?”

  “No. We emailed, gchatted, talked on the phone a few times. And sent those pictures. It was gross, I guess, but I couldn’t believe a high school girl was into that kind of stuff—that she wanted to see me doing it. And there was something awesome about the mystery of the whole thing—because we’d never met, and because no one at school had any idea what was going on.” Matt paused. “And then one day she said she wanted me to destroy the Prisom Artifacts. I thought she was joking. But when I tried to laugh it off, she got all serious and said I’d better do it.”

  “She had all those pictures.”

  Matt nodded.

  “But you had pictures of her too.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Kaplan. I told her if she brought me down, I’d bring her down with me. And then she wrote me saying that she didn’t actually go to Hanley. And I checked on it. There was no Sonya Stevens at Hanley, or the local public school, or even in the whole state.”

  “So you did what she said.” I could just imagine what was happening in Matt’s brain at this moment, the receptors of memory and shame overloading in his amygdala.

  Matt looked at me, pleading. “I never thought I was being set up. I never thought I was that stupid. What kind of person lets a girl do that to him? I mean, what does that say about me, Mr. Kaplan? And when the Devil’s Advocate came out, I thought to myself: Well, they’re right. I do know better than anyone that the Community Code is a lie. I’m the fucking Community Council president and I’m putting up this front, when really I’m just this stupid, disgusting person. So fuck it. Fuck all of it.”

  Matt banged his fist on the table. The silverware and plates clattered. A couple of loners at the counter turned their wide fish eyes on us, then slunk back to their dinners. “Disgusting,” he muttered, and his fingers fell inert into his lap.

  I drove Matt back to the Melville School. Before he left the car I asked why he’d decided to tell me his story. He looked at me, and for a split second I saw the kid he’d probably been a long time ago, before he screwed up, before the awful possibility of this—who he was now—was even a glimmer in his mind. “I told you because it doesn’t fucking matter anymore,” he said. Then he got out.

  Matt’s story was troubling on so many levels. Prisom’s Party had used blackmail to send him a message: You are gullible and disgusting; you brought all of this on yourself. And after he did their bidding, they exposed him anyway, using him to send the school a message: Your moral foundation is a sham. Bill McCaffrey had asked me what harm Prisom’s Party had done, and now I had the answer. These kids weren’t concerned with truth so much as punishment. And that was dangerous, especially when the primary actors were children.

  Iris

  November 2012

  HAZEL HAD GIVEN me a warning. I should be wary of my grief, or it would possess me like it had possessed Mr. Kaplan. I had to protect myself. So no more tears wasted on Dalia. No more analyzing Mr. Kaplan’s every look and movement. No more ruminations about Murrow’s Platonic ideal of morality. I would put my overzealous mind on lockdown and become a woman of action.

  Once I made this decision, I felt energized and ready to move forward with my investigation for Prisom’s Party. I assessed the random information I’d gathered. Rooting around Lily’s room, I found the same yearbook I’d discovered in Mr. Kaplan’s desk. I learned that she and the Kaplan twins were in the same class, so the Justin who’d signed Marvelous Species must have been Mr. Kaplan’s brother. His death was the tragedy my parents mentioned. Of course, the elder Duponts had kept this event from me—this morbid connection between Lily and myself.

  Mr. Kaplan’s strange behavior was likely related to his brother’s death. And his brother was linked to Lily. Which meant that by the transitive property, Mr. Kaplan was somehow linked to Lily. Perhaps she knew something about him that could help me. But contacting Lily directly was impossible. According to my parents, she was living in a remote Kenyan village with sporadic Internet access, and in any case, I couldn’t simply email her requesting secret information about Mr. Kaplan’s past. I needed to come at Lily slantwise, investigate the periphery of her world, and see what new threads I discovered.

  In the yearbooks, I recognized a girl with thick dark hair and heavily lined eyes. Veronica Mercy, according to her portrait: the same girl who was the centerpiece of Lily’s Marvelous Species appendix. Well, Veronica, I thought, let’s see what’s become of you. I found her website—she made documentary films in New York—and saw that she looked much the same except for her hair, which she’d chopped into short pixie spikes. It was nearly 11 p.m., but I was a woman of action.

  Veronica picked up after a couple of rings. “Yeah?” Her voice was chalky.

  I introduced myself as a freelance journalist working on a magazine story about the children of prep school principals. “I understand that you attended Mariana Academy,” I said, “and that you knew the headmaster’s daughter, Lily Morgan.”

  “Lily Morgan?” she said. “How in God’s name did you connect me with her?”

  I swallowed the prickling in my throat. “She suggested I contact you.”

  “No shit.”

  “She did. She said you could provide an alternative perspective on her life at Mariana.” I was deep in the bullshit, but feeling confident.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I told you, I’m—”

  “You sound like you’re ten, so stop fucking with me or I’m hanging up.”

  Goddammit! I beat the comforter with my fist. I told her I was a student investigating for the Oracle. “Look,” I said, “I’m not screwing
around, so please don’t screw with me.”

  “You’ve got balls, kid.”

  “I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”

  Veronica laughed, which I did not appreciate. But then she said, “Lily was a loner and she followed me around like a goddamn puppy until I finally threw her a bone. A total disaster for both of us, but whatever. She deserved what she got.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Veronica snorted. “A bunch of those Trench freaks said Lily was behind her boyfriend’s suicide. Normally I wouldn’t trust a word from their mouths, but Lily wasn’t exactly a loyal girlfriend. Also she skipped town pretty soon after the guy died. Her parents must have sent her away to fend off suspicion—you know, about her role in her beloved’s demise. But if I were you, I’d give up on this little project and get the hell out of Nye before it sucks your soul out through your eyes.”

  “What do you mean, disloyal? Did she cheat?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Veronica cackled. “Hey, if you really do know Lily or ever meet her, ask if she still has a copy of Sacrificial Lamb lying around. If you want to know about her sordid past, that’s all the insight you’ll need.” Veronica hung up.

  Justin Kaplan killed himself? Outside, the bare branches pointed their skeletal fingers at me. I watched them whip in the night. I had the awful feeling of my insides being drained out, the way a body gets emptied of fluid in preparation for burial. I pulled down the shades so I wouldn’t have to look at the branches anymore. Then I curled up in the fetal position on top of Lily’s bed.

  Hazel called Justin’s death an accident, but Veronica claimed much worse. And to think that Lily might have been responsible . . . I looked around at the flowered wallpaper, the incongruous CDs. Who was she, Murrow? I sat up and my eyes fell on Sacrificial Lamb, the heavy-metal mix, the one Veronica Mercy had mentioned. I slid the disk into my laptop. But Sacrificial Lamb wasn’t music. It was a movie.

  Lily

  April 2000

  FOR THE FIRST time in her life, Lily understood why the popular cliques had been so cruel to her: meanness was sustenance. She’d finally lambasted Jonah, and the experience was delicious. She now saw how once you had the taste of meanness in your mouth, you might crave it all of the time. Except Jonah had not even allowed her to enjoy this small bite. You feel guilty, he’d said. And he was right. Lily wanted to be with Justin, but she felt like an impostor in his life.

  And so, for the next week, Lily spent most lunches and afternoons sitting at the paint-splattered table at the back of the art room, staring out the window. The mother duck was nestled on the ground beside some spindly shrubs. The ducklings were down to three. Was there nothing the mother could do to protect them?

  One day, Veronica motioned Lily over to the large canvas she was painting. Its swirling pattern of white strokes made Lily feel seasick. “This piece was inspired by Moby-Dick,” Veronica said. “You know, ‘The Whiteness of the Whale’?”

  Moby-Dick was the one classic novel Lily’s father hadn’t given her. In fact, when she started high school, he’d eliminated it from the English curriculum.

  Amy Chang said, “Ronnie’s become obsessed with albinos. She’s having a very productive ‘white’ phase.”

  “So, Lil,” Veronica said, and the room fell quiet. “I’m putting together a submission for summer art apprenticeships. Next weekend I’m hosting a mock eighth-grade sleepover party. The idea is to illuminate the hypocrisy of clichéd teenage social interaction by actively confronting those clichés and thereby subverting them. We’re working on four different characters with Krista as our cinematographer. Would you be the fourth body? The part is perfect for you.” Veronica turned on her all-consuming smile, and Lily basked in its brilliant light.

  Veronica Mercy lived in Bethlehem, in one of the new residential communities popping up throughout the western part of the state. The red brick houses commanded sweeping lawns, and Victorian-style streetlamps punctuated lengths of white sidewalk. At the heart of the community was the Village Square, a tree-lined park that reminded Lily of a college campus but was bordered by various chain stores.

  It was well after dark when Maureen dropped her off at Veronica’s. The lamp lights flickered behind their glass enclosures, illuminating the line of cars parked outside. Lily looked at the clock—8:55. Veronica had told her 9:00, but everyone else was already there.

  Veronica had already provided details about the evening. Upon arrival Lily would receive an identity, which she would assume for the night. Lily had asked for some hints about her character, but Veronica said advance preparation would ruin the project’s authenticity.

  “Just remember that we’re creating a dialectic,” she’d written back. “A semiotic discourse between the subject and the gaze. You’ll be fine.”

  Lily had no idea what this meant, but she didn’t care. Veronica had said her “artistic future” depended on this project, and she’d asked Lily to play a central role. Lily stood outside Veronica’s front door as though on the threshold of a new life.

  A woman in tapered khakis and a green sweater set answered the door. Her smile was the width of the door frame. “You must be Ronnie’s new friend, Lily! Come in!”

  Lily followed Mrs. Mercy through the house in a state of bewilderment. The place was like a Laura Ashley catalogue on LSD. Every view offered a profusion of objects flowery, fluffy, and pastel. Lily wondered how a woman like Mrs. Mercy could have produced a daughter like Veronica.

  Along the back wall of the mint-colored basement was a massive entertainment system with the largest television Lily had ever seen. The screen was mounted on the wall, its black face lording over three adjacent couches like an aloof god. The TV wall and the couches formed a square, in the center of which sat a huge pile of sleeping bags and backpacks. Lily remembered the line of cars parked outside. Perhaps the other girls came early to help Veronica set up. This kind of art project probably required a lot of preparation.

  Lily dropped her things and headed back up the stairs. When she reached the top, Mrs. Mercy handed her an envelope. “Ronnie wants you to read this before you go upstairs. If you ask me, she’s doing one of her crazy projects . . . but don’t reveal I’m on to her. She’s very secretive about this kind of thing.”

  Lily turned the envelope over in her hands. Inside was a note.

  Dear Lily,

  We’re so excited you’re working with us! Below, you’ll find your identity. You should begin acting as your character as soon as you walk into my room. Krista is our cinematographer, so just ignore her. We’re all keeping our own names. Go upstairs to the guestroom, second door on the right. You’ll find your costume and props. My room is next door.

  Cheers, VM

  P.S. Hope the clothes fit.

  Name: Lily Morgan

  Age: 14

  Identity: Lily Morgan is the typical “good girl.” She has never had a drink or done drugs. Her parents forbid her to date. She’s not allowed to watch R-rated movies. Because Lily is albino, she feels different from the other girls at school, but she’s doing her best to fit in. This sleepover is a chance for her to break from her parents’ mold. Lily can’t wait to express her true identity.

  Her outfit lay on the guest bed’s periwinkle comforter. She dressed in the black stirrup stretch pants, the black-and-white-polka-dotted skort, the Jewel concert T-shirt, and the polka-dotted headband. She slipped on the white scrunch socks, black flats, and celestial-themed clip-on earrings. Finally she picked up a boxy leather purse with a long strap. Inside Lily found a small pink book labeled Diary. The diary had a small brass lock but no key.

  The stretch pants were tight and the shoes a size too large. She would never wear any of these things, but this was art. If she wanted to impress Veronica and the others, she’d have to play her character as faithfully as possible.

  Veronica jumped up from a beanbag chair when she saw Lily in the doorway. Her lithe body was decked out in tight jeans and a white baby tee. The others didn
’t look up. Jocelyn was sprawled on the bed in Umbro shorts, a Hypercolor T-shirt, and Vans sneakers, and Amy sat cross-legged in ripped jeans, an oversize flannel shirt, and Doc Martens. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” played on the stereo. Krista crouched in the corner, filming.

  “Lil, sit down,” Veronica said. “Jocelyn, shove over.”

  “Look, guys, she’s matching!” Jocelyn pointed at Lily’s polka dots. She’d dropped her British vernacular for the night.

  Lily blushed. But they were snickering at her character, not her. She had to remember to keep herself and her character separate. They were all playing roles. Veronica was stuck up and popular. Jocelyn was a smart-aleck jock. Amy was grunge. And she was the designated wannabe. Not the choicest role, but it made sense. Like Veronica’s note said, this was Lily’s chance—her character’s chance—to become something new.

  “So, Lily,” Amy said. “Before you got here, we were talking about Juggernaut. Do you like Juggernaut, Lily?”

  Lily had no idea what Juggernaut was. It sounded like a band but could easily be a new movie. In junior high, she would have agreed with the majority opinion; she liked the way her voice blended in with the others, as though it counted.

  Jocelyn lit a cigarette and inhaled. “Well?”

  Lily was certain her character would lie, but something stopped her. “I don’t know what Juggernaut is,” she said.

  The girls exchanged glances. Veronica sucked in her cheeks, inhaling and exhaling a painfully slow breath. For a second no one spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” Lily stammered. “I know my character wouldn’t have—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lil.” Veronica eyed Lily. “You’re crazy. No wonder you only have, like, two friends.”