League of American Traitors

by Matthew Landis

  “You heard what happened?”

  “Yeah, she dueled.”

  “The other thing, with Lace—”

  Nora came back in holding coats. “We’re going for a walk.”

  ****

  The courtyard sun blinded Jasper. Dead shrubs lined broken pathways that made a big X across the space.

  Nora settled down on a cement bench and lit a cigarette.

  “How did you know the brownie was poisoned?” Jasper asked her.

  “They never bring desserts out after lunch. And the cooks never talk to anyone.”

  Jasper shoved his hands in his coat pockets. Winter was on the way. “The doctor said making me throw up like that probably saved my life.”

  “Saw it in a movie. Didn’t know if it would work.”

  “Worked pretty good.”

  Nora inhaled half her cigarette in one pull. “What’d your fan club say about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  She blew smoke in his face.

  Jasper coughed. “They said you dueled two summers ago, but now you won’t pick up a gun.”

  “And they told you about the pills.”

  “Pills?”

  “Chillingsworth brought in a shrink to fix me. He gave me some pills.”

  “They didn’t tell me about that.”

  “I downed the whole bottle. They had to pump my stomach. Put me in the same room you’re in now.”

  “Okay …”

  “Now you can stop talking shit behind my back.”

  Jasper didn’t know how to respond.

  Nora flicked ash at him. “You need a haircut.”

  “So people keep telling me.”

  She offered him the cigarette. He took a pull, and then spent five minutes trying to not die of a collapsed lung.

  “I won’t tell anyone that happened,” Nora said.

  ****

  The doctor came back two days later. He did a lot of complaining about Jasper not being in a hospital, but told Chillingsworth he could return to classes the next day “if you continue to closely monitor him.” Nora escorted Jasper to his room, then left him under the protection of the guards standing there. Jasper guessed she was going off to smoke. Two Donelsons walked him to the showers, then back to his room. Tucker had laid out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a giant snake on the front.

  He’d also left a note:

  Sorry we almost got you killed. Here is my Whitesnake shirt.

  – Tucker

  In the study room, Jasper tried to catch up on the work he’d missed, but mostly stared at the safe and the clock, waiting for the others to get out of class.

  Nora brought him a grilled cheese sandwich and six bottles of water. Her hair was wet and she smelled like lavender and smoke. She made him drink a whole bottle, then kicked her combat boots up on the table and started reading a giant, worn book titled Poetry.

  At exactly three thirty, everybody crowded into the study room.

  “Dude.” Sheldon threw his arms around Jasper and squeezed him hard.

  Lacy walked in a ten-foot circle to avoid Nora. “We’re really sorry.”

  Tucker examined Jasper’s T-shirt. “You’re wearing it,” he said. “Good.”

  After reassuring everyone that he was fine and they could stop apologizing, and promising Tucker that he would eventually get around to listening to some Whitesnake, Jasper kneeled down in front of the safe. He messed up the combination twice before he felt the lock give with a click. He cautiously pulled the door open.

  Stacks of books, composition notebooks, and accordion folders tumbled out. Half a forest, really.

  “Holy crap,” Sheldon said. “Your dad was busy.”

  “This is gonna take forever,” Jasper said.

  “Please.” Tucker grabbed three notebooks and went to the beanbag chair, already reading.

  “Dude speed-reads,” Sheldon said. “Photographic memory, too.”

  By midnight they’d skimmed most of the folders—nerdy articles on Arnold, his life, and his treason. A handful were filled with documents on Joseph Reed’s role as governor of Pennsylvania during the war, and Washington’s Culper spy ring led by some guy named Benjamin Tallmadge who was apparently really good at messing up British battle plans. Tucker devoured five of the thirty composition notebooks, which turned out to be notes on the stack of biographies. The pattern continued there: most were about Arnold, then Reed, and a few on Washington. Lacy catalogued everything in a super-encrypted spreadsheet on Sheldon’s super-encrypted server. Nora read poetry, though Jasper caught her now and then peeking over the book to listen when somebody shared a finding.

  Everyone forgot about eating.

  “Now what,” Jasper said, “is this?”

  He’d pulled out a piece of string with four index cards taped to it from inside one of the accordion folders. It was a mobile, like something he’d made in elementary school. His dad had written a name on each card, top to bottom.

  Washington.

  Reed.

  Arnold.

  Boswell.

  “Boswell?” Sheldon said. “Who the balls is that?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Google-me.” Sheldon hopped on the computer and ran a search. “Nothing on the first page. That’s never a good sign.”

  “Maybe this is Boswell,” Tucker said. He held up a photograph of a kid sitting on the end of a dock.

  “No, that’s me.” Jasper reached over and took the picture. “Where did you get it?”

  “It was in this notebook.”

  Jasper turned the picture over. On the back, someone had written Nil desperandum. He put it in his pocket. His chest felt hot, and he didn’t like it. “I’m pretty tired. Let’s call it a night.”

  They returned all the contents to the safe. He closed and locked the door, and they filed back to the dorms, Nora and the Donelsons trailing behind them the whole way.

  Jasper waited until Sheldon started snoring to take the picture out. He couldn’t get the note out of his head.

  Never despair.

  If his dad had really loved him, why hadn’t he ever said it—even just once? Yeah, so he’d apparently cared, but what did it mean now? If the man who held on to that photo was the real James Mansfield, could this version repair all the damage the other one did?

  Jasper stuffed the picture under his mattress. He’d lie if anybody asked, but deep down, he realized maybe he was releasing the death-grip he held on his hatred of his dad. He’d fight the sensation every inch of the way, but it was happening.

  Pretending was starting to feel like too much work.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jasper woke up at seven to Sheldon digging for sweatpants. Naked.

  “If you got it, flaunt it, bro,” Sheldon said.

  Apparently breakfast meats were even more likely to give you explosive diarrhea, so Jasper grabbed a mini cereal box in the cafeteria and followed the others to the south wing. Pretty much every student gave him looks because: A) they’d probably heard about him almost dying; B) Nora marched in front like a gargoyle; and C) a pair of six-foot-plus Donelsons were trailing him. It was the new kid’s worst nightmare, but it was also the price of not dying.

  The Juniper Hill classrooms were big, and lots of the auditorium-style seats were broken. In calculus, Jasper’s entourage stood in the aisle like event staff. Sheldon’s nonstop whispering almost got them both kicked out of government, which was taught by an old guy who instructed them to read Chapter 5 and take detailed notes.

  “He’s a math teacher,” Sheldon said.

  “Why is he teaching government, then?”

  “Red Hot Chilly P hasn’t found a replacement yet for Mr. Giles, the guy who used to teach this class.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was giving everybody As without actually grading any work.”

  “Huh.”

  “Also, he turned out to be a convicted felon and the parents went ballistic. Juniper Hill only hires League
members, so the pickings are slim sometimes.”

  ****

  During lunch, butterflies slammed into Jasper’s intestinal wall.

  Advanced dueling was next.

  “Relax, dude,” Sheldon said as they walked across the overgrown soccer field. “Kingsley’s a brute, but you definitely want him on your side.”

  “I’m actually afraid I might—” Jasper made sure Tucker’s headphones were on—“shoot myself. I’ve never held a gun before.”

  “You won’t live-fire for weeks,” Lacy said. “You have to learn the Code first—dueling history, etiquette, and strategy. Then Kingsley’ll teach you about the weapon, how to take it apart and care for it.”

  “No matter what he says, just remember he’s trying to save your life,” Sheldon said.

  Jasper heard Nora snort from ten feet in front of them.

  In the gym, they climbed a stairwell to a rectangular room that smelled like gunpowder and metal. Kids stuffed coats into lockers, gawking at Jasper’s entourage. Through a clear panel on the far wall, Jasper saw a hulking guy in a black tracksuit stalk down the firing lanes to the lobby. He was blockheaded with short dark hair and wore a gaudy gold watch that gave him an out-of-work gangster feel.

  “You lot look awful,” Kingsley said to the whole room. The accent wasn’t as thick as Jasper had expected. “Is that you yawning, Eliza?” A chubby-faced goth girl covered her mouth. “None of you eejits are getting on my range until you’ve woken up. Five laps around the building.”

  The class filed back outside.

  “You, stay,” Kingsley barked at Jasper.

  He led Jasper into a small classroom and told him to sit. Nora took a desk in the corner and the Donelsons stayed outside.

  “This is the history of the Code.” Kingsley dropped a binder on the desk with a loud thunk. “You learn it backward and forward before you enter my range. If you make it to my range, you do as I say or I’ll throw you out. If you think I’m being too harsh, just have a look over at the Wall of Shame.” The instructor jerked a thumb toward the opposite wall where hand-sized plaques hung floor to ceiling. “Any questions?”

  Jasper shook his head no.

  “And you keep your mouth shut,” Kingsley said to Nora. “Don’t need your peace-lovin’ nonsense here.”

  Nora glared, then tucked her head behind the poetry book.

  Jasper started with an article about eighteenth-century “honor culture,” which apparently came from a document called the Code Duello set up by a bunch of Irish guys in 1777. Basically, it was a blueprint of how rich guys should solve conflicts among themselves. In short, blow one another away with pistols or stab one another with swords. Twenty-five rules covered every possible scenario, from what to do if someone called you a liar to insulted your wife. The worse the offense, the more shots could be fired. An apology could end things peacefully sometimes, but not always. Jasper wondered why nobody in 1777 thought it was weird to spend so much time creating a document that detailed various ways to murder/get murdered.

  Next, came a not-so-brief history of the Code. Apparently, Joseph Reed’s son, George, got into it with the son of a former Loyalist in 1815 and ended up dueling him. George killed the guy, but also took a bullet in the hip, which crippled him. He was really pissed and got all the Founding Fathers’ sons together in some sort of cabal and told them that to really honor their parents’ sacrifices, they needed to stick it to the offspring of anybody who stood in the way of Independence. The Code Duello wasn’t good enough, so George Reed and his buddies decided to write their own version.

  Jasper squinted at a cursive document:

  The Code

  Est. 1820

  It being agreed upon that the current remedy to punish certain miscreant, iniquitous peoples has been deemed insufficient to their offenses, we, the remnant of a valorous generation, do hereby enact an immediate solution to secure the satisfaction of our forefathers and the preservation of our posterity. Namely:

  1. The vile progeny, regardless of generational distance from his perverse ancestor, shall be held accountable for the actions of that ancestor, as it is universally accepted that vileness, like honor, passes from father to son.

  2. Accountability, in these terms, necessitates a single, written challenge to be followed by an exchange of pistol shots predetermined by the act of wrongdoing as follows:

  offenses against country, three shots;

  offenses against thy fellow man, two shots;

  all other offenses unspecified, one shot.

  3. The conduct of said exchange, being already well established, shall remain unchanged from that which has been established by accepted convention. Namely:

  The challenged shall choose the ground.

  The challenger shall choose the distance.

  The seconds shall fix the time and terms of firing.

  4. Apologies, written or verbal, even when formally accepted as sufficient satisfaction, shall no longer substitute for accountability.

  5. Recreant offspring refusing accountability as enacted herein shall be subject to punishment in the extreme, including punitive measures as befits their misdeed unanswered.

  Jasper rubbed his eyes. These people needed serious instruction on single-clause sentences.

  Turning to check the wall clock, he caught a glint off one of the gold-plated plaques on the wall. He got up and crossed the room to get a better look, reading the names and lifespans etched below sets of crossed pistols. They’d all been about eighteen. Burrs, Paines, and a couple Churches. Siblings or cousins of his research team, maybe.

  His neck prickled.

  “It’s a memorial,” he said.

  “It’s bullshit,” Nora said.

  Jasper spent another half hour reading and rereading as the pop pop pop of the range fire echoed through the cinderblock walls. Around two, it went silent and Sheldon gave a thumbs-up through the tiny window of the classroom door. Kingsley shoved him aside and barged in, slamming the door.

  “Who chooses the ground, the challenger or the challenged?” he asked, swiping the binder off Jasper’s desk.

  “Uh—challenged.”

  “Distance?”

  Pause. “Challenger.”

  “And which is more important: ground or distance?”

  “I didn’t get that far.”

  “Ground. Shake up a man by taking him out of his element. That’s what helped your little guard dog over there.”

  Nora kicked a desk over and threw her giant book at Kingsley. It missed, but she was moving before he recovered, closing in fast enough to get off a punch. Kingsley blocked the second, and slammed her facedown on a desk, wrenching her arm behind her back to keep her still.

  “Stay where you are!” Kingsley yelled when Jasper moved to help her. The pair of Donelsons rushed in, hands moving to their hip holsters. “You can’t face yourself in the mirror, that’s your problem,” he snarled in Nora’s ear.

  “Go to hell,” she spat.

  Kingsley twisted her arm tighter. Eyeliner was running down her cheek. “Don’t be spewing your shite at me. I got enough of my own.”

  He let go, and Nora collapsed to the floor.

  “If the Counselor wants her around, then she’ll behave,” Kingsley told the Donelsons. “And if you ever draw those weapons on me, it’ll be last thing you do.”

  Jasper kneeled down and touched Nora’s shoulder.

  She shrank away, hugging herself.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The team kept asking what had happened, but Jasper kept his mouth shut. He’d told Nora he wouldn’t talk about her anymore. He owed her that.

  Still, it made the study room super awkward for a couple days, even if there wasn’t really a need to talk anyway. The group read and sorted and logged data, skipped dinner, and went to bed with sandpaper eyes, then repeated the cycle. Nora brooded in the corner, some tape holding together the binding of her poetry book, looking more pissed than normal, which was definitely saying something.r />
  Jasper started getting up early to study the Code over breakfast, which meant Nora did, too. He hated himself for just standing there while Kingsley had manhandled her. She probably thought he was a coward. He kind of was. But he knew that mentioning the incident meant wading into the bad blood between Nora and the instructor.

  A week later, Lacy substituted a briefing for the normal research session.

  “Okay, here’s what we know so far: Jasper’s dad went through all the famous biographies on Arnold and took lengthy notes. Ditto for Reed and Washington.” She ran a finger down the spreadsheet. “Most of the articles are on Reed: copies of letters, diary entries, and what I think are legal papers. The rest are about this Boswell guy, whose first name was Ira, according to this copy of a muster sheet. He was an officer on Arnold’s staff in Philadelphia.”

  Jasper held the index card mobile, watching it twist and turn. The names came around slowly. Washington. Reed. Arnold. Boswell.

  Okay, Dad—so they’re connected.

  But how?

  “In other words, we don’t really know anything,” he said.

  “We know your dad was very organized,” Sheldon replied. “And he really loved office supply warehouses.”

  “I was hoping the answer would be obvious. Like, he’d left his thesis statement taped to the inside of the safe: ‘Here’s what I was looking for.’”

  “I think it’s going to be like one of those 3-D hidden images,” Lacy said. “It’s here, but we have to zoom out really wide and get the whole picture.”

  “I hate those things,” Jasper said.

  “Yeah, those things suck,” Sheldon said.

  “We just need to Tucker this thing.” Lacy pointed to the kid splayed out on the beanbag chair, face buried in a notebook. “The solution will take shape.”

  But not yet. This many midnight research sessions in a row was brutal.

  Jasper gathered up a stack of notebooks and dropped them back in the safe. He thought maybe he’d heard the bottom plate rattle. He tapped it with his knuckles.

  “Tuck, let me see your knife.”

  Jasper wedged the blade into a hairline crack between the metal plate and the safe wall and pried up a false bottom. Inside was a stack of business cards and an ID badge. The badge showed his dad’s face, but the name said Dan Cooper, Archivist. Historical Society of Pennsylvania. The business cards showed the same name and title.