The Little Woods

by McCormick Templeman

  A wind was picking up, and I was starting to shiver, but for some reason, instead of going back to my dorm, I headed to Jack’s room. He was sitting in his balcony hammock and shredding a napkin with short, irritated bursts of movement.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as I climbed over the railing. I took a seat next to him, and the hammock buckled beneath me, half throwing me onto his lap.

  “No,” he said. “How could they not have known she was dead? They told us she ran away. How could they tell us that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were friends.”

  “We weren’t. I thought she was a jerk, but she was a person, for God’s sake. She was just a girl. How could they give up on her so soon? You weren’t here, but the administration clearly didn’t give two shits about her. They just wanted to write her off and move on, lest things get too public and affect our rankings. And the cops were hardly here. I know we were on fall break for the first week, but everyone shouldn’t have given up on her so soon. If she had been white and blond, she would have been on the cover of People magazine for months. She would have been the top story until she was found. It makes me sick.”

  “What did happen back in October? Why did they tell you guys they stopped looking?”

  “I don’t know. They said some bullshit about her being troubled, about her being a classic runaway, whatever that means, and then someone up in Olympia thought they saw her at a bus station, and that was enough. Case closed. It was bullshit. It was racist bullshit. It’s always the same. A white girl is worth our attention, but how many Mexican girls have to be mutilated for us to pay attention to what’s going on in Ciudad Juárez? How many black kids had to die before we gave a shit about the Atlanta Child Murders?”

  “I feel like a serious jerk, but I don’t even know what those things are.”

  “Of course you don’t. Most people don’t. Look them up sometime and you’ll get so angry you’ll feel like your head is exploding.” He looked at me, something soft settling over his eyes, and then he wrapped an arm around me and leaned his head into my shoulder. “Sometimes it’s all too much, Wood. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes. “I do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THAT NIGHT I SAT OUT on the lawn with Alex and Brody. The pall of Iris’s death hung heavy on the school, but no one was talking about it. There was such a rampant fervor to carry on with life as usual that it was almost like talking about her was taboo. So I did my best to laugh at their jokes and to seem like I wasn’t upset.

  I was just beginning to get comfortable when the in-dorm bell sounded. Police were everywhere, and it was difficult not to be a little unnerved by it. But nothing freaked me out as much as the teachers, all acting like they were newly deputized and St. Bede’s was the Old West. Teachers like Reilly and Ms. Harlow weren’t supposed to have real power. Power in the hands of teachers like them was more disconcerting than the idea that we were in any actual danger.

  I made it to breakfast the next morning, but it was complicated. I’d slept like a corpse and barely been able to wake up. My head was fuzzy, and my eyes felt like they were covered in a wispy film. As a result, I hadn’t dressed properly; I’d thrown a skirt on top of the moose pajamas, and a bra under the T-shirt I’d slept in. There were too many breakfast choices. Strawberries and cereal, toast and bacon. I’d forgotten what I liked to eat.

  “You look like shit,” Jack breathed down my neck.

  “That is a blatant falsehood.” I yawned, grabbed some cinnamon raisin bread, and wandered over to a table, where I slumped down.

  “God,” I heard Sophie say. “Cally, you look terrible. What’s wrong?” She sat down next to Jack and started eating his toast.

  “Sophie.” He beamed and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Don’t you look pretty?”

  “Why, thank you,” she said, pretending to preen. “Cally, I was looking for you after dinner. Where were you?”

  “With my boyfriend,” I said. “How ridiculous is that?”

  “No,” Jack said, turning to me, all bursting red lips and sparkling eyes. “You don’t have a boyfriend. Who would date you? You’re a little troll.”

  “It’s not Alex Reese, is it?” Sophie asked, and I thought I detected a slight tension in her smile.

  “Ding! Ding! Ding!” I said, raising a finger in the air.

  “God, Wood,” Jack said. “Show some originality.”

  “As long as she’s happy.”

  Jack surveyed my dress with a fey smile. “How shocking to learn he’s into the sartorially challenged. I guess he gets points for being an equal-opportunity hottie.”

  In English, I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t help wondering what was going on with Ms. Harlow. Throughout class, she was watchful, her eyes heavy and red-rimmed. As usual, she insisted on linking everything back to Homer. We were supposed to be talking about The Oresteia, but off she rambled on some Homeric theme like he was the only author she’d ever read. I occupied myself with doodles while she blathered and wrote various ancient Greek words on the board.

  “What is this word? Anyone? Cally?”

  I looked up from my doodles.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You would if you’d done the assignment and completed The Odyssey like the rest of the class. Just because you entered midyear does not mean you’re exempted from the yearlong syllabus.”

  I made a face at Jack, but he looked away.

  “I did read it. I’m just drawing a blank.” I sighed. “Outis?”

  “And what does outis mean?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s the name Odysseus gives to the Cyclops. It means nobody.”

  “That’s right,” she said with distaste. “But it’s more than that. Throughout the years it has been used as a nom de plume—as an artistic pseudonym. Now why would someone need to write under a pseudonym? Someone else … Miss Taye?”

  “Religious or political persecution?”

  “Definitely. But there are also some cases where an artist uses a pseudonym just for fun. One example I can think of is Edgar Allan Poe. There was a famous case where he publicly attacked Longfellow and then someone who called himself Outis defended Longfellow, but it’s theorized that it was probably Poe himself. Can you think of any reason why someone would do that?”

  “Because he was an opium addict,” Shane said, chuckling.

  Ms. Harlow raised her eyebrows and continued. I did my best to ignore her. I was feeling very thrown by Jack’s weirdness. I kept trying to get his attention, but he wouldn’t respond, and as soon as class was over, he took off.

  Alex was sitting in Helen’s seat when I walked into bio.

  “Hey there,” I said, taking the seat next to him.

  “You’re turning me into a stalker. I came by during second period to see if you had it free, but you were in class.”

  “Yeah, I hear the administration likes that kind of thing.”

  He leaned back in his chair and put a chiseled leg on the table.

  “Um, I was gonna eat off of that.”

  “I’ll come by after study hours tonight,” he said, and tousled my hair.

  I’ll come by, not Brody and I’ll come by. So we were going to hang out alone, then. I hadn’t thought about it much, but I was beginning to notice that public displays of affection were basically taboo at St. Bede’s. The thinking being that we all had to live together twenty-four hours a day, and no one wanted their sense of space any more invaded than it already was. So during the day it was best to keep things platonic. But at night, there were places you were supposed to go—anywhere that was out of the way, or that had a lock on the door. Preferably both. I had yet to frequent any of these places, but I had a feeling that I’d end up in one that night.

  Helen came in and smirked at Alex. “Oh my God. I got really fat and ugly.”

  “No, Helen.” Alex laughed, standing up and heading back to his seat. “You’ve always been fat and ugly.”
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  She stuck her tongue out at him. Then she smoothed my hair and gave me a maternal kiss on the forehead. “Jealous, Alex?”

  He stuck his middle finger out and laughed.

  “I get her all night,” she crooned, sitting down.

  “Girl, you gotta stop. You’re giving me strange ideas.”

  “Please shut up,” Drucy sighed. “I need quiet right now. Iris is dead. Do any of you understand what that means? Can we just have some quiet?” She was slipping her glasses on and off her nose like she always did when she was upset. Everyone brought their conversations down to a lower level.

  “So,” Helen whispered. “Are you guys going out now, or what?”

  I looked at him, sitting with his arm around Drucy, comforting her.

  “I think so.”

  Helen wrung her hands like an excited child. “Oh my God. That is so cute. Do you even know what a catch he is? He always dates older girls. Everyone’s been trying to hit that since forever. He’s, like, the main conquest, and my little roommate just stumbles into this as soon as she gets here. You make me so proud.”

  That night, as soon as the nine-thirty bell sounded, there was a gentle knock at the window.

  “Um, Rapunzel,” Helen said, not lifting her gaze from her homework. “I think you have a visitor.”

  “Shit,” I said, looking around the room wildly. I’d been busy studying and had no idea he’d be so punctual.

  “Wood, stop acting crazy. He’s watching you. You don’t want to Sylvia Plath it on the first date.”

  “This is a date?”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, smiling and waving out the window. “Would you get out of here?”

  “But I look like crap.”

  “No you don’t. You look cute.”

  “Helen, I’m wearing moose pajamas and a plaid flannel. I need to put jeans on at least.”

  “No, seriously, the moose pajamas are better. They slip off.”

  He slid the door open just as I was wiggling my toes into my electric-blue flip-flops.

  “What’s up, chicas?”

  “Ms. Harlow,” Helen called lightly. “There’s a boy in the dorm.”

  He was wearing an ivory sweater and jeans. He smiled at me, and his cheeks dimpled.

  “Shall we?” he asked, extending his hand. I took it, and soon we were trudging up the hill, wet grass sneaking in through the straps of my flip-flops and licking my toes. We held hands. It felt awkward, like his was too big or mine was too small. He held on like I might try to escape.

  “So, how’s bio going for you?” he asked.

  “Good. I, um, always like science.”

  “Me too.”

  “But,” I went on, trying not to think about where we were headed, “we’re having trouble isolating the virgins.” Oh my God, had I just said virgins? What was happening? Where was I going? “I mean the flies. The fly virgins. We’re having trouble isolating them so we can count them. You know, for the separate generations.”

  “Wood,” he said, laughing. “I’m doing the same experiment, remember? We had trouble at first too. But the lab is always open. Shane checks ours last thing at night, and I check them again at five-thirty in the morning.”

  “You’re up at five-thirty in the morning?” I gasped.

  “Yeah. I like to get a run in. I like to read the paper, chill out a bit before the day starts.”

  “You go running, check the flies, and read the paper before I even wake up? God, this place. It’s like no matter what you do, you’re still lazy.”

  “What time do you wake up?” he asked, eyeing me sideways.

  “Like two minutes before class starts. Eight minutes if I want breakfast.”

  “I’m usually sitting in my desk eight minutes before class starts.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You snooze, you lose, Wood.”

  “Obviously not. I am pretty amazing.”

  “I have to say, for a complete lazy ass, you always look really cute, but you don’t use what you’ve got.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re one of the cutest girls in school, but you dress like a little goth boy.”

  I flushed, suddenly uncomfortable. “I like how I dress.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be mean. You’re low maintenance. That’s good.”

  “It is?”

  “I think so. You’re different from the girls I’ve gone out with before.”

  “Were they high maintenance? I mean, like, compared to me?”

  “Compared to you I think Brody is high maintenance. You’re lucky if you brush your hair, huh?” He laughed.

  “Brush my what, now?”

  We stopped outside one of the humanities classrooms. He held open the door for me, and I sort of skipped in and turned on the light. He quickly turned it off.

  “We should probably lock the door. Is that cool with you?”

  “Um. I think so.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what I meant to do with Alex Reese, but he was a safe person. I was sure of that much. He slipped his hands around my waist and kissed me softly, sweetly. I gave in to the kiss, trying not to think about where I was going. I wanted to relinquish a tiny bit of control, but it was difficult. My mind kept narrating everything that was happening, analyzing and decoding it. I had to relax. He knelt down and gently pulled me on top of him. I was straddling him now and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do, when I was distracted by his unfastening my bra. Oh my God. Soon my bra was completely off, resting on my knee, and he was lifting up my shirt, delicately kissing my belly, my torso, and then my breasts. Before I realized what was happening, I let out a loud belly laugh.

  “Is this okay?” he asked gently.

  I nodded, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I covered my mouth, but when he put his lips back on my breast, I let out a little scream. I hadn’t meant to. I’d never been in this situation before, and it turned out my body was unexpectedly connected to my vocal cords.

  Just then there was a loud bang at the door. Alex pulled back. Someone tried the door. It thudded back and forth.

  “Who’s in there! Come out immediately!”

  I was shaking, freezing. Every inch of my body was confused and terrified. Alex grabbed my hand.

  “Shit,” he breathed. “The window.”

  He opened it swiftly, deftly, and motioned for me to go first. I made my best attempt at an action-hero dive roll through the window, landing on a thorny plant a few feet below. I didn’t even hear Alex come through. He grabbed my hand, and laughing, nearly hysterical, we ran across the lawn into the cover of the pine trees outside the dining hall. Smiling, Alex handed me my bra.

  “You left this behind.”

  “Oh shit,” I said, covering my mouth and laughing. “That would have been kind of bad, huh?”

  “It would have been like Cinderella, them coming around trying the bra on every girl.”

  Cinderella. I looked down and noticed I was wearing only one flip-flop.

  “Crap, Alex, my shoe.”

  He looked down.

  “Oh no. When did it come off?”

  “I think it hit the window when I went through.”

  “Well, here, take the other one off and give it to me.”

  “And what, I just pretend I decided to go barefoot?”

  “You’re eccentric, Wood. Play it up. But look,” he said, his brow furrowed. “We should separate now.”

  “Okay, um, I’ll go to the library.”

  “No, we should go to our dorms. We can get kicked out.”

  “I thought you did this all the time.”

  “I do,” he said, laughing. “I mean, I’ve done it before, but I’ve never come so close to getting caught. It’s the increased security; everyone’s on patrol. We’d better split up.” He kissed my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  My heart was still racing when I got back to the dorm. Helen was gone, and with the adrenaline still pumping through my s
ystem, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. Of course I would almost get caught and risk getting kicked out of school the very first time I really hooked up with a guy. What would happen when I decided to have sex? I’d probably get attacked by sharks.

  I thought about doing some extra homework, but instead I pulled out the note and stared at it. I opened my notebook and started futzing around with the numbers, but I had no idea what I was doing.

  I tapped the note with the back of my hand. There had to be something there. If only I knew where to look. I had a double free period the next morning, so I decided to spend it in the library. There had to be methods of cryptanalysis besides the one I’d read about in a Poe story. It was a ridiculous mixture of hubris and puerility that had kept me from looking further into the possibility of a different kind of encryption. I needed to roll up my sleeves. The next day I would get to work.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I FELT SELF-CONSCIOUS THE NEXT morning as I pulled on my Dickies and perfunctory black T-shirt. I surveyed my situation in the mirror. I didn’t know what Alex was talking about. I thought I looked fine. I’d cut the shirt myself so that the neck hole displayed my clavicle. That was sexy, wasn’t it? Uncharacteristically panicked about my appearance, I searched through my desk drawer for my tube of brick-red lipstick. I swept it across my lips and wondered if it made me look more or less like a little goth boy. After a bit of grueling self-consideration, I traded the black shirt for a plain white one, and my Dickies for a short plaid skirt Kim had given me, which a girl at my old school had once called slutty, and I pulled my hair back into a high ponytail like I’d seen Helen do.

  In the library, I set myself up with a couple of cryptanalysis books and started reading. It was heavy work and required more brain cells than I was comfortable using first thing in the morning, but slowly, things started to come into view, and before long, I had an idea of what I might be dealing with.

  I was almost certain that decrypting the note would require what was called a key text. When working with a key text, the sender and recipient would agree on a piece of text to use as an alphabet. The text itself didn’t matter; you could use any book. What mattered were the predetermined edition and starting points within the text. So say you wanted to use the first line of Anna Karenina: