The Year of the Gadfly (11 page)

I turned onto school property and realized I'd inadvertently pulled into the student carpool line instead of the faculty entrance. Twelve years of the same daily routine were hard to shake.

Inside the building I ran into Headmaster Pasternak conducting a tour for parental hopefuls. Most of the fathers were slicked and shined, their suits impeccably tailored, their bodies smelling of expensive aftershave. Despite the weather, the mothers wore high heels.

The group walked down the hall with the detached confidence of CEOs. They paid no attention to the students who, in their haste to make the bell, did look a little like underlings sent to make Xeroxes and fetch coffee. Only one couple, clearly the outsiders of the group, seemed genuinely intrigued by the commotion of students changing classes. The wife wore a hemp tunic shirt and a gray braid down her back. Her husband had a dearth of hair on his head and a great deal of it over his lip. They whispered back and forth like kids on a field trip—the ones who lag behind and make trouble. They reminded me of my own parents.

As I approached, I heard Headmaster Pasternak intone:
“
The Community Code is the foundation of this school, Mrs. Simpson, and our students—”

Then Pasternak saw me and threw his hands up with joy. “Mr. Kaplan! Good morning!” He beamed as if I'd just sold him a winning lottery ticket. “Mr. Kaplan teaches freshman biology and sophomore chemistry,” Pasternak told the parents. “He's an alum of the school and quite distinguished—BA from Stanford, PhD from UCLA, and quite a few publications at the young age of twenty-eight. We call him
Mr.
Kaplan at his own insistence, by the way . . .”

Pasternak shook his head like he couldn't believe a PhD would voluntarily choose not to flaunt his title. Whether he really believed this or whether it was for the parents' benefit, I couldn't tell.

“Mr. Kaplan is here as part of the College-Based Education Initiative I was describing.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Kaplan?” A man in a pinstripe suit raised his hand like he was signaling for the check. “I'd like to know what you think about the school's science facilities. I mean, are they up to date, technologically speaking?”

“Mr. Hughes,” Pasternak butted in, “our laboratories are brand new. We've taken great pains to provide the most up-to-date equipment.”

“But Mr. Kaplan, what's your take? I can't imagine that students at an elite school in the twenty-first century are still playing around with Bunsen burners. What about new computer technology or scientific digital systems or—well, you know the lingo better than I do.”

All eyes turned, including Pasternak's. I knew what he wanted me to say.

“To be honest,” I replied, “I believe critical thinking is ultimately more important than fancy technology.” And then I was waxing eloquent about the simple beauty of the high school labs. The black-topped lab tables, the map of elements that always hung over the chalkboard and would snap up with a satisfying
thwap
no matter how aged and battered it was. These were rooms full of wonder and the excitement of mixing chemicals together without ever knowing exactly what would happen. These were rooms that sparkled in my mind's eye like untarnished petri dishes. “Don't you remember how much
fun
science class was?” I asked.

Pasternak's eyes narrowed. I'd given the wrong answer. But I was the expert, so there was nothing he could do about it. He pressed forward with his sycophantism. “Mariana is at the forefront of technological advancement. This fall we'll introduce Aciview, a grade catalogue system through which parents can observe students' academic progress via an online password-protected site.”

I imagined this dad perusing Aciview over his morning coffee:
Looks like Bobby was down from a 3.6 to a 3.45 this week.
And Mom, flipping the French toast:
Oh, honey, education is a long-term investment. You can't expect immediate dividends.

Pasternak ushered the parents down the hall, pausing to take hold of my arm. “Can you stop by my office sometime this week, Jonah? At your convenience, of course.”

Before I could respond, he was hurrying after the man in the pinstripes, attempting further damage control. The hippie parents followed the group toward the stairwell, but before they entered, the mother turned. Her eyes met mine with a sorrowful expression, though I couldn't tell whether the look was for me or for her soon-to-be-matriculating children.

I headed off in the opposite direction. There were a million things Pasternak might want to discuss: new textbooks, my role as Academic League advisor, the rising price of wheat. But at the moment when he'd gripped my arm with his bony fingers, I felt the unmistakable muscle memory of my past: I was still a naughty student in trouble.

AFTER THE PHONE
-throwing incident, my parents called Dr. Patrick faster than you can say paranoid schizophrenic. I saw the landline light up, so I pressed the speaker button to listen in. Since they were discussing
my
mental health—without me!—I decided snooping was justified. Dr. Patrick wanted to know whether I was still talking to my “imaginary friend.” (The nerve of him, belittling Murrow like he was an invisible playmate!) He also said my involvement with the school paper was a positive indicator of my “growing social integration and emotional rehabilitation,” but he advised my parents to monitor me for “further signs of erratic behavior or delusion.” He reminded them to be patient. “Remember, she's grieving.” On the few occasions that Dr. Patrick nixed the psychobabble, he actually made sense.

 

The next morning, classes were shortened for the “Community Forum,” Mariana's fancy name for a school assembly. So far, we'd had speakers from MADD and SADD as well as GLADD (yup, Gays and Lesbians Against Drunk Driving). This time, HM Pasternak had brought in a “nationally respected psychologist and teen counselor” named Dr. Marcie Putz (“pronounced,” she assured us, “with a long
u
”) to talk about bullying. After forty-five minutes, I'd learned the following lesson: Don't bully. A better message, I thought, would be to warn against saying any single word too many times in a row. The more Dr. Putz (long
u
!) said “bullying,” the more the letters morphed into a collection of meaningless sounds.
B-u-l-l-y-i-n-g,
I thought, trying to bring the meaning back. Bully pulpit. Bully Brooks. I tried to say “other people being bullied” three times fast, but I couldn't do it.

“Dr. Putz?” The short
u
echoed through the theater like a bull(y)horn. We all turned to see the Community Council president, Henry Landon, leaning against the theater door, his hands in his pockets. He was trying to look nonchalant, but his eyes told a different story. “Could a large group of people be bullied at the same time—like a collective bullying?”

“I suppose,” Dr. Putz said into the mike. “Do you have something specific in mind?”

“Well, I think we're all being bullied right now. Outside.”

“Excuse me?” Dr. Putz said, but she'd lost her audience. Everybody was jumping up and pushing toward the hall like Black Friday barbarians. Meanwhile, Pasternak shouted into the microphone demanding order, but to no avail. The crowd was drunk with disorder. Then all at once I was swept up and out of the theater. People crowded the windows. I squeezed myself in between two bulky football players and caught a good look outside.

“Holy shit,” one of the football players breathed.

“Jesus Christ,” the other one said.

The athletic field was burning. The fire shot up as though from the snow itself, and flames licked the air. Smoke blew every which way. On the snow, maybe six feet in front of the flames, were three large words drawn in red paint:
BROTHERHOOD. TRUTH. EQUALITY
. Behind me, the teachers were attempting to round us up, but we weren't moving. We were pressed to the windows, searching for the source of the flames.

Then the wind must have shifted; the smoke blew away to reveal three wooden posts more than ten feet high, thrust into the ground. Hanging from each was a body strung up by its neck. The bodies were on fire. People were shouting. Someone was crying. Were those actual people? Who were they? Who had done this? Fire trucks and an ambulance sped through the school gates. Just then the fire burned through one of the ropes, and its body fell.

“Get to your homerooms!” a frantic teacher yelled.

The firemen and medics took off across the field, dashing through the red paint, turning
TRUTH
and half of
EQUALITY
into a pile of bloody-looking snow. One medic picked up the fallen body from the ground, raising it with ease. It was a dummy. They all were.

 

At the end of the day, I hoisted my book bag and set out for the Historical Society. I didn't tell my parents I was going; I just walked off school property.

It was a cottony gray afternoon, and the air smelled like wood smoke. The plow had done a good job on the roads, but there are few sidewalks in Nye, so I had to walk a narrow line between the pavement and the thick banks of snow on the shoulder. It was slow going, but the crunching of my boots helped me relax. It felt good to be away from the school, out in the world where nobody was watching me or sending me cryptic, frightening messages. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw the incinerating bodies and their snapped necks.

“Always confront your fears head-on,” Murrow advised me now. I imagined him walking beside me in a fedora and long wool overcoat. He had no cigarette; his hands were thrust into his pockets for warmth. “I aired
London after Dark
during the Blitz,” he continued, “because I wanted to show people's fortitude along with their fear. I wanted to scatter the shadows.”

“Tell that to Katie Milford,” I said. “I asked her about reporting the hangings, and she shooed me off like I was a squawking crow.”

“Editors can be a real pain in the ass,” Murrow said, shaking his head. “But what can you do?”

The trees stretched tall and straight on the roadside, like soldiers at attention. I thought about the difference between driving to a destination and walking there. Murrow grew up in a log cabin without electricity or running water, and if he needed to get somewhere, he walked. From now on, I decided I was going to be like Murrow—through sheer force of will, I would take myself wherever I needed to go.

I did wonder, however, if Murrow had been this cold. My lungs hurt and my fingertips burned. To distract myself from the discomfort, I thought about the wizened old person who probably ran the Historical Society, someone who greeted visitors with cocoa and cookies and would love me automatically because I reminded them of their grandkid. I picked up the pace.

Finally, after forty-five minutes, I saw a wooden post that read,
Nye Historical Society. Founded 1982.
The date was disappointing; I'd been hoping for a much earlier century. Still, I looked past the sign and saw a two-story white clapboard house sitting at the top of a steep hill. I puffed my way toward it and arrived with burning legs.

The Historical Society windows were crusted with dirt. The slanted, splintered porch looked like something out of a horror movie, and I couldn't help but think of myself as the lost little girl who stumbles upon the witch's cabin in the wood. But I'd come all this way, so I rang the doorbell. Soon the door swung open, and there before me was not the elderly person I expected but a young woman with startling green eyes, cat's-eye glasses, and so many freckles that I felt dizzy just looking at her. She had thick wavy auburn hair, and her fingers were covered with rings.

“Well, hello!” The rings flashed as she gesticulated. “Come in or you'll freeze.”

I hesitated but stepped into the foyer. The woman closed and locked the door. She flipped on the lights, illuminating cabinets and display cases. “Welcome to the Nye Historical Society.” She sounded like an overjoyful telemarketer. “I'm Hazel.”

I introduced myself and held out my hand. Hazel looked surprised and amused; she probably didn't get many hand shakers. I told her I was researching a story for my school newspaper.

“A reporter?” She raised an eyebrow. It arched to an astounding point.

“I heard you had a series of letters written by Charles Prisom, the founder of Mariana Academy,” I said. Hazel frowned and the freckles around her mouth slid toward her lips, as though they might fall in and be swallowed. “I'm very careful with historical documents,” I added.

“Oh, I'm not worried about you!” Her laugh was like ice tinkling in a glass. “It's just that nobody has asked for those letters in years. I'm not even sure I know where they are.”

She turned and walked back into the house. I followed her past a photo series labeled
Decades of Nye
and a glass-topped table bearing a velvet box, laid with six pewter spoons.
Cutlery, 1765,
the card read. Then I was following Hazel down a narrow hallway. She had some serious hips and her gray sweater and blue scarf bulked her up quite a bit, but she glided in front of me as though upon a litter. Then she opened a door, and I stopped short. An enormous room was spread out beneath exposed rafters, as colorful and cluttered as the backstage of a Victorian period play.

“This is my studio,” Hazel said. “The Historical Society provides me with room and board. Feel free to nose around. I'll make us some tea.”

I stepped inside and was immediately enveloped by the scent of musty clothes and rose perfume. Threadbare Persian rugs lay upon the scuffed wooden floorboards, and scarf-shrouded lamps cast a golden, shadowy light on chipped gilded mirrors. The walls were cluttered with prints—peacocks, exotic flowers, and Renaissance-style paintings where men in tights wooed women in billowing dresses. A bowl of juicy-looking pomegranates sat on a cluttered side table. I touched one, but it was fake. Beside them was a bound folder with a cover page that said,
The Interfering Goddess: Power, Manipulation, and Sexual Politics in Classical Literature.
A Master's Thesis by Hazel Greenburg.
I read the first few lines, but it was thick on the theory, so I turned my attention to the phenomenal clutter of books. They were stacked on tables, inside the fireplace, and in tall piles by the bed.