The Year of the Gadfly (28 page)

 

“
MARIANA ACADEMY
—First there was Wikipedia; now there's Wikicheatia, an online encyclopedia for students seeking the ‘non-study' option. This password-protected site (access comes with a $500 price tag) offers pages for a variety of classes at Mariana Academy, each with the questions and answers for major tests. Like the actual Wikipedia, users can edit information or create new pages. As the tests change, students who have taken those tests can update information for future users.

“But what's the point, you might wonder, if the exam questions change each year? How could Wikicheatia help? The answer is simple. The exams don't change that much. Wikicheatia relies on faculty laziness. And so far it's been pretty successful. Because our exams are not proctored, students can easily whip out their smartphones and search sites like Wikicheatia.

“But Wikicheatia, like its mainstream counterpart, runs into trouble with accuracy. Wikicheatia's head editors are supposed to supervise page content, but they can't keep tabs on everything. And so, sophomores Reagan Rodriguez and Madison Morrison are about to find themselves in cyber-trouble. The girls paid the five hundred bucks each and copied the answers from Wikicheatia onto Mr. Harley's most recent trigonometry exam. They did not know that all of the Wikicheatia answers for Mr. Harley's trig test were off by two numbers. Oops.”

 

“Cocky bastards,” Katie said, crumpling up the
Devil's Advocate
and tossing it in the trash. “Now get back to work!”

I headed out to find a crowd of students gathering around the math department. I pushed my way through until I had a glimpse of the door window. Inside, Reagan Rodriguez huddled in a chair, her head bowed while Mr. Harley screamed at her. He flailed his arms like a boat motor, his face red and shining. The atmosphere at school was turning downright hostile, but I couldn't worry about that now. I had work to do.

The plan Hazel and I had come up with would prove Mr. Kaplan's innocence via the scientific method. Just as he'd taught us in class, I started by defining the question: Was Mr. Kaplan the locker vandal? Next I gathered information and resources, such as
Oracle
articles and discussions with Mr. Kaplan's classmates (i.e., Hazel) and the observations of his students (i.e., myself). Third, I formed a hypothesis: Mr. Kaplan is not the locker vandal. And finally, I planned to test the hypothesis with an experiment—a drawing test. It was an innovative approach, and I thought Murrow would have been proud.

The science department was blissfully unaware of the chaos just one floor below them. The journalist in me wanted to break the news, but I couldn't risk them all losing focus. I called for attention and explained that I was reporting a science story on the relationship between left-brain individuals and artistic ability. Then I gave everyone a list of objects to draw. The goal was to see whether Mr. Kaplan's pictures resembled those from the locker vandalism and to observe his response to the images. I had everyone participate so he wouldn't get suspicious.

I couldn't instruct a bunch of teachers to draw students sodomizing each other, so I adapted the images to a PG-13 rating. Mr. Kaplan's rabid dog resembled a cloud-eating sausage with feet; his tarantula looked like an amoeba, and his frightened schoolgirl bore a striking resemblance to a banjo. He seemed perplexed by the assignment—not the reaction of a guy with something to hide. The teachers joked about their pictures. A few looked annoyed. Finally Mr. Kaplan asked me what was going on.

“You're not the locker vandal!” I exclaimed, and then clamped my hand over my mouth, stunned at my imprudent reaction.

The teachers looked at each other, then at Mr. Kaplan. “What's she talking about?” Mr. Rayburn said.

Mr. Kaplan's initial bafflement quickly morphed into consternation. I approached him and motioned that we needed to speak confidentially. “Just say what you need to say.” His voice was clipped.

I explained about the
Oracle
articles I'd found in the Trench, and how I was hoping to exonerate him. “I thought you'd be proud,” I said, my voice starting to quaver. “Because I used the scientific method.”

Mr. Kaplan's face was hard with disappointment. “Iris, nobody would be asking questions about me if you weren't.”

He never used my first name, and it made me feel like a child. “I'm sorry,” I said, working hard to keep my voice steady.

Do you see the problem of trying to report as a friend?
Murrow whispered.
Your lack of professionalism has been disappointing.

I bit my lip.

“Iris, are you listening?” Mr. Kaplan was eyeing me. “I need your cooperation on this. I need you to promise you won't bring the vandalism up with anyone else. Can you do that for me?”

I swallowed. “What vandalism?”

Mr. Kaplan sighed. “Now, are you still planning to come by the Academic League practice tomorrow afternoon?”

“I'll be there,” I said.
I'm a hard-nosed reporter,
I thought to Murrow.
I'm not a friend.
“Oh, and by the way”—I turned back to the room—“you guys just missed the latest
Devil's Advocate
.” I let the door shut on their startled expressions.

I went to the third-floor bathroom and wrote to Prisom's Party.

A good start,
they wrote back.
But we're going to need more evidence. Even if Jonah Kaplan didn't paint the lockers he still may have masterminded the project. Have you searched his desk? His faculty box? His car? Start using that investigative brain of yours!

It's not like I've done this before,
I wrote.
And anyway, you were the ones who tapped me. Maybe you should have hired a professional!

Fair enough,
they responded
. But you want to come back and see us, don't you?

You guys said access in exchange for information. So how did you get to be involved in the Party?
I prayed my correspondent was Winston. I was sure he would answer honestly.

A few seconds later the response came:
I was tapped.

I wrote back immediately:
By whom?

I can't tell you that.

Do you test out all your potential inductees? Are there others like me?

There was a lengthy pause. My heart flipped inside out as I waited for a response. I was starting to realize that I had a serious crush on Winston, which was really weird, considering that I'd never seen his face.

There's no one like you, my flower.

It wasn't Winston but creepy Syme. I logged out as fast as I could.

Just as melanin protects human skin from the sun, melanin polymers defend microorganisms against radiation, extreme temperatures, and heavy metals. A microbe with low melanin levels can easily fall prey to pathological bacteria.

—Marvelous Species: Investigating Earth's Mysterious Biology

MARCH ARRIVED, SOGGY
and slick. At the end of February, the weather shot upward—from the twenties into the high forties—and the natural world, reeling from this abrupt shift, sank into muddy depression. Weeks before, thick, blinding blankets of snow had covered Mariana's fields. Now this snow melted into fetid bogs. In those early days of March, you couldn't walk two feet without accruing diarrhetic splatters on the backs of your legs or hearing the sucking, slurping sound of your shoes in the muck.

These dark stains were far more pronounced on Lily's snowy skin than on anyone else's, but she didn't care. She swung madly between the loss of her grandmother and relief at Justin's presence. Everywhere she went, he was there to help her skip over a puddle or sidestep a watery rut. Ever since her grandmother's death, they sat side by side in class, surreptitiously slipping notes between their desks. For the first time in her life, Lily felt exactly as she'd always wanted to feel: included. It wasn't about being part of any specific clique; it was the simple knowledge that she was living as a normal teenager was supposed to.

But her parents were concerned. Elliott had instituted a father-daughter bonding regimen, wherein one night a week they did an activity together. It was an obvious ploy to glean information about her life. Her new, normal life. On this night, she and her father played gin on the living room carpet while her mother drank coffee and read the paper on the couch.

“When it comes to dating,” Elliott was saying, “there's a lot of pressure.”

“You sound like a sex-ed pamphlet.” Lily selected a card from the center stack.

“People like Justin can't always keep the ups and downs in perspective.”

“What do you mean, people like him? He's not retarded.”

“You haven't seen Justin's file. We just want to make sure that if things don't work out between you, then—”

“Who said things aren't going to work out?” Lily looked from parent to parent.

“Your mother and I just don't want anyone to get hurt.”

“Oh, my Lord!” Maureen gasped, as though responding to the mere mention of pain.

“Maura, what's wrong?”

Maureen placed her coffee cup on top of the newspaper. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and forced a smile. “Just a lot of nastiness in the world.”

A litany of tragedies flashed through Lily's head: war, terrorism, earthquake, disease. But papers were always filled with these things. “What happened?”

“People killing each other over in Africa. Same old thing.”

“Mom, people kill each other over here, too.”

Elliott glared at his daughter:
She's not trying to be insensitive.

Lily glared back:
Well, she sounds insensitive to me.

Elliott sighed in a way that indicated a truce.

“Just forget it.” But then Maureen began to cry. Elliott rose from the carpet and went to his wife. He reached for the newspaper, and in an attempt to stop him Maureen's hand knocked over the coffee. Dark liquid ran across the coffee table and onto her lap. Cursing, she jumped up as Elliott fished for tissues. Amid the commotion, Lily grabbed the newspaper and scurried into the hall. Her mother had been reading a story about Kenyan albinos, a tiny population ostracized for its freakishness.

“Lily, put that down!” her mother yelled from the living room. “Lily!”

But Lily heard her mother's voice as if through a pane of glass.
Africa's Albinos Decry Ancient Superstition,
she mouthed to herself.
Mercenaries are kidnapping and killing albinos and selling their skins on the black market. Some people in Africa believe albino skin to be good luck.

 

Akeyo Mundi, 15, had been forced to drop out of school because of her albinism. She suffered from nystagmus, an eye condition which prevents the eyes from focusing on faraway objects and causes extreme nearsightedness. Mundi couldn't see the chalkboard or read books without extra-large print.

“People say my daughter is lucky, because of her skin,” Makena Mundi, Akeyo's mother, said. “But the men do not want to marry her. No one will hire her for work.”

Two weeks ago, the Mundi family was eating dinner when men armed with machetes broke into their house. They grabbed Akeyo from the table.

“Her father tried to stop them, but they sliced him in the shoulder,” Mrs. Mundi said.

One of the men held Akeyo by the arms as the other sawed off her legs. The men collected the stumps and ran away. Akeyo died.

 

Lily's parents were still calling to her, but what were they saying? She looked at her pale palm with its violet veins, and imagined a knife slipping beneath the tip of her middle finger and slicing a thin line toward her wrist. She imagined the skin peeling away, like chicken fat. She saw her parents' bodies beside her, watched them gesticulate, but their actual words made no sense. Suddenly she vomited onto the floor.

“Here, honey.” For a moment, Lily thought it was her grandmother rubbing her back, but it was her mother holding her. “I'm so sorry, Lily. I didn't want you to see that.”

Lily broke from her mother and rushed to the bathroom. She swooshed water around her mouth, washed her hands, and dried them on her mother's plush hand towels. She looked at herself in the mirror. Why was she crying? She didn't live in Africa. That article had nothing to do with her life.

“Lily, are you all right?”

Lily stared at the mirror. But wasn't it possible that she felt sick in a different way from how most people would?

“Lily, I'm so sorry. I didn't want you to see that. But I'm here for you.”

“I'm here too, Lily!” her father echoed. Then both her parents were talking at once, assuring and reassuring her.
We won't ever leave you. We're right here. We're not going anywhere.
But as they pleaded and comforted, an idea swept through Lily with great force: her parents feared that
she
was going to leave
them.
How naïve they were, Lily thought. How much like frightened children. She opened the bathroom door and let her mother and father embrace her.

 

Whereas the Morgans were concerned about Lily's relationship with Justin, Mrs. Kaplan was elated. The next evening, she intercepted them as they were coming down from Justin's room. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, and Lily had the uncomfortable feeling she'd been waiting there for hours.

Mrs. Kaplan clasped her hands to her chest. “I've just ordered a pizza, Lily. Would your parents mind?”

Lily and Justin glanced at each other, silently assessing the potential damage this offer could do. Before either one could answer, however, Mrs. Kaplan put her arm around Lily's shoulder. It felt strange to have someone else's mother touching her, but she let Justin's mom lead her into the kitchen.