The Swallows Read online

  “Hey,” I said. Just to be sure she knew I was there.

  “What do you want?” Kate asked.

  “I think I want the same thing you want,” I said.

  “A cheeseburger?”

  “You weren’t responsible for the cold showers, were you?”

  Kate smiled, a real smile.

  “I wish.”

  I handed Kate my phone.

  “Give me your number.”

  She typed in her digits and passed the phone back to me.

  “We’re on the same side,” I said.

  “Are we?” she said, getting to her feet.

  “We could work together,” I said.

  “And do what?”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid. They don’t scare me anymore,” Kate said.

  “What does scare you?”

  “I scare me.”

  Ms. Witt

  I woke up on top of the covers, still dressed in last night’s clothes. My eyes were itchy and dry and my skull felt heavy, as if my brain matter were the consistency of taffy. I’d barely finished my drink last night before I was bathed in beer. I knew I wasn’t hungover. I tried to piece together more details. I remembered the weird stone path and the happy-face bag. And the brownie.

  It probably wasn’t just a welcome brownie. I gulped a jar of water, then another. I opened the door to see if there were any more gift bags. A donut or a croissant would have been awesome. Instead, there was a dead mouse. I picked it up with the happy-face bag and tossed it into the woods. I opened a can of cat food, scooped it into a small bowl, and left it right outside the front door.

  I shoved my bare feet into my boots and stepped outside into the fresh morning air. It smelled of pine, earth, and rancid fish. After I fed the generator with last night’s fuel purchase, I wandered over to the pond to get downwind of the cat food. For the briefest moment, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect place on earth. Then I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Alexandra. There you are,” Mom said, circling the cottage.

  She wore Levi’s, running shoes, and a flannel shirt. She was never one for high-end clothing. My mother is still quite beautiful but does little to enhance or preserve her looks. I’ve often heard even strangers comment on that fact, as if it were a personal affront.

  “What are you doing here, Mom?”

  “I came for visit. I look for you last night. Cottage was dark. I stayed with Greg.”

  “Sorry I missed you. I was having drinks with some colleagues.”

  “Tonight I’m with you,” my mother said, answering my next question.

  “This isn’t the most hospitable place for guests.”

  My mother gave me a sidelong glance. We weren’t going to get started on the subject of hospitable accommodations. She shared a one-bedroom apartment with six other people for almost twenty years.

  “Give me the grand tour,” Mom said.

  My mother followed me inside the cottage and began to investigate my modest dwelling. After completing an overall survey, she took inventory of my larder, which consisted of three apples, a box of crackers, and a jar of peanut butter.

  Mom took the peanut butter, located a spoon, shoved both items in my hands, and said, “Eat something. We’re going for hike in ten minutes.”

  “I don’t feel like going for a hike,” I said.

  “That’s when you need exercise most,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  My mother has always said that the point of taking exercise is to expel demons, to sweat, to breathe, to task your muscles, to reduce your mind to the basics—putting one foot in front of the other, not tripping over tree roots or shrubbery, acknowledging the small aches and twinges of your body and still moving forward. She also has an uncanny knack for finding the longest trail. We hiked for an hour until we reached a waterfall. We stopped there for a moment and regarded its beauty, waiting in vain for it to repair what was broken inside us.

  “Okay. That’s enough,” my mother said.

  We hiked downhill mostly in silence, Mom taking the lead. At fifty-three, she’s more sure-footed than I am. As I chased after her, she finally admitted the reason for her visit.

  “Your father told me what happened.”

  “He told you?”

  “We don’t have to talk about it,” she said.

  “Good. Because I don’t really feel like it,” I said.

  I was, however, curious how my father chose to frame the story. The unvarnished truth: I walked in on my father while he was being fellated by his new assistant, Sloan. I should mention that Dad’s last assistant, Greta, is his current wife and Sloan is younger than I am. It all happened just a couple of months ago. I had moved into my dad’s house after I left Warren Prep. The incident with my dad was what prompted me to go to Sun Ra Monastery. I thought it would help erase the image from my mind. Unfortunately, with the vow of silence and the limited recreation options, my mind could focus on nothing else.

  My accounting of the year thus far was that it fell well below average. I wrongly assumed it couldn’t get any worse.

  “Are you sure this place is what you want?” my mother said. “That was nasty business at Warren.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that either.”

  We hiked back to the cottage in silence. Once inside, my mother pulled me into a tight embrace. Her physical strength is at once comforting and overwhelming.

  “I love you more than anything,” she said.

  “I love you too.”

  “Remember what I always tell you,” she said, taking my hand in hers and repeating the American saying that she misinterpreted so many years ago. “Warm hands, cold heart.”

  I’ve never told her she got it wrong, because she means it so deeply. Be tough, with good circulation: words Nastya lives by.

  Gemma Russo

  Here’s Stonebridge’s dirty little secret: Behind the regal name, old-school architecture, the wrought-iron fence, the buildings named after dead writers, and the fifty acres of untamed land, Stonebridge is no better than any suburban high school. Maybe half of the student body will get into a mid-level state university or academically flexible private institution. But only a handful of Stoners ever make it to the Ivies. About ten percent of the graduating class will head off to Williams, Vassar, Colgate, Oberlin. Another ten percent will manage the competitive state schools. The rest of us will go elsewhere or nowhere at all.

  Students land here because they either are too fucking weird to survive in cookie-cutter prep schools, have a deep history of insubordination, test poorly, or are unrepentantly lazy. There are outliers, of course, the brainiacs who inexplicably attend with the rest of us riffraff. Mel Eastman, Enid Cho, and Norman Crowley can be counted among the ranks of the slummers, as they are affectionately known.

  What Stoners are truly known for is their infinite appetite for revelry. A weekend without a party at Stonebridge would be like an ice cream parlor serving only sorbet.

  Biohazard

  (keep out of Dick House lounge)

  9/12/09

  2130 hrs–last man standing

  We use warning signs in lieu of invitations. Biohazard means cocktail attire, and quarantine is black tie optional. A poison sign suggests a more casual event, which is what I would have expected the first weekend of the year. My guess was that the editors were doing it up to impress the new kid.

  Emelia had heard Nick was British and hot, so she decided she wanted him, sight unseen. I tried to finish my French homework as Tegan and Emelia thrashed in and out of half their wardrobes, trying to hit the right note of sexy but not desperate. I never join in this ritual, because I have only three options outside the school uniform. If Tegan knew how broke I was—how I stole the leather pants that
I would wear that night and bought the sparkly tank for five bucks at a thrift store—she’d use it against me somehow. But she doesn’t know shit, and I’ve managed to make her think I’m just too fucking cool to care.

  In Dick House, the seniors live on the first floor, which they call “the basement” because they think it sounds cooler. They used to occupy the top floor, until some lazy Stoner, five or ten years ago, decided that seniors should climb fewer stairs than freshmen and inverted the hierarchy. This worked out best for the rule-bending upperclassmen because it put the faculty supervisor (currently Finn Ford) in an apartment three floors up.

  Emelia, Tegan, and I arrived at the senior lounge before ten. The lounge is a massive study room on the north side of Dick House. A few streamers hung from the ceiling and there was an innocent spread on one of the study tables, including a giant punch bowl with un-spiked punch. The editors circulated with various flasks and bottles tucked away in hiding places. The subterfuge has little to do with the fear of being caught. It’s part performance and part keeping the high-end liquor reserved for the high-end crew.

  The editors scored a keg for the party. It’s not clear which one is responsible for alcohol procurement, but Jack seems the obvious choice since he’s the one most likely to have a plausible fake ID. The keg is hidden just beyond the tree line that abuts Woolf Hall. It remains a mystery how the fifteen-gallon barrel is delivered to campus undetected. Also a mystery: how the faculty never seems to be suspicious of the two-way traffic of students heading in and out of the woods with their Stonebridge commuter mugs.

  Emelia figured she had the new guy in the bag—most Stonebridge boys worship at the altar of her ass. She wasn’t banking on Hannah Rexall pulling out her showstopping move—side splits against the wall. God, she was predictable. When we arrived, a throng of male admirers was watching Hannah, closing around her in a tight semicircle, like an imminent gangbang.

  New Nick slow-clapped his approval for Hannah’s exhibition. Boys sure love bendy girls. Hannah released her leg, smiled, and leaned against the wall with a deep arch in her back. Her mangled feet (hidden in wool socks) rested in third position.

  I heard New Nick say, “That was brilliant,” in that stupid accent that all of these morons adore. He looked exactly like I thought he would. Shaggy blond hair, skinny, with Mr. Potato Head lips and a nose that should have been on a girl. He kept his brow in a constant furrow like a cheap James Dean imitation. He clocked Emelia for a moment but returned his attention to Hannah.

  “It’s actually really easy,” Hannah said. “I mean, I’ve done ballet for ten years. It’s just who I am.”

  Gabriel Smythe then attempted his own wall split and said, “I can totally relate. Dancing is my life.”

  In class, Gabe likes to wear his school tie around his head. That night, he had on a kung fu bandanna. I can’t decide whether the purpose of his headgear is to hide the zits on his forehead or to act as a compression stocking for his brains. It may just be that he knows everyone needs a reminder that he’s the “funny one.”

  Jack laughed because he really thinks Gabe is funny. Mick laughed because Gabe is so unfunny it’s funny, and Adam shook his head, disappointed that the Ten hadn’t managed to locate a true wit to bring into the fold.

  Jack was the only one dressed down for the party. The guy really knows how to kick back. He took up half the couch, his legs spread wide, like he was about to give birth. I have no problem with casual wear, but Jack always goes commando in his sweats. I feel like every time I look at him, his junk is on display. Mick, as usual, was dressed like a pretentious filmmaker, and Adam was his perpetually preppy self. I think Adam truly believes that wearing pink is the ultimate expression of his manhood.

  Jonah was nowhere to be found, which was annoying because he’s the only one of the boys who walks, talks, and dresses like a regular human being. Rachel Rose asked the room where he was, although it was meant for me. Mick suggested he was hooking up with a freshman or sophomore. A few names of pretty young things were tossed around. Tegan just stared at me, smirking. The smirk turned to a scowl when she saw Rachel Rose take a seat on the couch next to Jack.

  Make no mistake, Jack is a turd, but Rachel gets under my skin more than most Stoners. She’s a different kind of traitor, a witting participant in the editors’ game.

  Adam Westlake strolled by. He nodded at me, ignored Tegan, and said, “Looking luscious as ever, Emelia.”

  I can’t get his angle. Westlake parcels out flattery with an almost mathematical precision, but there’s no follow-through. In fact, after Emelia’s college boyfriend broke up with her, she chose Adam for her rebound fling, which he seemed to deflect without openly rejecting her. Maybe he really likes her, or maybe he’s playing a long game. Adam’s flattery shifted New Nick’s attention to Emelia. Hannah did this ridiculous girl squeal, pretending like she’d just noticed our arrival.

  “Love the dress, Emelia. You look hot,” Hannah said.

  Then she duckwalked over to us and pulled Emelia into an embrace that I think was supposed to turn on New Nick.

  “You’ll have to fight me for him,” she whispered.

  “I’ll win,” Emelia whispered back.

  I’d had enough of the Ten for the night, so I ventured outside, in search of more beer. I wasn’t paying attention and just made a beeline for the keg. Coach Keith, however, intercepted my path.

  “The keg is dead. Time for bed, Russo,” Coach Keith said.

  Most of the girls and three of the boys have a thing for Finn Ford. I guess he’s attractive, if you like eyebrows. A lot. I think he’s a phony and totally vain. I’d take Coach Keith over that J.Crew–catalog reject any day. Coach is older, late thirties, maybe. He’s lean and sunbaked and the lines on his face make him look like an actor in one of those old Westerns I used to watch with Homer. Coach recruited me for the cross-country team when he caught me going for a late-night run—I wasn’t running for sport. I just had to be somewhere fast.

  I’ll never forget Coach Keith’s cross-country recruitment speech: “You look strong and stubborn and I’m tired of losing. How about it?”

  I still don’t know whether I like running. What I do know is that when I train, when I cross the many winding trails at Stonebridge, every stride makes me feel more and more like it’s mine.

  I had just returned to Woolf Hall when I got a text from Jonah. He wanted to meet in Milton. I said no. He said that he had something for me. He promised he’d leave me alone if I met with him. I agreed.

  * * *

  —

  Our relationship had shape-shifted a number of times since that first fight in Milton Studio. For a while we just ignored each other. After Christine told me about all of the Darkroom/Dulcinea bullshit, I sent him a text with instructions to meet me in Milton. I told him I knew about the contest and asked him if that’s why he broke up with me.

  “I never broke up with you,” he said. “All I said was that I didn’t want to be seen in public with you.”

  “Because then they’d start asking for my scores?”

  “Yeah. Something like that,” Jonah mumbled.

  “You could have told me,” I said.

  “I didn’t tell you because you would have done something about it. And I wasn’t sure how they’d retaliate.”

  “Somebody ought to do something about your creepy friends,” I said.

  “No, Gemma. Don’t underestimate them. Promise me.”

  I promised, which we both knew was bullshit. After that, Jonah and I agreed to be secret friends, cautiously meeting up at unpopular locations around campus, never entering or exiting a building at the same time. At first, the meet-ups were totally platonic. We’d just study together. Later, we fell back into our old habits.

  We were a secret couple for about a year. I remember because Jonah had marked the date in his calendar. He gave me a le
ather bracelet as an anniversary gift at the end of junior year. I felt bad when I broke up with him a week later. But it had to be done.

  Senior year, I was going to destroy the editors. I couldn’t have anyone standing in my way, even if it was just to protect me.

  * * *

  —

  Inside, Jonah was juggling a stapler, a tape dispenser, and a three-hole punch.

  “You’re a talented man,” I said.

  Jonah replaced the office products on the teacher’s desk and took a bow.

  He reached into his pocket as he walked over to me.

  “Hold out your hand,” he said.

  I extended my palm. Jonah dropped something small and hard into it. He flicked on a desk light so that I could see it more clearly. It was something metal attached to a silver chain. It looked like a goat or a bat or a rendering of a satanic image.

  “What is this?”

  “It has different names,” Jonah said. “A devil pod. A bat nut. It comes from nature, an Asian plant; it looks evil and yet it’s supposed to ward off evil. I made it in metal arts with Ms. Lubovich.”

  I dipped my head under the light and inspected the gift. I was impressed. I may have even been touched that he went to the trouble. I wasn’t going to say that either.

  “I’m not your girlfriend, Jonah. You shouldn’t be giving me gifts.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, I like it. But—”

  “Just keep it,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, shoving the chain into my pocket.

  Jonah looked so sad, I kissed him. I shouldn’t have. It just confused things.

  “That doesn’t change anything,” I said.

  “Do you like me?” Jonah said.