Four by Four Read online

  In this version, Wybrany College was an elite alternative to the orphanages and shelters of the day.

  Naturally, Wybrany College was not founded in 1943. The school is quite a bit newer than that. It is rumored to be no more than fifteen years old. The same time frame, more or less, as the depopulation of Vado.

  The fact that it was built in the style of the 1940s—solemn buildings arranged in the shape of a ‘C,’ high stone walls, orderly grounds, shady bowers—doesn’t actually mean anything, as one can easily imagine.

  Following the trail like bloodhounds, we can see that those elements of design have been incorporated into the modern necessities as well: the golf course, the helipad, the tennis courts, the four swimming pools.

  A hidden outline betrays the present in the past, tracing the lines drawn by fear.

  THE EXAMINATION

  The Headmaster takes the floor, and his first line of questioning is predictable.

  “Where were you girls planning to go?” His voice creaks. He clears his throat and repeats the question.

  “Where were you girls planning to go?”

  I smile and don’t answer. The Booty speaks next. Nothing new. “Where were you girls planning to go?”

  I watch her become desperate. I tell them I can’t answer a question directed at “you girls,” in the plural. I can say where I planned to go, but I can’t speak for the others. In fact, I don’t understand why they have called me in but not them.

  “Because you were the one who organized it. On that point they all agree,” the Booty says.

  “They don’t agree on the other points?”

  “We’re asking the questions, not you.”

  Time and again they ask me the same thing: where were we planning to go. They know as well as I do, so I don’t see any reason to repeat it. I prefer to tell them what we were not planning to do.

  “It wasn’t an escape. We were going to come back.”

  The Booty resumes the interrogation. She is obviously at ease in these situations.

  “Come back? Come back when? You wanted to make it to Cárdenas. You can’t walk there and back in one day.”

  “If you know that’s where we were going, why do you keep asking me?”

  “Because I don’t know whether or not Cárdenas was just one stop on a longer trip.”

  “I already told you it wasn’t.”

  The Advisor hesitates, lifts his hand, requests to speak. Short, hairy, with a bulbous nose and wide hips, he has an unhealthy look that does not inspire respect.

  “I think we ought to put ourselves in the girl’s position,” he says.

  The girl, the boys, the children: this is the way that counselors express themselves. The Booty turns to him with contempt; the Headmaster laughs quietly to himself, the left corner of his lip slightly curled.

  “Under different circumstances, her parents would be here to defend her, or at least support her,” he continues. “But this girl has no one.”

  “Exactly,” says the Booty. “Exactly. She has no one, yet she has been given this opportunity. She could be living in the outskirts of Cárdenas, but here she is, enjoying the college’s facilities. She has no appreciation for how lucky she is. Moreover, she riles up the other girls. I don’t understand why we should put ourselves in her position.”

  They argue. It’s easy to tune them out. It’s all too predictable. I prefer to watch the Booty and the Advisor exchange arguments and rebuttals, the power struggle that tips the scales back and forth, never committing entirely to either side. I can see that the Headmaster feels the same way. He almost looks amused, turning his head from one to the other as they serve and return. Clearly, our attempted escape does not concern him in the least; this time around, he’s not even curious. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He pretends not to notice.

  They agree to subject me to closer monitoring, not in order to control me, but for my own good. Only and exclusively for my own good, the Booty says. When she says it, she fixes me with a watery stare. The Advisor commits fully to the plan.

  Close monitoring is one of his specialties, it seems.

  I see that they don’t consider this surveillance a punishment.

  It is what it is, there’s nothing I can do.

  I consent.

  THE FIRST DAY

  The New Kid is there, at the start of the day. He’s not “Héctor” yet, but will be soon. He sits in the back row and speaks to no one.

  And there, at the front of the room, Ignacio’s defenseless neck.

  He can feel the New Kid’s gaze. It makes him happy and he yearns for the pricking it provokes.

  The others horse around, trying to get the New Kid’s attention. He looks like a leader and they have to earn it.

  Instead, he stares through a filter of hazy morning light. A melancholy light that conceals both the athletic fields and his hard, metallic eyes.

  It’s the first cool morning after a relentless summer that stretched on interminably. Today, all the students are wearing long sleeves except for him. He crosses his muscular arms on the desk and presses his lips tightly together, his face turned.

  He barely opens his mouth the whole morning, not even to answer the teachers’ questions. He insists on an obstinate and continual I don’t know, I don’t remember, no. Stubborn, difficult. A fist. His nails, turned white from holding his tongue. What’s he got inside? Ignacio wonders. Why did he look at me yesterday, only at me, why did he turn around and choose me, and why is he still staring, staring so hard?

  He attempts to establish telepathic communication—to no avail.

  Ignacio believes in telepathy. He believes it is a purer form of communication than verbal language. The words that reach us are tainted; there is interference, always. Two minds that speak honestly, cleanly, across broad and efficient channels, free of weeds, like a highway: this is his ideal language.

  Meanwhile, the whispers under the tables start to lose their strength. Queer, fucking fag. They travel from desk to desk, but more tenuously, without conviction.

  Ignacio floats above his seat, his neck hot from being watched.

  TEENY

  Although her mother is just a handsbreadth taller, Teeny is small in other ways. Faced with Teeny’s ungainliness, the mother is elegant indeed. Elegantly, she demonstrates her joy at seeing her daughter, pulls her close and looks to see who is watching. Her pupils dilate, more unease than excitement in the trembling of her hands.

  Teeny hardly notices. She prances nervously, coughs a little. Her nose leaks.

  “Poor thing, you’re sick, darling.”

  A stammer. Better, I’m better, Teeny whispers.

  She unwraps the gifts. Sneakers with laces, a planner, books of stories, many stories—reading is good, reading is so healthy, the mother thinks that only readers will save themselves in this dark world. Fairies, white rabbits, pastel colors on the cover. Teeny is no longer a little girl. She bites her lip as she flips through the pages, but doesn’t complain. She only asks: Papá?

  He couldn’t come, the mother says, fluffing her hair. He’ll be back from Germany on Sunday, and she can see him then, before returning to the colich. An extra weekend, she exclaims, glancing around, you didn’t expect that, did you, darling!

  It’s because Teeny is sick. One weekend away a month, that’s the norm, that’s what everyone knows and accepts without issue.

  But her nose is always running and she coughs all the time. She’s smaller than the other girls, skinny and pale, she squints and has something of an overbite; perhaps therein lies the exception.

  She has Turner syndrome, but she’s intelligent, her mother said the day of her official enrollment.

  Now she repeats it every chance she gets. Turner syndrome. It has an artistic ring to it: bridges in the mist, families struggling against misfortune’s blows. She can attend the colich because she’s intelligent, the mother claims at every turn. She took charge of fighting like a lioness for permission to matriculate Te
eny. She even appeared in a magazine article, a new Mother Courage, triumphant, smiling, dressed in designer labels.

  “The cold this February has been bad for her. And she partook in a certain field trip, one not organized by us, I’m afraid. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it, right?” The Booty stared hard at Teeny as she said this.

  Field trip? Her soaking wet feet, the frightening pre-breakfast walk. Where were you going, darling? the mother will ask later, when they leave the office. Oh, Celia, the famous Celia, always getting other girls in trouble, she should have stayed in Cárdenas with her biological mother—she spits out the syllables bi-o-log-i-cal—some people will simply never appreciate their opportunities.

  Ungrateful people, you see, ungrateful.

  They walk, holding hands, their bodies silhouetted in the light of Friday afternoon. Teeny stumbles, like always, on her thin little sparrow’s ankles. The mother’s extra height dips low, too, in haste, determination, and disgust.

  THE ADVISOR

  They call me in for a little chat, and I prepare myself for another round of questioning. But we don’t go to the Booty’s office. The door opens and the person standing there is a man, not a woman.

  A smile hangs off his lips as he comes to take my hands in his. I stammer, I don’t manage a word, but I allow him to guide me to a sofa, where I sit.

  He brings me lemonade.

  “Oh Celia, Celia, you suffer so …”

  I’m still wary. He doesn’t reproach me. He seems to understand. This is unnerving.

  He knows I’m not like the others. He says so.

  “You aren’t like the others.”

  And then he adds, solemnly: “But you could be.”

  I tell him that’s not what I want. What I want is to go back to where I come from.

  He smiles gently and asks if I would like to have a pet. A cat, perhaps.

  I’m not surprised. He pretends to be simple in order to win me over, that’s all. But a cat is tempting. He’s done his research and knows that I like them. That I miss my old Tinaja. I’m tempted.

  “They’d let me?”

  “Of course they’d let you. I’ll take care of it. To each according to his needs. We’ve always said so.”

  “All right. But I need to go.”

  He kneels at my side. His breath closes in on me. Sweet, heavy. I try to concentrate on my future cat. I like them too much not to be pleased.

  I can barely hear him whisper. Venga, come on, come on, he murmurs, but I don’t know what he’s referring to.

  Venga, venga, venga, he repeats.

  I think he’s trying to comfort me, but I’m not sure. I stand up. He continues to kneel, absurdly, and speaks from down on the floor.

  “I understand you, Celia. I understand your confusion. But nothing will happen to you if you trust me. I’ll look out for you.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t have anything to say.

  He continues. “You mustn’t stir up the others. Especially Teeny. The girls on scholarship can handle themselves, they’re made of the same stuff you are. But Teeny is different. She’s too weak. You already know that she’s sick.”

  He’s right about that. I don’t want to lose Teeny. But, an unhealthy thought crosses my mind: if I had a cat, then I wouldn’t need her anymore. Is Teeny my pet? Is that what I want her for?

  I pick up the paperweight from his desk. A small crystal ball with a picture of a bird on its base. The bird is wearing a king’s crown. A ridiculous image.

  He finally stands, comes toward me. I put the paperweight back in its place. He picks it up and moves closer, ball in hand.

  “Do you want it?”

  I say no. He opens my fist, places the paperweight on my palm, closes my fingers one by one, slowly. I let him.

  “I’m going to take you to see your mother,” he says. “I promise.”

  Pricking of the eyes. Tingling. I’m not sure of the source of the tingling, or his offer.

  My mother.

  “But you’re not going to like what you see. Be warned. Things have changed a lot in a short time.”

  “Will it be a secret?” I ask.

  “Oh yes, of course. You mustn’t tell anyone.”

  THE ROOM

  Telepathy is useless to him. Héctor is assigned to another room, exactly three doors down. He would need to be closer to prevent the punches, the insults.

  These first days of class, Héctor has watched him constantly. He pays close attention to Ignacio, compared to the indifference he shows everyone else. Ignacio feels singled out and this comforts him and makes him brave.

  He sits on his bunk and scratches hard between his toes. He dares to speak.

  “All the rooms are full. Why’d they assign him that one?”

  Iván comes over.

  “Because he has to sleep somewhere, idiot. I saw them bring a cot. I have no idea what his parents would say if they found out. Paying a ton of money for a crappy fold-up bed.”

  Carlos, from the depths of the bottom bunk.

  “Oh, they’ll find out. What’s weird is that they even let him in. He was held back. The colich doesn’t take those kids. Especially once school’s already started.”

  Iván muses.

  “Maybe it’s because that girl left. You heard they expelled a Special this year, right?”

  And he adds: “But if you think about it, if they were down a girl, another one should have come. We’re not even now. When we leave, one of us will be on our own.”

  Carlos closes the conversation.

  “Specials don’t count, anyway. They’re worthless.”

  They’re worthless, yes. On this the boys agree. And they agree not to call Héctor queer anymore. They don’t feign disinterest now. They listen for noises in the hallway, hoping to distinguish his voice from the others. Cruelty has given way to surveillance.

  “Doesn’t he ever talk? The bastard,” Iván says.

  “Maybe he’s shy,” Ignacio summons the strength to suggest.

  Loud laughter from Carlos unnerves him.

  “The New Kid’s high all day, that’s what’s up. Come on, he’s totally got weed. And I’m gonna ask him as soon as he trusts me. He’s not fucking shy.”

  “Man, if he gets you weed, score some for the rest of us,” Iván laughs.

  Ignacio laughs, too. His own laughter sounds almost strange. Surprisingly, they leave him alone that night. He lies back in bed, hugging his pillow. The little light from the switch glows green on his cheek.

  He listens, strains to hear something. Nothing but the tap-tap-tap of water dripping in the sink and the whine of the mastiff Cayetana, Lux’s pitiful meows.

  But not Héctor’s voice, which he would recognize no matter what.

  He begins to speak to him telepathically, insistently. His lips move soundlessly, so he won’t get teased, or hit.

  By the time he’s overcome by sleep, he still hasn’t received an answer.

  VALEN, CRISTI & MARINA

  Teeny is back with a little color in her cheeks, her hair smoothed with a straightening iron.

  She’s blanketed in compliments—Valen, Cristi, and Marina lay it on thick. What did she bring them? She knows that’s their motivation: Teeny is generous with the Specials. They wait for her precisely because she’s generous.

  They go to the girls’ bathroom to avoid raising suspicions among the Normals.

  Teeny doles out her attention as she doles out the gifts.

  Valen chews candy and sucks her spit.

  Cristi, exasperated: “Ugh, do you have to be so tacky?”

  Celia isn’t with them. When it gets dark, she goes running in the Adidas sneakers donated by Wybrany. Her shadow can be seen in the distance, a gust trampling the wet grass. Back and forth in a mostly errant, undisciplined race.

  They watch her from inside the doorway, and from their little huddle rise murmurs and complaints.

  Teeny demurs, but weakly. “Celia didn’t say anything about us.” Her nose dri
ps. “She took all the blame.”

  “Well, then she’s saying that she manipulated us,” Cristi says. “And I think that’s true. She never stopped to think about the consequences of her big idea. Such bullshit. We almost got seriously punished, you know. She’s selfish. Come on, Teeny—why do you think she hangs out with you? You’re not part of our group. She’s totally taking advantage of you.”

  Teeny tilts her head. She doesn’t know whether to deny it or nod in agreement. Instinctually, feebly, she whispers: “My house is in Cárdenas, too. Maybe that’s why.”

  How could that possibly be the reason, the others say. Julia’s parents also live in Cárdenas. Her mother was mayor and now she has some other big position. And Teeny’s house, she has to admit, is in the city center, next to the National Museum. Not in Celia’s neighborhood, on the outskirts. Every city is made up of different cities, Cristi says. Even she’s surprised by how intelligent she sounds and smiles to herself.

  What’s most perplexing about Celia isn’t that she’s from Cárdenas, but the question of how she came to be at the colich at all. Who recommended her for a scholarship, who granted it, why just for her senior year? Nobody knows. Rumors point to a friend of her mother’s, someone with connections, perhaps. But this colich thing is too much for Celia, they say. She had gotten used to the robberies, the looting, an easy life free of rules. Now she’s here, a caged animal.

  The girls talk like ventriloquists and Teeny timidly agrees. She folds herself into a corner, skinny little arms hugging her body, and coughs like an old toy poodle.

  Marina brushes her hair furiously. Static lifts her bangs, which wave above her small, close-set eyes.

  “Well, she can count me out for sure. They really came down on us, thanks to her.”

  “And it’s not like she can do anything on her own,” Cristi says.