The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks (18 page)

THE SUBSEQUENT E-MAILS

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

You cover well, Alessandro. One might almost believe you knew last night what had happened with the bras. And the parachute.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

WTF, you identity-snatching member of my own pack?

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

I made you look good.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Bite me.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

My bite is worse than my bark.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

What do you want?

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

Wait and see.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Sam, you power-hungry weenie.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

I agree, Sam is a power-hungry weenie. But I am not he.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Elizabeth, if this is you, that means you’ve been rummaging in my private papers, and that means: you are not my girlfriend anymore.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

The she-wolf didn’t rummage your papers.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

You’re like my doppelganger, is that it?

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

Doppelganger: from the German word
doppel
, as in double; and
ganger
, as in walker. A double-walker. It means a look-alike, Alessandro. Or an evil twin. But me? I am invisible, and when you see me I look nothing like you. So, no. I am not your doppelganger.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

What do you look like?

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

I am better looking, Alessandro. And I have a cooler e-mail address.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Don’t call me Alessandro, or this could get ugly.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

Oh, then may I call you Alice?

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

The Loyal Order has been around since the 1940s. The Basset kings are chosen by the kings the year before. It has always been done that way. Here’s the protocol: If you’re not happy with what’s going on at meetings, take it up with me or Livingston. We’ll listen to what you’ve got to say.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

You haven’t even got your facts straight. The Loyal Order has been around since 1951, founded by Henry Connelly, Davie Kennedy, and Clayton Hardewick. Their first activity was the capturing of the Guppy and its subsequent entombment in Hardewick’s mother’s basement. They did not return it until graduation. They wrote it all down in a book.
The Disreputable History of the Loyal Order of the Basset Hounds.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

I know about the history already. Sam is a legacy. His dad told him, and Sam told me. As soon as we find it, we’ll share it with the whole pack.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

I am looking at it right now.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Whoever you are, that book is not your rightful property. It belongs to the Bassets. To the collective, not an individual member. Hasn’t the Order served you well? Remember your vow of loyalty.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

If I took a vow of loyalty, it’s slipped my mind.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Frankie Landau-Banks. Am I right? I knew you were up to no good on the widow’s walk that day.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

You honestly think I’m Livingston’s little girlfriend? Don’t insult me or you’ll end up sorry. Try again, nimrod. And if you’re so upset, why not tell Livingston what’s going on?

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

You know why I don’t tell Livingston.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

Yes, I do know why.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Tell me you’re not Livingston. Matthew would never do this.

From:
[email protected]

To:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

I’m not Livingston.

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

I want that book, you masquerading lunatic.

(Frankie did not reply to this one.)

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

Did you get my last e-mail? I want that book. Can we make a trade?

(No reply.)

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

What can I trade you for that book? There must be something you want, or you wouldn’t have told me you have it.

(No reply.)

From:
Alessandro Tesorieri [[email protected]]

To:
[email protected]

I want that book, psychopath.

(No reply.)

HOW MUCH IS THAT DOGGIE IN THE WINDOW?

Hazelton sub-16 was a door in the subbasement of the library. None of Artie’s AVT keys gave entry to the steam tunnel system that went beneath the buildings of Alabaster; Frankie had tried them on every door she knew. But the key from the back of the
Disreputable History
fit perfectly, and Frankie stepped into the tunnels, alone at lunchtime, the Monday after Alpha’s return.

An entry in the
History
from 1963 explained that the steam tunnels of Alabaster crisscrossed the campus, filled with dead ends, occasional manholes, locked doors and hot steam pipes lining the walls. Only janitors and fix-it people were allowed access. A Basset called Shelby Dexter had filched this key from a library maintenance man he’d found asleep on the job, and it had been handed down to every Basset king thereafter.

In 1965, several Bassets claimed to have brought girls from a nearby school down to the tunnels during a holiday dance, to consummate passions unfit for public spaces. In 1967, an enterprising king, possessed of a large amount of money and minimal knowledge of wine, created a significant wine cellar in the tunnels— only to find that within a short period of time, all the bottles had overheated and their contents had spoiled. In 1968, the members of the Loyal Order had launched a systematic infiltration of whatever buildings they could reach through the tunnels, drawing the Basset Hound logo on chalkboards all across campus every night for a week. In the early ’70s, during the time the Bassets had most indulged in smoking marijuana, the tunnels had been dank with the sweet and acrid smell of old pot smoke, and in ’75, when Frankie’s dad was a Basset, the order members had several times infiltrated the building site of the new sciences building, each time leaving behind several stuffed basset hounds in prominent locations.

The autumn air was chill and the Alabaster heating system was already running when Frankie first explored the tunnels. She brought a flashlight with her to avoid flipping any light switches, but within minutes she was sweating so badly she had to leave. She returned later that night with a tank top and shorts under her clothes. In her pocket she had a compass and a ball of twine.

She looped and knotted the twine on a spigot attached to a pipe near the door, switched on her flashlight, and walked quickly into the tunnels, ignoring the pricking feeling down her spine and reminding herself that she wasn’t being watched.

It was only the panopticon that was making her feel so paranoid, she said to herself. That, and the guilt of systematically lying to her boyfriend since the day she had first followed him.

The tunnel led Frankie underneath Hazelton— then, as she estimated it, beneath the quad. There were several crossroads, and many of the turns she took led to dead ends. There were relatively few straight lines, as well—the paths twisted and turned at right angles. Frankie relied on the unspooling twine to keep her from getting irremediably lost.

Many of the doors and trapdoors had labels on them, written in black permanent marker in an unofficial scrawl, probably by a series of maintenance men over the years. Frankie found the science buildings, the arts complex, the caf, and so on—but all of them were tightly locked.

It took nearly two hours for her to find a door that opened. When she finally came across it, however, she knew she’d scored: it led to the subbasement of the old gymnasium. She could smell the chlorine soaked into the walls, even though the pool there had been out of use for a decade.

Tying the twine tightly to the door handle and keeping her flashlight low, Frankie mounted the stairs from the subbasement beyond the pool on the basement level, and up to the main floor. There were two large rooms, both with gym floors and basketball courts. Ceilings were double height and windows exceptionally high.

Frankie located the custodian’s closet.

She went upstairs.

The top floor had boys’ and girls’ locker rooms and a weight room. The hallway was lined with windows that looked out onto one of the boys’ dormitories.

Frankie looked for outlets. She flicked a light to be sure the electricity was still running.

It was one thirty a.m.

By two fifteen she had followed the twine back into Hazelton, exited through a propped-open basement window, called Trish on her cell, and been admitted through the second-floor kitchen door of her dormitory.

“I hope you’re using birth control,” whispered Trish grouchily as she crawled back into bed.

Frankie nodded.

“You look awful right now.” Trish added. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“For real? What are you not telling me?”

There was so much Frankie wasn’t telling her. How could she begin?

“Matthew and I had an argument,” she lied. “We made up, but it was a whole thing. Actually, I’m going to write about it and sort out my thoughts.” She unplugged her laptop and brought it into bed with her. “The light from this won’t bother you, will it?”

“No. I’m half asleep already,” Trish mumbled. “I’m sorry you had a fight.”

“S’okay.”

Frankie woke the computer up and checked her wireless connection. Every bone in her body was sore, but she was wide awake. She still had thirteen e-mails to write.

Four days later, beginning at five p.m., the windows of the old gymnasium—both those high ones in the ground-floor basketball courts and the upstairs ones near the locker rooms—were illuminated with twelve two-foot-high plastic basset hounds wearing Santa hats, originally designed as holiday lawn ornaments. They glowed from within.

They came from SantasAnimals.com, and each one had been ordered by and delivered to a member of the Loyal Order. Extension cords had been purchased by the boys from an online supplier, as had flashlights. The Hazelton subbasement key had been duplicated and found by Alpha Tesorieri in his mailbox, whereupon he did exactly as Frankie told him and led his compatriots down to the basement at four thirty a.m. on the morning of the project. The Bassets followed the twine Frankie had left for them through steamy dark tunnels to the old gymnasium, where they jacked open the custodian’s closet with pliers, opened the double-height ladder therein, and supervised the placement of the basset hound holiday lights in all the windows.

Porter was assigned to feign sickness, skip lacrosse practice, and reenter the gym through the steam tunnels shortly before dusk. Once there, he plugged it all in.

When the Alabaster students began walking across campus after sports practice, trickling toward the caf for dinner, a group of people assembled in front of the old gym. They stared at the goofy-looking hounds, which were glowing in the fading light.

Frankie was walking over to pick up Matthew from soccer practice when she saw the crowd. She’d been expecting the dogs, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to her that people would congregate in front of the building. She stood, hugging her sweater around her.

“Shocker, huh? How did they get in there?” Star was talking to Claudia.

“I don’t know; it’s been chained shut since years ago when some seniors snuck in there. My brother told me.”

“Aren’t they supposed to renovate it?”

“My brother said it’s got asbestos,” sniffed Claudia.

“I think it’s like those dogs are watching us,” said Star. “Doesn’t it feel creepy?”

Claudia shrugged. “I think whoever’s doing it just thinks the campus needs more decoration. Like the pictures needed frilly bras, and the old gym needs Christmas lights.”

“Maybe.”

“Wasn’t there a basset hound on that invite we got to the golf course party, same as on the Halloween letter?”

“I hear it’s some kind of secret society doing everything,” Star said. “That’s what Ash told me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, like it goes way back and nobody knows who’s a member.”

“But didn’t Dean have something to do with that party?”

Star said sulkily, “I don’t want to talk about Dean.”

“But didn’t he?”

“I don’t know. He never told me anything about anything.”

Claudia shook her head. “I don’t think he’s smart enough to do something like this.”

“What do you mean?” Star snapped. “He’s applying early-decision to Princeton.”

“Yeah, but he would never think of this,” mused Claudia. “Would he? He’d never be motivated enough.”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about him.”

Frankie didn’t speak to Star—or to anyone else. She stood there, exhilarated, listening to fifty-four students and three faculty members argue, speculate, and wonder.

About something she had done.

Something she had made happen.