The Year of the Gadfly by Jennifer Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

gets off on making her subjects feel dumb.”
    Mr. Kaplan appeared. He scanned our faces, saw me sitting on the ground like all the others, which is to say reading absolutely
nothing,
and called for the next two students. “A word of advice,” he added. “Difference is the essence of extremity.” A bunch of people groaned, but Mr. Kaplan just smiled and shut the theater door.
    I resumed my reading, but Mr. Kaplan’s slogan kept doing a little tap dance in my head. I searched for the phrase on my phone and, sure enough, the third hit directed me to a page titled “Famous Sayings of Molecular Philosophy,” where I read:
    Â 
“Difference is the essence of extremity” was coined by Dr. Lucinda Starburst, shortly before her death in 1994.
    Â 
    Lucinda Starburst, I thought. How could such an odd name sound so familiar?
    Â 
Dr. Starburst’s pioneering role in the field of molecular philosophy has had far-reaching implications throughout the scientific world. Before she died, she oversaw the founding of a new publication, the
Journal of Extreme Studies,
published by the University of Massachusetts.
    Â 
    I saved this page and ran a search for UMass and the
Journal of Extreme Studies
. Up popped a black-and-white photo of none other than Dr. Van Laark. First on her list of academic papers was an article titled “Eichmann and the Extremity of Obedience.” The Eichmann reference brought to mind Murrow’s description of Buchenwald in 1945, the “rows of bodies stacked up like cordwood.” I felt queasy and had to close my eyes.
What’s Dr. Van Laark doing with us?
I thought.
What’s Mr. Kaplan doing with us? And why do I recognize the name Lucinda Starburst?
    At that moment Kelly McGuinty rushed from the theater. Harrison Cox emerged after her, head hung, looking like a pebble that somebody had kicked in frustration. My stomach began a slow, funnel-like churn. Maybe I could peek in the back door of the theater or, if that was locked, sneak into the sound booth.
But you’ve signed the release form,
Murrow whispered.
You’ve given your word.
    â€œSarah Peters and Iris Dupont.” Mr. Kaplan’s voice cut through the hall.
    Sarah stood up and rolled her eyes. “Bringing your briefcase?” She laughed and headed through the doors.
    Home to one-acts and plays, Mariana’s theater is called the Black Box. It’s utterly unlike the auditorium (used for assemblies and musicals), upon whose polished stage you’d expect to see a soprano with serious décolletage belting out high Cs. The Black Box has no formal stage; the design students build new sets for each production, and the school’s website boasts pictures of student actors soliloquizing from suspended catwalks and in boats floating on water. Right now, though, the room was chilly and dark. It was difficult to orient myself because the four walls were mirror images of one another. I felt trapped, and yet something about the Black Box felt vast, as though the tangle of black wires and lights above me expanded into infinity.
    Dr. Van Laark’s lab coat was startlingly bright in the darkness. She stood beside a machine that resembled a sound mixing board but had fewer buttons. Next to each button was a number, starting with 20 and increasing by intervals to 200. On the side of the machine, a label read:
Control Panel. Property of UMass.
Unauthorized Use Prohibited.
Dr. Van Laark led us around a divider in the center of the room. On the opposite side was a second strange machine. This one resembled a stereo. Two wires protruded from the front. On the end of these wires were wrist cuffs. The funnel in my stomach was picking up speed, like the beginning of a small-scale tornado. I looked at Mr. Kaplan, but his face was blank.
    â€œThank you again for participating, girls,” Dr. Van Laark said, her lips curving into a fruit slice of a smile. “In a moment, you will select