The swallows A novel

Review by Booklist Review

As the newest faculty member at Stonebridge Academy, a small New England prep school, Alex Witt is ready for students to test her resolve, and her cool response scores high. But dark secrets lurk in the hallways, waiting to be exposed by the unafraid or the foolhardy. Alex and a few of her female students might be the right mix to take on the boys of the Darkroom, finally putting an end to their dirty dealings as long as the ladies don't forget cornered animals can be vicious. In her witty and charming style, Lutz (The Passenger, 2016) offers a genre-busting work of fiction that will satisfy readers looking for a seriously engaging read. The story itself is disturbingly plausible, and the humanly flawed characters make choices, good and bad, based on their backgrounds, all blending smoothly into a darkly comedic mystery. The large cast offers diverse viewpoints on the action, but the multiple perspectives never become overwhelming. As tangled as the truth often is, this novel keeps readers on the edge of their seats while opening a conversation about public shaming, economic privilege, gender inequity, and revenge versus justice.--Stacey Hayman Copyright 2019 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This sardonic standalone by the author of the Spellman Files mystery series takes no prisoners in its attack on the misogynist culture of a New England prep school in 2009. When 20-something Alex Witt, dismissed from her former teaching job under mysterious circumstances, starts teaching creative writing at Stonebridge, she senses a simmering conflict among her upperclassmen students. Most of the more popular young men, under the leadership of nefarious Adam, have formed a semisecret society devoted to rating the young women on their sexual abilities, and, not incidentally, humiliating them. The young women, led by volatile Gemma and joined by a couple of the more enlightened guys, decide to take them down by any means necessary. As the situation escalates, careers and lives are threatened. Lutz is harder on the faculty members, whose comfortable lives depend on looking the other way, than on the more weak-willed of the male students, who scrabble to protect themselves. Although she features such a large cast of characters, she builds her plot cannily and walks a neat line between satire and realism. Lutz's withering portrayal of how the #MeToo movement plays out in this rarefied setting should shock some and delight others. (Aug.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

High school English teacher Alex Witt jumps from the frying pan into the fire when she takes a job at Stonebridge Academy, a Vermont boarding school.Alex doesn't love teaching, but it's a living, and she's hoping for a new start at Stonebridge after a debacle sent her packing from her last job. Dean Gregory Stinson, a friend of Alex's famous author father, Len Wilde, is happy to give her a place on staff, but a bait and switch has her teaching creative writing instead of English. Alex isn't thrilled but settles into getting to know her class. Her initiation isn't easy: Someone leaves a dead rat in her desk, and strange, vaguely threatening notes keep appearing at her barely livable cottage. Weeding out the good eggs from the troublemakers isn't easy, but Alex gives it the college try and even makes a few (maybe) friends among the staff. When a student named Gemma Russo makes Alex aware of an exclusive online forum called the Darkroom, where Stonebridge boys post photos and text about their sexual exploits and girls are vigorously scored, Alex can't ignore what's happening, but she's not eager to put herself out there in the face of adult enablers and vicious boys who will do anything to keep their toxic traditions alive. Luckily, Gemma is quietly recruiting an army to take the nasty little cabal down, and Alex offers guidance, never guessing just how far things might go. In 2009, when this is set, the term "boys will be boys" wasn't yet being truly challenged as an acceptable explanation for entitled, misogynistic male behavior, and questions of consent weren't at the forefront. Stonebridge is a perfect example of this kind of dysfunctional, entrenched culture. Lutz (The Passenger, 2016, etc.) draws on the droll humor and idiosyncratic characterizations that make her Spellman novels so appealing, and just about no one is quite who they seem. But kindness and decency do manifest in surprising places, revealed through the alternating narratives of Alex, Gemma, and others.An offbeat, darkly witty pre-#MeToo revenge tale. The patriarchy doesn't stand a chance. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Part I Ms. Witt Some teachers have a calling. I'm not one of them. I don't hate teaching. I don't love it either. That's also my general stance on adolescents. I understand that one day they'll rule the world and we'll all have to live with the consequences. But there's only so much I'm willing to do to mitigate that outcome. You'll never catch me leaping atop my desk, quoting Browning, Shakespeare, or Jay-Z. I don't offer my students sage advice or hard-won wisdom. I don't dive into the weeds of their personal lives, parsing the muck of their hormone-addled brains. And I sure as hell never learned as much from them as they did from me. It's just a job, like any other. It has a litany of downsides, starting with money and ending with money, and a host of other drawbacks in between. There are a few perks. I like having summers off; I like winter and spring breaks; I like not having a boss breathing over my shoulder; I like books and talking about books and occasionally meeting a student who makes me see the world sideways. But I don't get attached. I don't get involved. That was the plan, at least. I came to Stonebridge Academy because it was the only place where I was sure of a no-questions-asked job offer. The dean of students, Gregory Stinson, is an old family friend. I don't know if he offered me the job knowing everything or nothing. Back then, Greg never spoke of unpleasant things. Why I wanted to give it another go is beyond me. It's not like I thought of teaching as my life's work. I doubt I'll ever have that. Maybe I just wanted to wrap up my career in education with a memory that didn't make my skin crawl. It was July 2009 when I first laid eyes on the campus. During my preliminary visit, Greg and I hammered out my contract in his musty old office, which overlooked fifty acres of dense woods. Under the thick brush of summer, I couldn't see the veins and arteries of the interconnected hiking and cross-country-skiing trails that Stonebridge boasted of so proudly in its brochure. It seemed like too much space for four hundred or so high school students. Despite the classic prep school architecture--cathedral buildings, everything stone--I had heard rumors about the lax academic environment. Warren Prep kids had called Stonebridge students "Stoners." I considered that detail its most attractive quality. Greg was sure I was perfect for the libertarian style of his school, and his certainty compensated for my hesitation. We discussed my course schedule for the new year. I would teach three English literature classes and one American lit. After that, Greg took me on a brief tour of the campus. His office and several classrooms were housed in an imposing stone structure that had no formal name. Later, I learned that the students called it Headquarters. It was the only building on campus without a literary appellation. You know the game where you take your first pet's name and add the street you grew up on and, voilà, there's your porn name? I think Stonebridge used a similar formula for naming their buildings and recreational grounds. Take the last name of a British (or occasionally Irish) poet or author and add House, Manor, Hall, Field, Commons, or Square to it. The center of campus was Fleming Square; students ate in Dahl Dining Hall; Tolkien Library and Samuel Beckett Gymnasium flanked Fielding Field. Across from Headquarters, adjacent to Beckett Gym, was the headliner of the tour: the Oscar Wilde Bathhouse. We passed through double doors with a sign that read no students allowed, no exceptions. The marble compound, which housed a whirlpool tub, sauna, and steam showers, was apparently an extravagant gift from a former student. "If this doesn't seal the deal, I don't know what will," Greg said. I had a feeling that Greg was using the bathhouse as camouflage. I suggested he show me faculty housing. In silence, Greg led me across the square to a four-story brick building. There was a heavy drizzle outside, which made everything look like it was on the other side of a cheap, transparent shower curtain. We strolled past Dickens House, the boys' dormitory. And, yes, they called it Dick House. Next to Dickens was a similar four-story brick structure. The sign above the door read woolf hall. "Yes. After you," Greg said, opening the thick paneled door. "No thanks," I said, taking a step back. There was no point in entering the building. I would not live among them. That was a deal breaker, I explained. I thanked Greg for the tour and told him I had to be on my way. He told me I was being rash. I had driven two hours; the least I could do was take some time to think it over. Greg gave me a hand-rendered map of the school grounds, which I think he drew himself. Either way, it was not beholden to any concept of scale or structural accuracy. Greg walked me to the edge of Fielding Field and suggested I take some time before I made a final decision. I come back to that moment again and again. So many lives would have taken a different course had I not gone for a walk in the woods. That walk changed everything From Fleming Square I followed George Eliot Trail past Evelyn Waugh Way, and continued for about a quarter mile, until I came upon a tiny stone cottage. It was at least ten minutes walk from Fleming Square and, at that time of year, surrounded by vibrant wildflowers. Cedar, pine, and maple trees towered over everything. A pond nearby rippled under the drizzle. It sounded so much better than that machine I'd bought to help me sleep. The perfection of it all I now see as a trick, not of nature but of my own mind. I needed a sign, even a wink, from the universe to believe that I was making the right decision. I ignored the fact that the foundation was cracked and some of those stones resembled Jenga pieces. When I looked for the cottage on the map, it wasn't there. For someone looking for a place to hide, that was as good a sign as any. I returned to Greg's office and told him I would take the job if I could live in the cabin with no name. He said the place wasn't habitable. He mentioned the absence of a shower. I reminded him of the bathhouse. He continued to resist. I told him those were my terms, take it or leave it. Greg reluctantly agreed. I returned to campus on Labor Day, after dark. Classes were to begin the next morning. I picked up the key to the cottage from the guard at the security gate and followed the blue ink on my annotated map. A muddy fire lane took me just shy of twenty yards from my new front door. Inside the cabin, I stood on the cold stone floor and wondered what the hell I was thinking. I was struck by a fresh memory of the perils of dorm life and forced myself to feel at home. I wiped down the cabinets above the kitchen sink, which contained a sparse collection of dishware and an unopened bottle of bourbon. I pulled the bottle from the shelf and noticed a small square of folded paper attached to the neck. I unfolded the paper and read the note written in small block letters. welcome to stonebridge. be careful. I sat outside on a rickety chair and considered the message. Was it a warning or just a piece of advice? I drank half the bottle as I tried to decide. Then I crawled into bed and fell asleep. Excerpted from The Swallows: A Novel by Lisa Lutz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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