Boot Camp Page 5

  Because school came easily, I was often bored. Even in accelerated math the teacher would introduce a concept—converting fractions to percentages, for example—and I would get it right away. Then, while she was explaining it to the rest of the class, I would finish that night’s homework assignment.

  My parents complained that they never saw me doing any homework, and yet I always got the highest grades in the class. They asked if I could skip a grade, but the headmaster said it was important that I stay with my peer group. My dad suggested I go to a different school, but the Governor’s School was the fanciest in the city and my mom liked telling people I went there.

  At the age of twelve I stayed home for a week with strep throat. Back in school it only took a day or two to catch up and learn everything I’d missed. That’s when I realized I didn’t have to go every day.

  “You have to go to school, Garrett,” my father said one night after receiving a call from the headmaster that I’d missed two days that week. My mother wasn’t there. She was working late, as usual.

  “I do go to school,” I answered.

  “Every day,” my father stressed.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re supposed to,” he said.

  “I thought I’m supposed to get good grades so I can go to a good college,” I said.

  “That too,” said my father.

  “But I don’t need to go to school every day to do that,” I said.

  “You still have to go every day,” he insisted.

  “Why?”

  “Because you do.”

  “Because” wasn’t enough for me. People got into college based on their grades, not on how often they attended school. Besides, there were other, more interesting things to do: museums to visit; neighborhoods to walk through, where the air was fragrant with the smells of exotic foods; old men in the park to play chess with; construction sites to explore. If it only took me two or three days a week to learn what other kids needed five for, why did I have to sit around and be bored?

  EIGHT

  “You will share the intimate details of your life.”

  The door opens, and Mr. Sparks, the athletic, dark-skinned chaperone, comes in.

  “Time to go, Garrett.”

  “Where?” I ask in a daze.

  “Where, sir,” he corrects me.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Mr. Sparks checks his watch. “Circle.”

  I rise slowly and stiffly from the floor. Out in the hallway my balance is so unsteady that I weave like a drunk and have to press my hands against the walls like a sailor in a storm. My legs feel weak from disuse. The air in the hallway feels warm and sticky. Through a small window I can see that the trees are covered with dark green leaves. A female with short brown hair lumbers across the field, carrying a car tire under each arm. She trips and falls face first to the ground. The tires bounce away and flop over. An upper-level female (same red polo shirt, but longer hair) screams at her to get up. Still peering through the window as I walk, I accidentally bang my shoulder turning the corner.

  “Easy, Garrett,” Mr. Sparks says with a hint of amusement. “Don’t want to hurt yourself after all that.”

  Something about the tone of his voice makes me wonder if I should take a chance. “Can I ask how long I was in TI, sir?”

  Mr. Sparks doesn’t answer right away. He’s walking behind me, and I don’t dare turn around to see the expression on his face. We both know I’ve broken the rule against talking.

  Relief washes through me when Mr. Sparks drops his voice and says, “A while.”

  “How come they let me out, sir?”

  “Guess they need the room for someone else.”

  “How many Temporary Isolation rooms are there, sir?”

  He doesn’t answer. We’re getting closer to our destination, but there’s one more question I need to ask. “Sir, how do you get out of this place?”

  “Give them what they want, Garrett,” Mr. Sparks answers in a solemn whisper, then steps past me and knocks on the door to circle.

  Joe opens it. The red puffiness around his eyes has receded, and his nose no longer twitches. “Well, look who’s here,” he says with a sinister smile. “You miss us, Garrett?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answer. It’s probably the first time he’s asked a question I could give an honest answer to. After all those days alone, it’s good to see anyone who isn’t there to hurt me.

  “Come on in.”

  Inside, Pauly greets me with a weak smile. He looks pale and thinner than before. The rash has spread over more of his body, but it isn’t as deep-red or oozy. Now it’s more pink in color. Lizard Teeth Adam and his henchmen David Zitface and Unibrow Robert are there.

  A somber-looking girl sits next to Pauly. Her hair has been chopped into a ragged, uneven crew cut, as if it was done by a child with scissors. Her skin is so pasty, it’s almost green. With a start I realize it’s the girl who used to wear the sign around her neck. Her eyes, once so clear and blue, are now empty and sunken. Her arms are covered with Band-Aids and gauze pads held in place by white adhesive tape.

  “Take a seat, Garrett,” Joe orders, then turns to the others. “Where were we?”

  “Sarah, sir,” Adam reminds him.

  “Right.” Joe nods grimly. “So what’s it been, Sarah? Two and a half years?”

  Sarah, the girl with the chopped black hair, stares down at the floor.

  “I’m talking to you, Sarah,” Joe barks.

  She looks up, and, as if mustering every last bit of energy she has, says, “What are you going to do next, Joe? Kill me? I don’t think my parents will keep paying four thousand dollars a month once I’m dead.”

  The disrespect in her voice is shocking. By Lake Harmony standards she should be blindfolded and shot. But strangely, Joe doesn’t react.

  “You’ve already lost two and a half years of your life,” he replies in a measured tone. “You might as well have been dead all that time. And for what? All because you think you know more than your parents.”

  “I never said that,” Sarah answers. “I just don’t agree with what they believe. You can’t make someone believe.”

  “If you can’t believe, you can show respect,” Joe says.

  “Come on, Joe,” Sarah says with a tired sigh. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. What’s the point?”

  “The point is, maybe if you go over it enough, it’ll sink into that stupid brain,” says Unibrow Robert.

  “Talk about stupid brains,” Sarah shoots back. “I’m not the one who got sent here for huffing glue.”

  “Then how come I’m almost Level Four and you’re still Level One?” Robert asks.

  “Everybody knows why you’re almost Level Four,” Sarah grumbles.

  “Because I’ve learned that the person I used to be was a real jerk,” Robert claims. “When I get out, I’m not gonna be that person again. I’m gonna be a new person. A better person. Something you’ll never be.”

  “You are so full of it,” Sarah snorts. “Just repeating what Joe wants to hear doesn’t prove anything. Being part of Adam’s little gestapo may help you rise through the levels, but it doesn’t make you a better person.”

  Robert scowls, and Sarah is quick to figure out why. “The gestapo was Hitler’s secret police,” she explains. “I assume you know who Hitler was. Or am I still giving you too much credit?”

  All you have to see is the imploring look Robert gives Joe to know everything Sarah just said is true.

  “I’m thinking about what you said before, Sarah,” Joe says patiently. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you will die here. But it won’t be because of anything any of us do. You’re doing it to yourself.”

  NINE

  “You must earn the right to speak.”

  “You can’t win.”

  On this hot and humid early summer day seven of us are squatting before white plastic buckets in a gravel area near the parking lot. Birds chirp in the trees, and dragonflies flit bac
k and forth overhead. We’re washing our clothes, but the sky is a thick gray haze, and when we spread them out on the gravel, they just lie there wet and don’t dry. Clotheslines are not allowed. Rope of any sort is forbidden at Lake Harmony.

  “Kids die here.”

  Until a few moments ago there were ten of us, but Adam and two other guys got into a scuffle when one of them accidentally knocked over Adam’s bucket. Joe and Mr. Sparks dragged them away, leaving the rest of us in the hands of Ron and Jon. But they’re across the parking lot, rinsing buckets with a hose.

  “A kid died two years ago.” The one talking is Pauly, the frail blond boy.

  “Shut up,” snarls David Zitface.

  Pauly ignores him. “I’m going to die here. It’s been a year and nine months and I’m still Level One.”

  “Can it, Pauly,” hisses a dark-skinned boy named Stu. “Ron and Jon catch you talking, we’ll all get in trouble.”

  “Why will you get in trouble?” I ask Stu.

  “Christ, not you too, Garrett,” Stu says with a sigh. “You’re not supposed to talk. I’m a Level Three. I see you breaking a rule, I’m supposed to turn you in. You get caught talking and they know I heard you and didn’t turn you in, then I’ll get demerits. It’s my butt that’s on the line.”

  Ignoring him, Pauly continues: “You want to know why I’m here?”

  “For God’s sake, Pauly, if you gotta talk, at least whisper!” Stu beseeches under his breath.

  “Back off,” Pauly says. “I’m talking to Garrett.”

  White buckets filled with sudsy water scrape over the gravel as Stu and some of the other boys inch away. By disregarding the rules Pauly threatens to drag them all down. On the other hand, as Level Ones, he and I risk nothing except a trip to TI. But why is Pauly so willing to get in trouble just to talk to me?

  “I’m here because I’m not the son my father wanted,” Pauly continues. “He wanted a big, strong kid like you.”

  “Instead he got a freakin’ faggot who can’t keep his mouth closed,” David Zitface growls as he slides his bucket farther from us.

  “If my dad found out I was having an affair with an older woman, he’d be thrilled,” says Pauly.

  “I wonder why,” sniggers Unibrow Robert.

  “Everyone thinks I’m gay,” says Pauly, “but I’m not. I think about girls all the time. I have wet dreams about them.”

  “Whoa, that’s way more information than we need,” says David Zitface.

  By now the other guys have dragged their buckets at least thirty feet from us. Pauly keeps his head turned away from them. “Think they can still hear me?” he suddenly whispers.

  I shake my head ever so slightly. But what’s he up to?

  “Okay, listen up, this is serious,” Pauly whispers with unexpected urgency. “You and I are never gonna get out of here. You’re kidding yourself if you think you can graduate by just obeying the rules and saying you’re sorry for what you did before. You have to believe it. That’s what they do here. They indoctrinate you to the Lake Harmony way of thinking. It’s something you can’t fake.”

  Pauly’s words spill out in a rush of conviction, as if he’s been waiting weeks to say them. “You see Jon and Ron? They’re not faking. It’s brainwashing, and it works on a lot of these kids because they have done something wrong. They’ve done drugs and broken the law and all kinds of crap.”

  He pauses and studies me. “Okay, don’t answer. You’re smart. As long as they don’t see you talking, you can’t get in trouble. Good thing they haven’t figured out how to punish kids for listening. Just give me some kind of sign, like whether you want me to keep talking or go away.”

  I give him the slightest nod. Guess it can’t hurt to hear what he has to say.

  “Right. Okay, so how is being in love wrong?” Pauly whispers. “How is being born a weak geek like me wrong? What do they want me to believe? That I’m a frickin’ mistake? See, the problem with this place is they take anyone they get. As long as your parents pay the bill, Lake Harmony doesn’t care. Your parents sent you here because they want you to be a different person. Mr. Z and company are happy to oblige.”

  I wonder if Pauly thinks we’re friends because I stopped Adam and his gang from beating him in the bathroom. But I would have done that for anyone.

  “There’s another thing,” Pauly goes on. “Some kids think if they wait long enough, someone’ll come save them. Like a sister or an uncle or someone. Well, it ain’t happening. Your parents signed a confidentiality agreement not to tell anyone where this place is. No one can come get you, because no one except your parents knows where you are.”

  A crow lands on the gravel a few yards to our left. The large black bird cocks its head and looks at us, then lifts its wings and flaps away. Sabrina has no idea where I am. What would I have done if she’d been the one who’d suddenly disappeared without warning? Would I have tried to find her? Would I have simply waited for the day she’d return? How long would I have waited?

  How long will she wait?

  “There’s only one answer,” Pauly whispers. “We have to get out of here. It’s our only chance. And we’re not alone. There’s another person who’ll go with us. Think it over, okay?”

  The kid has to be crazy to tell me this. Doesn’t he realize I could rat him out and score major points with Joe? Or is this a setup? A trap to see if I’d really be stupid enough to agree to try to escape? Thirty feet away, Stu clears his throat. Joe and Mr. Sparks are walking toward the parking lot. As they near us, Unibrow Robert intercepts them. “Pauly was talking, sir. He said a kid died here two years ago and that he’s going to die here. He said if his dad found out he was having a relationship with an older woman, he’d be thrilled.”

  A laugh bursts uncontrollably from Mr. Sparks’s lips, but Joe shoots him a silencing look, and the chaperone covers his mouth with his hand and pretends to cough. Meanwhile, Joe stands over Pauly, who hangs his head, awaiting his sentence.

  “Twenty-five push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and a hundred squat thrusts,” Joe orders.

  Pauly moves slowly away from his bucket. He steps out of his flip-flops and assumes the prone position. He manages to do five push-ups before it becomes an effort. His back dips like an old horse’s and his arms tremble. By the eighth push-up he’s dropped to his knees.

  “Seventeen more,” Joe barks.

  It’s a struggle. Each push-up is feebler than the last, until Pauly can barely lift his shoulders off the gravel. Next come the sit-ups, the gravel clinging to the back of his polo shirt each time he manages to rise. Like the push-ups, these become more and more pathetic until he needs to prop himself up with his elbows in order to sit.

  All the while Joe stands over him, counting. It is, of course, the perfect punishment for the boy whose father wants to toughen him up.

  Finally, Pauly completes the sit-ups. Now with bare hands and feet he starts the squat thrusts, slamming the palms of his hands down on the rough, pointy gravel, then kicking his bare feet out behind him. It must be incredibly painful, and by the twentieth squat thrust two toes on his left foot are scraped bloody. Tears run down Pauly’s cheeks.

  That’s when I realize this was no trap. Pauly knew he was going to get caught if he talked to me. He knew the punishment would be painful. But that’s how badly he wants to get out of here.

  Later we line up in the hall before dinner. Pauly is in front of me, shoulders slouched, head hanging, beaten down. In the flip-flops his bare feet are covered with dark scabs and smeared with dried blood. Like animals in a herd knowing instinctually that the weakest member will most likely attract a predator’s attack, the others stay as far away from him as they can.

  Joe walks down the line and stops beside me. “I hear Pauly had a lot to say this afternoon. Maybe you’d like to fill us in.”

  “He said his father sent him here because he’s not the son he wanted, sir,” I reply.

  “What else?”

  “Lake Harmony will take anyone wh
ose parents are willing to pay, sir.”

  “What else?”

  “I shouldn’t think anyone’s going to come get me because no one knows where I am.”

  “What else?”

  I pretend to think for a moment. “That’s all, sir.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now it’s Joe’s turn to pause. “Step out of line, Garrett.”

  I do as ordered.

  Joe takes a stick of gum out of his shirt pocket and slowly unwraps it. Lake Harmony does not serve dessert or anything sweet, and the minty scent is incredibly tantalizing. Joe waves the stick under my nose before he pops it into his mouth. Then he crumples the wrapper and drops it on the floor.

  “Pick it up,” he orders.

  I bend down and get it. When I straighten back up, Joe holds out his hand, palm upward. But that doesn’t mean he wants me to put the wrapper in it.

  Joe smiles. “Not bad, Garrett. Now give it to me.”

  I place it in his palm. He turns his hand over, and the wrapper falls to the floor. “Pick it up.”

  My eyes meet Joe’s. Under the mustache a slightly sadistic smile traces his lips. Once again I bend down and pick up the wrapper, then wait for the next order. Joe tells me to give it to him, and when I do, he drops it. “Pick it up, stupid.”

  I do what he says.

  “Give it to me.”

  He drops it.

  “Pick it up, stupid.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Pick it up, stupid.”

  “Give it to me.”

  It’s Simon Says for boot-campers. The others watch, some with amusement on their faces, others wincing at the malicious nature of it.

  “Pick it up, stupid.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Ahem.” Mr. Sparks clears his throat.

  Joe checks his watch. “The rest of you, go with Mr. Sparks to dinner.”

  They march away down the hall while I stay behind with Joe. We’re alone now.

  “Pick it up, stupid.”