Alabama Moon (33 page)

“Nossir.”

Directly in front of us was another building a short distance across a cement walk. Mr. Pratt pointed to it. “Classrooms,” he said. “Monday through Friday, seven-thirty sharp.” Then he turned to me. “Questions?”

I shook my head.

“Let's go. The superintendent wants to see you.”

Mr. Fraley was a short, overweight man, bald except for a strip of hair just over his ears. He had a drooping face that pulled away all expression. The rest of his body sagged like not much got him out of his chair. One entire wall of his office was covered with bookshelves. He was standing before these bookshelves with his back to me when the guard ushered me into his office.

“Behind the line,” the guard said.

I toed the red tape in the middle of the room and heard the guard shut the door behind me. I waited while Mr. Fraley pulled his finger down the spines of the books. There were no chairs in the room except the one behind his desk. The rest of the office was neat and clean, with little sunlight coming through gaps in the mostly closed blinds.

Finally he seemed to find the book he was looking for and pulled it out and walked to his desk with it. He sat and studied the cover. I saw my jacket from Pinson on his desk, the folder containing everything about me since I'd been in juve.

“Have you ever heard of William Golding?” he asked.

“Nossir.”

He set the book on the desk, sat back in his chair, and looked at me for the first time. “Well, you should have. He wrote
Lord of the Flies
. It's required reading in most schools.”

I didn't answer him.

“That's the core of the problem you've gotten yourself into, young man. You see, they tell me to educate the boys. To reform them. But this is just political talk to our fine citizens. Feel-good talk, if you will. In reality this place is a sort of human landfill that you hide on the outskirts of town. It's nothing more than a kennel for dogs that have no hope of being claimed. This may sound harsh, but it is simply a reality that you must learn to face. The sooner, the better.”

He studied me like I would have something to say. But I didn't. For years I'd heard about this place from the boys at Pinson. I was prepared and I stood there ready to soak it up and deal with it.

“That is not to say you cannot adjust,” he continued. “We have all kinds of dogs here. We have mutts and bulldogs and golden retrievers. But the reformation, the education—simply feel-good talk. What do you teach to a classroom of mutts and golden retrievers?”

“I don't know.”

“If you try to teach them how to fetch and return a stick, the mutt will learn nothing. If you simply teach them how to come when called, the retriever will learn nothing he does not already know. And there are few teachers and only so much time. So you know what they learn?”

I shook my head.

“The dogs learn nothing. There is nothing we can do.”

I didn't say anything.

“A young boy's mind wants to learn whether he desires it to or not. And since he cannot learn from us, he will learn from the other dogs. He will become something between the retriever and the bulldog. He will become a mutt. Do you plan to become a mutt?”

“I plan to stay out of trouble.”

“From what I've seen of your record at Pinson, I don't think it is possible for you to learn new tricks.”

“You just tell me the rules. I'll do whatever I need to do.”

He studied me for a moment, then reached for a sheet of paper on his desk. “Yes, yes,” he said. “So you will.” He held up the document and set it down again. “This is a progress report,” he said. “About to go into your jacket. You know what the first question is?”

I shook my head.

“ ‘Has the resident instigated any violent activity?' ”

“I don't wanna get in any fights,” I said.

“Another problem. Not only will you not learn anything here, you will be asked to choose your friends. Choosing friends in here makes instant enemies. Refusing their
friendship makes instant enemies. How will you deal with these enemies?”

“I won't.”

“What will you do about the things the dogs teach you?”

“I won't listen.”

Mr. Fraley shook his head doubtfully. “Very well, Henry Mitchell.” He made a mark on the sheet and placed it in my jacket. “You may have visitors on Saturday between eight and two and Thursdays between three and six. Canteen is every Monday morning if you want to buy anything. Money must be received by noon on Friday so that it can be posted to your deposit account. Understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Then consider yourself oriented. You're dismissed,” he said, waving me out with his hand.