Boot Camp (14 page)

I launch up like a rocket, but as I do, the tops of my thighs unexpectedly hit the edge of the table and tilt it up. Plates of food slide and spill into the laps of the guys on Adam's side. Adam tries to get up, but the table has literally tilted against him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Joe and the troll already on the move, as if they knew this was coming.

Good. Let 'em come.

I reach across the table and grab Adam by the throat. His mouth opens and his eyes widen, and for an instant I see the real Adam, a scared bully who's all bluff when his henchmen aren't there to back him up. I've got the soft, unprotected flesh of his neck in my grip. Adam's hands go around my wrist as if to pry my fingers from his throat, but I tighten my grasp. His eyes start to bulge and his face turns red, and I can feel his carotid artery throbbing beneath my fingers. In
that instant our eyes meet, and he knows I've seen the real Adam. A wimp in tough guy's clothing.

And just at that moment a single clear voice loudly but calmly warns: “It's a setup, you fool.”

And yes, of course I knew that, and a moment ago I didn't care. But hearing Sarah say it changes something.

I let go of Adam's neck. He scrambles to his feet, raising his fists. “Come on, you big chicken! Let's see what you got.”

It's almost comical. Adam waves his fists, his shirt stained red with splattered train crash. The other guys on his side of the table murmur angrily and wipe the spilled food off their laps. The guys on my side of the table grin. Joe and the troll stumble across the food hall like a couple of clowns. I step back from the table and watch. Suddenly, while there's chaos all around, I'm the calmest one in the bunch.

Adam drops his fists and goes stony, glaring daggers. “You're a dead man, Garrett.”

Joe and the troll arrive. Sliding my hands into my pockets, I gaze over at Sarah and wink as both men, breathing hard, stop beside me. For a moment neither seems to know what to do.

“What… what's going on?” Joe stammers. “What happened here?”

Adam points at me. “He tried to pick a fight. He tried to choke me.”

“Liar,” I reply.

At the next table Sarah turns her head away, so as not to be caught smiling.

“Did anyone see what happened?” Joe asks.

By now the guys have straightened out the table. A few start to sit down again. Others complain about not getting enough to eat because their meals have spilled to the floor.

“Jon.” Joe picks out a likely stooge. “You saw what happened, didn't you?”

“Uh …” Jon's eyes dart around. He knows he's supposed to help, but he isn't sure how. Not being included in the original plan means he's not certain who the target was. “Yeah, it was Pauly.”

Joe grimaces. By now it's become a complete farce. He shoots me a look that says I may have gotten away with something this time, but it won't happen again.

The elation of escaping from Joe's latest trap is shortlived, and by the time we begin after-dinner Reflections, I've sunk into a deep funk. We open our notebooks and I begin to write about seeing my father and the disappointment I felt that my mom didn't come. But what I'm feeling is the sensation of free-falling into a dark, bottomless chasm of hopelessness. I'm stuck here.

After six months I'd be a fool to believe that Sabrina is sitting by the phone waiting for my call. All I can hope is that she still thinks about me. But how much longer will she even do that?

When no one is looking, I take out the brochure I grabbed in the administration building's lobby earlier in the day and secretly read it.

Other behavior-modification programs may
promise results, but Lake Harmony delivers. The child who returns from the Lake Harmony experience is the child you always knew you had.

It's a business, and as my mother would say, you can't stay in business if you don't produce a product. The product Lake Harmony delivers is the child you always knew you had, otherwise known as the one you wished you'd had, not the one you got stuck with. No one is going to spend four thousand dollars a month to get back the same kid they sent away. Garrett Durrell may walk out of here someday, but it won't be the Garrett Durrell I know. It'll be some zombie. Some mindless robot like Ron or Jon.

Kids come and go without explanation. One day Stu is gone and a fat, baby-faced guy named Miles replaces him. Miles has black tattooed bands around his biceps and newly shorn brown hair. You can imagine a much more menacing version of him with spiked hair, a smoldering cigarette, and a black jacket with chains. But without that costume he looks bewildered and frightened. In the dark after Shut Down he starts to sob.

“Shut up,” Adam growls.

“I want to go home,” Miles cries.

“And we want to sleep,” Unibrow Robert snaps. “So shut it.”

“You can't make me,” Miles sobs.

And strangely he's right. At least for now. If anyone
gets out of bed, he'll set off a motion detector.

“You're dead,” Adam warns.

The next morning when we run, Pauly is no longer the straggler. Now it's Miles, who complains that he has asthma and stops every fifty yards, red-faced and gasping, bent over with his hands on his knees. It's cold this morning. Not an early snap of fall frost, but an ominous icy presence under a sullen gray sky: the first real glimpse of the winter approaching. Our running path is blanketed by fallen yellow, red, and gold leaves, which crunch underfoot. The few leaves that remain hanging from the branches overhead are curled and brown. In the distance across a field some females are doing push-ups on their knees, their white breaths rising into a collective haze.

“Come on, you wimp!” Joe yells at Miles. “You want to go join the females?”

“No!” Miles gasps, and coughs. But his coughing sounds shallow and bogus.

“You're faking it, you fat little creep!” Joe yells.

“I'm not!” Miles whines.

Joe only runs sometimes, and when he does, like today, he hangs back, tormenting those who lag behind. But with Miles stopping every few moments, and Ron and Jon way out ahead, the line of runners stretches extra long and thin, and sometimes in the trees or behind a small rise there's no one else in sight.

“Garrett, wait up.” Pauly catches up to me. “Frickin' freezing.” His breaths are white mist.

“You don't say.”

“New moon was … three nights ago.” He gasps
out a few words with each breath as we jog between the dark trunks of trees. “It's getting colder … every day.”

“Yeah.”

“Next new moon … is in twenty-seven days…. Sarah and I are going … with or without you.”

It's hard to imagine them getting very far. “You don't think it's already too cold?”

“Doesn't matter. … If Sarah doesn't go soon … she's never gonna go…. I'll kill myself before I … spend another … winter here.”

For the first time, I believe him.

“You still think …” Pauly continues, “you can fool them?”

“No.” We cross a low, muddy patch covered with a thin veneer of ice that crackles underfoot. The gummy mud beneath grabs at our heels.

“Then what… are you gonna do?” Pauly asks.

“Don't know.”

“See… that's the thing…. You're still pretty strong…. You think you've got time … maybe something amazing will happen … your parents will change their minds … or Lake Harmony will get shut down … That's what… Sarah and I thought.”

What if he's right?

“It won't happen … but by the time you figure that out… it'll be too late.”

What if he's right?

“Believe me … Sarah and I know … because it's almost too late … for us.”

“Suppose it works, Pauly. Suppose you get out of here. Where do you go?”

“Sarah has an aunt… in Toronto.”

That's right. She mentioned an aunt when we were in the infirmary.

“If we can get to Canada … we'll be okay.”

“You're going to walk to Canada?” I ask.

“We're somewhere … in upstate New York,” Pauly gasps. “It can't… be that far…. Look, Sarah and I are going … whether you come … or not.” He suddenly sounds impatient, even annoyed. But I sense that what spawns this is an inner strength, a steely determination you wouldn't expect from someone so meek and slight of stature. You have to admire someone who's willing to fight against these odds. After all, he's smart enough to know it's a crazy plan: Open the circuit-breaker box and shut off the power. Lock the box. Set a fire. Sneak out when the fire trucks come in. Somehow get to Canada with no money for food or transportation.

They don't stand a chance.

“You will not touch anyone for any reason.”

One evening in Reflections, Joe drops a piece of lined paper on the table in front of me. “Ready to try again?”

He means another letter to Sabrina.

“I…” I search for a way to stall. “I'm not sure.”

The smile disappears from Joe's face. “Maybe another visit to TI would help.”

Another trip to TI will simply postpone the inevitable. I'll come out and Joe will ask again if I'm ready to write the letter. If I don't, it'll be back to TI. The process repeated over and over until I'm a basket case.

I pick up a marker and begin to write:

Dear Sabrina,
This is the hardest letter I'll even write. I know you've been wondering what happened to me. I guess I could say I went away to think.

Joe turns away to check on the other residents.

I …

I know what I'm expected to say. That I was wrong. I made a mistake. I'll never see her again. I don't love her.

I … Now that I've had time to think, I realize that I was wrong to

“Wrong to what, Garrett?” Coming from behind, the sudden sound of Joe's voice startles me. The marker falls out of my hand.

“Well?” he demands.

I can't…

“Pick up that marker and write!” he orders.

In the middle ages, one extreme form of capital punishment—usually reserved for criminals who'd committed treason or some other heinous offense—was being drawn and quartered. The victim was dragged, or “drawn,” by four horses into a crowded public square. A rope or chain was tied from each wrist and ankle to a different horse. Then the horses were ordered to pull
in opposite directions, the result being that the victim was literally torn into four separate parts.

I feel like my insides are being drawn and quartered. I know what I'm expected to do, but I can't. I know what will happen if I don't write this stupid letter, but I'm helpless to prevent it. The hope of seeing Sabrina is all I've got. If I give that up, I have nothing.

“Man, either you're a lot stupider than you look, or you're a glutton for punishment.” Joe sounds almost as if he's in awe.

“I'm not, sir,” I answer.

“Then prove it, smart guy.”

The marker is motionless in my hand. No matter how I try, I can't make myself write.

“Prove it!” Joe shouts.

Back in TI. My chin has gone numb where it rests against the gritty floor. I guess I could move it, but then some other part of my face will just go numb. Same with all the parts of my body that are sore and hurting. What's the point of replacing one set of pains for another?
What did I do to deserve this?

Endless hours pass with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. No one comes in to grind my ankles and twist my legs. It's as if Joe doesn't want anything to distract me. The old tricks to pass the time don't work anymore. The CDs won't play in my head. The movies won't run. The same with childhood memories. I pull them into my consciousness, but they flicker and fade.

•  •  •

There was a woman named Sabrina once. She was new to the city and to her job. Being an introvert and a math geek—not the type to go to clubs or hang out in bars— she was lonely. A young man became her friend. He was thoughtful and attentive, and they had a lot in common…

Seems like a long time ago in a faraway place. Like a fairy tale. How long has it been? Seven months? Does she even think of me anymore?

Just write the damn letter and get it over with!

That voice in my head is not mine; it's Joe's. When did he become part of my consciousness?

What are you trying to prove? You know you can't win.

When I was a child, it was my parents' voices I heard in my head. Or the nanny's, since she was around more than they were. Or a teacher's. Now it's Joe's.

What's the point? She's probably forgotten you by now.

“Dear Sabrina. You haven't heard from me because I've gone away to think.” Joe is reading from the letter I finally wrote to get out of TI. “Even though I really loved you once, I see now that I was wrong. I shouldn't have gotten involved with an older woman. I should have listened to my parents. When I come back, I won't be seeing you anymore. Sincerely, Garrett.”

We're in Circle. When Joe finishes reading, he looks around and asks, “What do you think?”

Instead of the usual snide chorus of disapproval and
disbelief, there is silence. Pauly stares down at the floor, no doubt praying he won't be singled out. Sarah, bony and hollow-eyed, gazes at the blank wall as if she's not even there.

“Think I should send it?” Joe asks.

Chubby Rachel speaks up. “Why not?”

“Think he means it?” Joe asks.

No one answers.

“What do you think, Sarah?”

Sarah doesn't respond. Not even the slightest flicker in those empty eyes.

“Yo, stupid,” Adam calls to her.

No reaction.

Joe holds up my letter to draw the attention back to him. “Anyone think Garrett really believes this?”