Boot Camp (9 page)

“It's not even about where he'll be at eighteen,” my mother snapped at my father. “It's about where he is right now. He must end this relationship. It is simply unacceptable.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because you're embarrassed by it? Because you can't stand the idea that your friends may be whispering behind your back? Because it's an affront to our family's high moral standards and lofty social status?”

“That's uncalled for,” my father said calmly but firmly. “Your mother and I have worked very hard to get where we are.”

“Well, good for you, but where you are isn't where I want to be. Now excuse me while I get ready for school.” I left the room, banging the door hard behind me.

There were kids at the Governor's School who ditched way more than I did. Kids who smoked weed every morning before breakfast and did mushrooms every weekend. Guys who got their kicks breaking car windows. Girls who'd hook up with anyone who asked. Their parents didn't send them away. I went to school as much as I needed to maintain a 3.8 average. Maybe
I smoked once in a while with my friends, but mostly on weekends. The only thing I ever broke was curfew.
I don't deserve this.

But at the same time, I can imagine how it happened. My mother is pathological about people whispering behind her back. She can't stand it. And she's in the business of damage control.

For the first time since I got here, I pick up the marker and begin to write a letter home. The words gush out, and for a few brief moments I almost forget where I am. That is, until Joe comes by and grabs the paper off my desk.

“Well, well,” he announces loudly for the benefit of everyone, “look who finally decided to share his thoughts with us.”

At the tables around me, kids look up, eager to listen. In that sudden wrenching moment, I realize I've made a terrible mistake. Joe gleefully clears his throat and begins reading:

“‘Dear Mom and Dad, I guess you've been wondering when you'd hear from me. And you probably know why I haven't written. I still can't believe you sent me here. Both of you were in love once (at least I assume you were). Were you ever punished for that? Sent away for that?

“‘Let's be honest. You're just embarrassed by me. I've made you look bad in front of your friends and business associates. That's why you sent me away. To show everyone that you know how to take charge and correct a bad situation. The same way a company always finds a scapegoat to blame when it's been caught breaking the law.

“‘The trouble is, I'm not one of your clients. I'm your son. And if you think I'm going to thank you someday for sending me to this prison camp and “straightening me out,” you're even more deluded than I thought.'”

With smug smiles on their faces most of the residents clearly enjoy the humiliation I'm feeling. But not all. I look up and into the sunken, darkly ringed eyes of Sarah. Our gazes connect. It's strange, because we've never spoken to each other, and yet somehow hers are the eyes I seek out more and more.

Meanwhile, Joe continues reading my letter:

“‘One of the hardest things about this whole experience just may be how little faith you've shown in my ability to make the right decision. If you think you've taught me a lesson by sending me here, you're right. But it may not be the lesson you were hoping for. Anyway, I'm surviving, but I hope your medical insurance is all paid up, if you know what I mean.

I stare down at the table. My face feels like it's on fire, and all I can think about is ripping that letter out of Joe's grip while I land a solid right hook to his jaw. But that's exactly what they expect at Lake Harmony, isn't it? It would simply confirm what they already believe—that we've been sent here because we're violent and rebellious. Forget the inhuman treatment. Forget the endless humiliations. To prove we are good sons and daughters we must be willing to accept the abuse. After all, we deserve it, don't we?

“Almost two and a half months, Garrett,” Joe says as he slowly tears up the letter, “and you haven't learned squat. So what's it going to be? You want to spend the
next two years here like Sarah and still be a Level One? No hope of getting out until you turn eighteen? Or are you gonna realize that the only way out is to admit that you've been stupid and ignorant, but that you can change? You can learn from your mistakes. You can go back and have a life by listening to your parents. By appreciating and obeying them. By coming home at night and going to school and staying away from drugs
and
Sabrina. It's that easy, Garrett. A whole lot easier than spending the next two years here.”

Pieces of the letter flutter to the floor. Joe is right about learning from my mistakes. I've just made one I will never make again.

Shut Down. Ron and Jon stand guard while we wash and use the bathroom. I'm brushing my teeth when David Zitface and Unibrow Robert come in and start to wash at the sinks on either side of me.

Zitface isn't a big kid, but he has a lean, rangy build. When Joe orders him to do push-ups, he completes them with relish, straight-backed, arms pumping like pistons, clearly proud that he can knock off twenty-five without breaking a sweat. He strikes me as a simple sort who sees everything in black and white, easily settled with fists. Unibrow, on the other hand, seems more ominous, more likely to do something unexpectedly nasty.

I bend down to get a mouthful of water. When I straighten back up, I feel something sharp poke into my back.

In the mirror I see Adam's face behind my left
shoulder. The toothbrush shiv in my back pricks my skin, and I stiffen in pain.

“You don't frickin' get it.” Adam bares his little yellow teeth like some kind of large, meat-eating lizard.

There's no point in answering. The shiv goes deeper, and an involuntary gasp leaps from the back of my throat.

“I'm gonna tell you one more time,” Adam says. “You do what I say, when I say it. I want your food, you give it to me. I tell you to stay away from Pauly, you do it. You may think Joe's in charge here, but I'm the one who runs this family.”

A searing pain cuts across my lower back as Adam rakes my skin with the shiv. Then he, Zitface, and Unibrow march out of the bathroom. I slide my hand under my shirt and along the cut. When I look at my fingers again, they are red and sticky with blood.

“Escape from Lake Harmony is not possible.”

Written communication between residents is prohibited. The fat rubber markers used for writing are collected and counted at the end of study or Reflections. If one is missing, we go into lockdown mode, sitting in the food hall until the lost marker is found. No one leaves for any reason until all markers are accounted for. Apparently, here at Lake Harmony the pen is considered as mighty as the sword.

But there are ways to get around the rules. Out in the parking lot I found the nub of a pencil. That night after Shut Down I made a small hole in the seam of my pillow and hid the pencil like some kind of valuable
jewel. Two days later I found the white wrapper from a roll of toilet paper. Yesterday at lunch I caught Sarah's eye, then wedged a note under the table where the leg met the tabletop. All she had to do was slide her hand under the edge of the table as she passed and she would find it.

why did you slash yourself?

After two and a half years there, she must have found a pen. At dinner I found her answer in the same spot where I'd left my note.

I'am gioing crazy here.

Today at breakfast I left another note.

But why hurt yourself?

At lunch she left another for me.

Who are you, my shrirk?

I'm trying to help.

Don't waste your time.

In the morning we sit on our mattresses and bend over to tie the boots we run in. Pauly dips his head close to mine and whispers: “If we can get to Canada, we'll be safe.”

He knows the penalty for talking. Ron and Jon are always hovering nearby, eager to earn points by informing on us. Pauly is risking a visit to TI. Or at the very least another round of push-ups, sit-ups, and squat thrusts.

“They can't get us there.”

“Why tell me?” I whisper back.

“You're my only hope.”

We're led outside by Mr. Sparks. At six-thirty
A.M.
the air is cool and heavy with mist. A dozen yards from us a male lies curled up and asleep on the ground, his ankle chained to a metal stake. His hair is wet with dew, and it's obvious he's been outside all night. Three months ago this sight would have been shocking. Now it's merely routine.

When we run, we're supposed to stay evenly spaced, far enough apart that we can't speak to each other. But that rarely happens, especially when Mr. Sparks accompanies us. He likes the exercise and doesn't seem to care whether we bunch up or not.

Halfway through the run someone grunts behind me, “Garrett, wait up!” Without turning I know it's Pauly. Part of me wants to tell him to go away and leave me alone because I don't want to get into trouble. But another part of me feels bad for the kid. I look around. Ron, Jon, and Mr. Sparks are nowhere to be seen. I slow down and let Pauly catch up. His face is red and glistening with sweat, and his polo shirt is covered with dark sweat stains.

“So what do you think?” he asks—half pant, half whisper—as we run.

“I don't know,” I answer.

“It can't be that far,” Pauly says.

I guess I believe him. “How?”

“I've got a plan. You, me, and Sarah.”

• • •

Each morning and afternoon we have two-hour study periods. We sit in carrels and work at ancient Dells on programs that remind me of the workbooks we used in grade school. We go at our own pace, reading material on the computer and typing in answers at the end of each chapter, the silence broken only by the insect scamper of fingers on keyboards.

The reason why there are no actual classes is obvious: Real teachers cost more than “chaperones,” and with so many kids going in and out of TI and other punishments, it would be impossible for everyone to stay on the same page. So we work by ourselves. If we run into a problem while on the computer, we place a small red flag on the top edge of the carrel and wait for a chaperone to appear.

Mr. Sparks comes over. “How can I help you, Garrett?”

I point at an equation on my computer screen: f(x) =

“It says I can't have a negative value under the radical, so the value of
x
can be anything from three to infinity,” I tell him. “But doesn't there have to be an actual upper limit? I mean, infinity can't be an actual value, can it, sir?”

Mr. Sparks leans down so his lips are close to my ear. “What the heck is that, Garrett?”

“Calculus, sir.”

He grins. “Listen, my friend, guys in here usually have trouble with their multiplication tables. I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

“Oh well, thanks anyway, sir. I'll figure it out.”

I expect Mr. Sparks to go back to his seat, but he stays close. “Man, what are you doing here?” he whispers.

It's been a week since I last saw Sarah. She hasn't been at meals or in Circle, so it's a pretty sure bet she's in TI. Then one morning she's back, looking even paler and more haggard than before. At lunch, while an RL on the empowering benefits of positive thought blasts out of the overhead speakers, she catches my eye. When Joe turns his back, I feel under the table and find a note:

Sorry I was Such a bitch.

At dinner I write back.

It's okey. Like you said, you've been here a long time.

The following morning she writes:

Do you think Pauly's joke is funny?

It's code, in case our notes are found.

Not Sure. What do you think?

I like it. Wish you did too.

“Tell us about Sabrina,” Joe orders in Circle.

I feel myself grow tense. There's something sadistic in his ability to zero in on our most sensitive issues.
Of course the whole idea is to push our buttons, but Joe truly appears to relish it. I glance at Sarah, who is sitting next to Pauly across from me, but her return gaze is expressionless. Is she angry that I'm not more enthusiastic about Pauly's plan?

“Like what, sir?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“What do you think she's doing right now?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“But you wonder, right? It's been three months since you saw her. A long time. She has no idea why you disappeared or where you are. No idea if she'll ever see you again. Chances are she's hurt and angry. Wouldn't you be if the person you loved suddenly vanished? She's probably wondering, if you love her so much, why haven't you called? She has to suspect that whatever's happened, you don't care enough to get in touch. Or maybe I've got it all backward. Maybe
she's
the one who doesn't care anymore. Maybe she's already found someone new.”