In the Company of Crazies (4 page)

And so cold.

I got undressed under the covers, down to my underwear and T-shirt. I kept my socks on. I threw my sweat-pants and sweatshirt into the corner of the room, on the floor, where they lay in the dark. Just like me.

I was just about to lie back down on my bed when I saw a tiny light go on in the House on the top floor, toward the back, where I knew the boys' rooms were. The dorms, Karen had called them. I strained my eyes. Someone was in that room, walking around. I could see movement. I pressed my nose to the cold glass but my breath fogged up the window. There was definitely someone looking out that window.

I pulled my face back and rubbed a little opening clean. Yes, someone was there looking right back at me. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was definitely not a grownup. I watched and they watched and then slowly the figure put up a hand to the window and I did the same. I could feel the cold against my fingertips.

It made me shiver all down my back, and I dropped down onto my bed and lay perfectly still. I didn't look again. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew it was morning.

* * *

I had been shoplifting for a long time before I got caught. I mean,
really
caught. There had been plenty of near misses. Or some times when I just put something back because I felt so bad.

“Oh, that color would look great on you.”

“Huh?”

“I saw you looking at the shirt,” the girl said. “I think you'd look really good in it.” She didn't look much older than me. And she wasn't your usual snobby, what-is-someone-like-you-doing-in-this-store kind of salesgirl. She was nice. I could just tell.

She didn't know—I mean, I didn't
think
she knew—that I had a halter top and a little plastic jar of beads in my pocket. The beads were pretty and small and they were sitting in a basket near the back of the store, on the floor. Easy to bend down and stand up again with the beads hidden in my hand. The halter top was just small and sitting on a shelf, just the perfect height of my hand and my pocket.

I would never wear it. It wasn't even my size.

“I think it's a good color for you,” the girl said again.

I had to look at the rack of shirts that I had just been pretending to look through. I never just ran out of a store after I slipped something in my pocket. I wandered around a little while, looking at different things, trying to look as if I was really looking for something. It also gave me time to put something back if I thought someone was watching me. I could always say I was just holding it.

I was
going
to pay for it.

Of course.

But this girl wasn't watching me. She was just talking. Trying to make a sale maybe. Or maybe she was a little bored. A little lonely.

“Oh, thanks,” I said. I looked at the shirt. It was a soft, cottony, light blue, long-sleeved T-shirt. The kind of shirt that you don't really want but you buy it and it becomes your favorite. You wear it all the time and the older it gets, the better it looks. I felt kind of sick.

“Do you want to try it on? They're on sale,” the girl said, smiling.

“Yeah, sure.”

The girl sprung off her chair and went to unlock one of the dressing rooms. When she got back she must have seen the bottle of beads and the halter top on the counter, but I don't think she thought anything about that.

I felt terrible all day.

When I got caught for real, at Kohl's department store, I was in possession of a pair of gray angora gloves and a green fake leather belt with silver studs.

* * *

I realized at breakfast that whoever had been at the window knew who I was but I didn't know who he was. We were back at the long table again. I tried to look at some of the faces to see if I could find a sign. It was quieter in the morning. Some of the boys had wet hair. There was a strong smell of soap and sporty-scented deodorant. Most everyone looked sleepy. It was 7:00. If someone here had waved to me last night, he wasn't letting me know. Maybe he had told everyone. Maybe they were all laughing at me. I knew what boys said. I knew the kind of things they made up. And these boys were worse than most.

Breakfast was the same scenario as the night before. Same Gretchen at the head of the table. Only this time, Karen was at the other end. The cook woman was in the kitchen. I guess the other teacher, Mr. Simone, didn't live here. He wasn't at the table.

Same blue and green hard plastic dishes, same boys. I had the same feeling that none of this was real. Only maybe a little stronger than I felt last night. And we were having oatmeal and toast and sliced bananas. And if possible, it was even colder than last night. My toes were numb.

Gretchen informed me that we were allowed to get up from the table and go into the kitchen for seconds. Firsts, however, had to be sent down the line, passed from person to person. And no one was allowed to eat until everyone had their food.

I actually like oatmeal and I wanted seconds. And it did feel like that scene from
Oliver Twist.

Please, sir. I want some more.

But not really. The woman in the kitchen looked nice.

“So you like my oatmeal,” she said.

I nodded and I tried to smile, but it was hard.

She ladled out the hot cereal. Just the steam from my bowl hitting my face felt warm and good. It was lighter in the kitchen too. There were windows and sunlight.

“I'm Maggie,” she told me.

“I'm Mia.”

“Hello, Mia,” she said. “It's nice to have a girl around here for a change.”

I didn't know what to say but I wanted to stay in the kitchen a little longer. I needed to start a little conversation. I thought I would say something, like maybe about the weather or about how my mother made oatmeal, which she didn't. But suddenly the Frankenstein boy with the stiff voice walked in and stood right behind me. He had his bowl in his hand. He was taller than I realized last night when he was sitting at the dinner table. And he was big. Not just a big head, but a big chest and big legs. He wore his shirt tightly tucked in and his belt pulled a notch too far. His boots were big.

“Uh, excuse me,” he said to me.

“Oh, sorry.” I quickly stepped aside. John held out his bowl to Maggie.

“I can have my seconds now, Maggie,” he said. I imagine that was how Frankenstein would talk.

“Well, here you go then, John,” Maggie said. She filled his bowl.

“Thank you, Maggie. But, Maggie, I have to say…,”

John started.

Maggie paused to listen, and so did I. I just stood there.

“I noticed you forgot to put the salt in the oatmeal this morning. You never do that, Maggie. Why did you? Did you forget? Didn't you read the lid of the box? It says right there on the box. One fourth teaspoon of salt. It's the same every time. There is no reason to change that.” He spoke very fast.

“You didn't like it, John?” Maggie asked him.

“No, Maggie. I did not.”

“Then why do you want more?”

“I mean, I can eat it but—”

Maggie interrupted him. “Why don't you just enjoy your breakfast, John.”

“It's in the recipe. On the lid of the box…”

John's voice grew stronger.

“I put the salt in the oatmeal,” Maggie said firmly. “Now go in and sit down.”

As soon as John had left the kitchen, Maggie looked over to me and winked.

“Now, how the heck can he taste that?” she whispered to me. “One fourth of a teaspoon? How does he know?” She was smiling and shaking her head. She made it a little easier—I smiled back.

I thought Maggie looked older, not quite like a grandmother but older than a mom. But normal, definitely normal. I wondered why she was here. How do you get a job cooking three meals a day in a school for emotionally disturbed adolescent boys? John was lumbering back into the dining room.

“Maggie didn't put the salt in the oatmeal,” he was saying to no one in particular. “The recipe calls for salt. One fourth teaspoon. Is that too hard? I know she didn't put it in.”

I watched as Carl slid his chair out just the tiniest bit so John, who was concentrating on the saltless oatmeal in his bowl, nearly tripped. He took two flying steps, balanced himself, but dropped his oatmeal.

Make that emotionally disturbed adolescent boys and a couple of sociopaths.

* * *

Mountain Laurel.

It's awful here. Awful and horrible and cold.

Deeply, deeply cold.

* * *

We found out before the second bell rang that Debbie Sanders had died. It was the most awful day. It went on forever, and then the next morning I woke up thinking it had all been a dream. I know that sounds really cliché, but it was true.

And then you clear your head and you remember.

Somehow I couldn't get it out of my mind that she had been dead already while we were forking out saucy ziti and pouring seconds of lemonade. It seemed so wrong that we didn't know. That we didn't stop. That everyone just ate and talked and even got mad that she wasn't there. Then we went home and did our homework, worried about some test or another, some boy or another, brushed our teeth and went to bed.

And Debbie was already dead.

Most of the seventh graders called their parents, and a lot of them went home that day. Whoever was left didn't go to classes. When the bell rang and the rest of us in sixth grade came out into the halls, we could see girls crying, leaning on their lockers. Even boys were crying. And everyone was talking.

“I heard the driver just walked away without a scratch.”

“It must have been a deer.”

“They were arguing in the car.

“…talking on the cell phone.”

“…changing the radio station.”

I knew immediately that we would never find out the truth. That even if the details got straightened out and the rumors fell away, it would never, never ever, make sense. There was a feeling that nothing would ever be all right again.

At the end of that day we had an assembly. I had never heard it so quiet in the auditorium. By then it was pretty empty, too. The principal, vice principal, and the two school counselors (the following year I would be seeing a lot more of all four of them) were standing on the stage. Mr. Leighy, the principal, walked up to the microphone and began.

“I'm sure by now most of you have heard the tragic news. Debbie Sanders, a seventh grader in our school, was killed last night in a car accident.”

When he paused you could hear the crying again. “Mrs. Baker will be in her office for the remainder of today and for as long as she needs, to see students who wish to talk. No appointment will be necessary. Within reason, students who need this service are excused from classes. We are also sending a letter home to your parents. Make sure you give…

He went on and on. Then the vice principal spoke and finally Mrs. Baker. The feeling in the room was so overwhelming. Even though the auditorium had a huge open ceiling and rows and rows of seats, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

I kept thinking about Debbie. She had died for no reason. Not even for the horrible reasons that don't make any sense either but seem nearly an explanation, like drunk driving , an icy patch, no air bags, or speeding, or not wearing a seat belt.

No, there was none of that. It was a “freak” accident. A true freak accident.

As if no matter what you did, right or wrong…

It didn't matter.

* * *

“It was me.”

I turned around and no one was there.

We were in class, in the School House building. Half the boys I had “met” last night weren't even here. I noticed that boy Angel wasn't there.

Class.

That was what they called this? So far the only thing we were supposed to do was write in our journals. In fact, keeping a journal was the only thing everyone had to do. Karen said even she kept one. And she did seem to be writing in it. So I could do that. I could write bullshit as good as anyone. Certainly as good as anyone here. And when I couldn't think of what to say, I could draw.

I had nothing much to say, so I drew a lot.

But it seemed that it was more like sit-around-and-talk time.

Everyone pretty much sat where they wanted. On the floor or at the table or in one of the big stuffed chairs. When we first walked in, there was a lot of fighting over one particular chair. I don't know why. One boy ran right to it, but Carl and Tommy both punched him in the arm and he got up. He seemed to be expecting it. I was waiting to see which one of them would take the seat, but neither Carl nor Tommy sat there. Karen walked in right behind us and some other boy altogether took the seat.

No one tattled, I noticed. That seemed to be an unspoken rule.

I had chosen a chair. A regular old chair pushed up to a regular rectangular table. I had even brought a notebook, but I was the only one. As soon as I noticed that, I slipped the notebook back into my bag. I kept the pen in my hand, though, so I could twiddle it in my fingers or doodle in my journal some more.