Nightmare (5 page)

She deliberately turned to look at the boy who had snorted as she said this, and again there were a couple of snickers.

He scowled, but Mrs. Jimenez smiled at him. “Let’s start with you, big boy,” she said. “Tell everyone your name and where you’re from and something about yourself.”

His scowl grew deeper, and his voice came out in a low growl. “I’m Stan Keller. I live in Waco.”

“How about what you like to do, Stan? Football? Weight lifting?”

The scowl disappeared, and Stan sat up a little straighter. “Football,” he answered. “I’m a letterman, going into my senior year.”

“What else do you do?” Mrs. Jimenez asked.

Stan’s mouth opened in surprise. “I told you. Football,” he said. “What else is there?”

Mrs. Jimenez nodded to the girl on Stan’s left. “Okay, next,” she said. “Let’s hear about you.”

“I’m Tammy Johnson,” the girl said in a voice barely above a whisper. I live in Wichita with my parents and two brothers and a dog named Blooper—”

“Blooper! That’s a stupid name for a dog,” Stan interrupted.

“It’s Tammy’s turn now,” Mrs. Jimenez told Stan.

Tammy seemed to shrink in her chair, but Taylor spoke up. “I think Blooper’s a cute name.”

Stan looked pointedly at Taylor’s hair. “I don’t think you’d know the difference between cute and weird,” he said.

Mrs. Jimenez gave Stan a sharp look. “Dr. Isaacson’s really big on self-esteem,” she said. “It would be nice if we’d all think about what we’re going to say before we say it.”

“I don’t think I look weird,” Taylor said. “I’m choosing to be myself, not a clone of everyone else.”

One of the guys seated across the circle from Taylor spoke up. “My sister went for blue hair. She said it expressed her mood. But she was really just bugging our mom, who hated it.”

“What my mom thinks about my hair doesn’t matter,” Taylor said.

“Bet she argues with you about it. Right?”

“She argues about everything I do. What difference does it make?”

Mrs. Jimenez shrugged. “We’re getting way off the subject. Right now let’s think about the self-esteem of the people in this circle. Tammy, what else do you want to tell us about yourself?”

“There’s nothing more to tell,” Tammy said, staring down at the floor. “You can go on to someone else.”

Emily could sympathize with Tammy, who obviously hated being singled out. She felt as if she were looking at herself.

“Why don’t you tell us about your hobbies?” Mrs. Jimenez asked Tammy.

“They’re nothing special,” Tammy whispered. “Nobody would be interested. Please go on to someone else.”

Mrs. Jimenez’s glance fell on Taylor. “Okay, next. Please tell us your name and where you’re from and something about yourself.”

“Taylor Farris,” Taylor said promptly. “I live in a suburb of Dallas with my mom, who’s a legal secretary. My dad lives in Florida with his trophy wife, who’s nine-tenths the result of plastic surgery. Mom made Dad pay my tuition for this camp, which I’m sure he did out of guilt.”

Taylor took a deep breath, ready to continue, but Mrs. Jimenez interrupted. “What are your hobbies, Taylor? What do you like to do?”

Emily expected Taylor to say something about hanging out with her friends, so she was surprised when Taylor said, “I write poetry. It’s good, too. My English
teacher said so.” Her upper lip curled in a sneer that she sent in Stan’s direction.

Emily’s smile disappeared as she realized Mrs. Jimenez was looking at her.

“Your turn,” Mrs. Jimenez said.

“Emily Wood. I’m from Houston,” Emily answered.

“Please speak up, Emily. I can’t hear you over here,” Mrs. Jimenez told her.

Emily repeated what she had said, forcing herself to talk loudly. Embarrassed as everyone in the circle looked at her, she bent her head, tucking in her chin and letting her hair drop like a curtain, shutting them off.

“Cool,” Taylor whispered.

But Mrs. Jimenez said, “We want to know something about you, Emily. Do you take ballet? Do you sing?”

“No,” Emily whispered.

“Are we having a talent show?” one of the guys in the circle asked eagerly. “I’ve got a comic routine that’s pretty funny.”

The guy next to him guffawed. “Where’ve you been, man? Haven’t you been listening to anything we’re saying?”

“Not so you’d notice,” Stan answered for him, and his group burst into laughter.

“Okay, settle down,” Mrs. Jimenez said. “We’ll go on to you, Paul. Tell us about yourself.”

This time Emily decided not to listen. She didn’t care what any of these kids were named or where they lived. She didn’t want to be at this camp, but she had no way of leaving. She couldn’t walk back to Houston. Even if she did risk it, her dad, who felt strongly that every project should be seen to its proper conclusion, would only bring her back to camp.

It was soon time to change circles and meet new
people. Resentfully, Emily plopped herself into a folding chair next to Arthur Weil, the English teacher of the skinny legs and potbelly. When it was her turn to introduce herself, she fumbled through an answer to “Tell us your goals in life.”

“I don’t have any yet,” she mumbled.

“You mean you haven’t
defined
your goals yet,” Dr. Weil said.

“No, I mean I haven’t even thought about them.”

“Then maybe it’s the right time to begin doing so,” he said, blinking and bobbing his head just like the owls at the Houston zoo.

Dr. Weil turned to someone else, and Emily again retreated behind her hair.

By the third change of circle Emily had stopped hating what they were doing and had settled into a numb complacency, even consciously listening to some of the people around her. A few of them gave interesting answers, like Raúl, who was destined to work in his father’s bakery, but who really wanted to be a parachutist; and Karen, who dreamed of a job inventing new ice cream flavors for Ben & Jerry’s.

As Emily joined the fourth circle, Maxwell slumped into the chair next to her. “We were destined to meet sooner or later,” he said. “Have you been baring your soul?”

“I didn’t come here to bare my soul,” Emily told him.

“But that’s what they have us doing, isn’t it?”

“Not if we don’t answer.”

Maxwell smiled. “I like to answer,” he said. “I like to answer in such detail that the facilitators have a hard time shutting me up.”

Emily couldn’t keep from smiling back. “What’s a facilitator?” she asked.

“An important word for the members of the staff who have been assigned one to a circle. I wonder what question we’ll be asked at this one.”

They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Gail Comstock, the history teacher, smilingly gazed around the group and said, “Now we’re going to have fun reaching back in time. After you’ve introduced yourself, tell us about one of your childhood memories, perhaps when you were school age—six or seven.”

A sudden blast of cold sliced through Emily’s body. Shivering, she managed to get to her feet and said, “I’m leaving.”

Mrs. Comstock’s eyes widened. “Are you ill?”

“Yes … no, just cold,” Emily said. She shivered again. “Maybe it’s the air-conditioning.”

“Please stay with us, Emily,” Mrs. Comstock said. “This is our last get-acquainted circle of the evening.”

“I’m really tired,” Emily said, but, as though she had no control over what she was doing, she found herself sitting back down.

Mrs. Comstock leaned forward and patted Emily’s shoulder. “Just take it easy, dear,” she said. “We’ll skip you for now and begin with this nice tall young man. Your name is Maxwell, isn’t it?”

Maxwell bent his head in a low bow, then said, “Make note of this moment. Someday you will look back on it and say, ‘That’s when I actually met the famous playwright Maxwell McLaren.’ ”

One of the girls in the circle giggled, and Maxwell said to her, “Look me up when you visit New York in twenty years—no, make it ten—and I’ll give you a pair of passes so you can see that my predictions were right. Don’t expect the best seats, though. You’ll be in the last row of the top balcony.”

Mrs. Comstock chuckled. “If she doesn’t take you up on that, I will,” she said. “But for now, in the short time we’ve been given, we’re dealing with early memories, not our hopes for the future.”

“Very well,” Maxwell said. “My earliest memory was when I was born. It was not a pleasant experience, but at the time I realized it was a necessary step and I’d have to endure it.”

At this, everyone laughed.

“It’s impossible to remember that far back,” one of the guys said.

Maxwell shrugged and grinned in return. “Impossible for you, maybe, but not for me. Did I mention that when the doctor put his finger into my mouth to make sure it was cleared out, I tried to bite him? Unfortunately, I had no teeth.”

Mrs. Comstock rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. “Thank you, Maxwell,” she said, and turned her gaze to the girl on Maxwell’s right. “How about you, Lauren? Want to go next?”

Lauren introduced herself, then giggled. “I remember a time when I was eight years old and visiting my grandparents and …”

Counterclockwise, they went in turn. Emily only half-listened, steeling herself to participate when her turn came.
If I do what she says I can get out of here
, Emily thought.
If I don’t, it all just becomes more complicated
. She searched her brain for a memory and nearly sighed aloud in relief as one came to her.

Finally, Mrs. Comstock said, “Emily Wood, who’s from Houston.”

Emily closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and said, “When I was in second grade there was a boy in my class named Kevin. He was always clowning around.
He liked to scoop a goldfish out of our teacher’s aquarium when she was out of the room and hold it up, pretending to swallow it. Some of the girls in the class would always squeal. Anyhow, one day he was holding the goldfish up by the tail over his open mouth when the fish gave a big wiggle and slipped through Kevin’s fingers, and he accidentally swallowed it. We all fell on the floor laughing, but Kevin got in big trouble with our teacher.”

The other kids smiled, but Mrs. Comstock said gently, “That wasn’t a memory about your own life, Emily. It was
Kevin’s
memory. Can you tell us something that
you
remember about your own childhood?”

Emily felt the back of her neck grow cold, and driblets of sweat shivered down her backbone. “Why?” she asked.

“Early memories are often keys to our present problems,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Like keys, they can open doors.”

“I don’t have any problems,” Emily insisted. She could feel herself trembling and wondered if the others could see it.

Mrs. Comstock said pleasantly, “Dear, this recall of early memories is a technique Dr. Isaacson has found to be very helpful. Maybe, if you just sit back and relax, something will—”

“No!” Emily shouted, jumping to her feet. “I can’t!”

She pushed over her chair, which clattered to the floor, and ran as fast as she could away from the meeting room and everyone in it.

I like these after-session discussions. They’re worthwhile. All of us on the staff pool our knowledge of the young people in our care. We share our notes, observations, and insights, which helps us understand them better
.

Of course, at the moment I think this sharing will help me particularly
.

I desperately need to understand Emily Wood
.

Her outburst and refusal to delve into her early memories became an immediate focal point in our staff discussion. Most of the staff are puzzled about the apparent fear that accompanied her flight from the discussion circle
.

I’m the only one who suspects why Emily behaved in such a manner. And now I’m confronted by some serious questions
.

Are Emily’s memories still so real and frightening that she cannot deal with them? Or has she suppressed her memories so that they no longer exist?

If she has suppressed them, then the question that concerns
me most is, Will these memories ever fully return? And if so, what will Emily do about them?

What did she see and hear?

What does she remember?

Can I afford to wait for the answer?

Emily sat outside the main building, huddled inside a protective pool of light that shone from one of the large windows. She was too frightened to walk alone to her room in the empty dorm.

Suddenly a noisy mix of voices and bodies erupted into the lounge behind her and flowed through the main doors. Emily jumped to her feet, turning so suddenly that she nearly collided with Maxwell. He grabbed her arms, steadying her.

“I—I’m sorry,” Emily stammered.

“Don’t be.” He studied her face, obviously puzzled. “Why’d you run out of the room?”

“I don’t know,” Emily said.

“You have to know. It was your decision.”

“It wasn’t a decision. I mean, it’s not like I thought about it and decided to do it. I just felt like I had to get away.”

Dr. Hampton pushed through the people who were still clustered around the door. She stood in front of Emily, holding out a few sheets of paper. “You left too
soon,” she said. “Here’s your schedule for tomorrow, Emily. On the back is a map of the area to help you find your way around the grounds and buildings. There are also a few forms for you to fill out.”

Emily took the papers silently but didn’t attempt to look at them.

Dr. Hampton rested a hand on Emily’s arm and asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Emily said, flinching from Dr. Hampton’s deep gaze. She knew that Dr. Hampton wanted her to explain why she had run from the meeting, but she couldn’t. She didn’t understand her own actions or the fear that churned inside her.

Haley popped into the group, stepping between Dr. Hampton and Emily. Giving a dramatic sigh as she waved her fistful of papers, she said, “We’ve got to fill all these things out, and I suppose it will take most of the night.”

Without another word Dr. Hampton eased back into the stragglers who dawdled at the end of the flow from the building. Once again Emily was thankful for Haley’s arrival on the scene. Dr. Hampton’s gaze was like a probe, plunging and searching through the eyes into the mind, and Emily didn’t want anyone to poke into her mind.