BOOT
CAMP
Also by Todd Strasser
Can’t Get There from Here
Give a Boy a Gun
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2007 by Todd Strasser
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form.
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of
Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Book design by Einav Aviram
The text for this book is set in Aldus LT Std.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Strasser, Todd.
Boot camp / Todd Strasser. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After ignoring several warnings to stop dating his teacher,
Garrett is sent to Lake Harmony, a boot camp that uses unorthodox and
brutal methods to train students to obey their parents.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-0848-7
ISBN-10: 1-4169-0848-X
eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-2888-1
[1. Juvenile delinquency—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.
3. Family problems—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S899Boo 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006013634
To Laura, with love and thanks
BOOT
CAMP
“You don’t get out by giving them what you think they want. You don’t get out until you are what they want.”
—Pauly
ONE
“Your parents sent you to Lake Harmony because they love you.”
“Excuse me. My hands are numb.”
“So?” replies the man driving the car. His name is Harry.
“Maybe you could loosen the handcuffs?” I ask.
“Sorry blue blood.”
“If you’re sorry, then why don’t you help me?”
“No can do.” Harry wears a cowboy hat and speaks with a western accent. From my seat in the back of the dark car I can only see the silhouette of his shoulders and thick neck beneath the wide-brimmed hat. My hands, locked behind me for the past two hours, have gone numb. I feel nothing but tingling from my wrists down.
“Would you at least tell me where you’re taking me?” I ask.
Harry doesn’t answer. The car bounces and lurches through the dark. Except for the short stretch of dusty, reddish dirt road illuminated by the headlights, it is as black as blindness outside. Rocks kicked up by the tires clank against the car’s underside. The air-conditioning murmurs. Now and then sudsy spray splashes against the windshield, and the wipers wash away dust and splattered bug carcasses.
With my hands joined by the handcuffs in the small of my back, there is no way to get comfortable, no way to relieve the pressure that has cut off the circulation.
“When my parents hired you, did they know that physical abuse was part of the deal?” I ask.
From the movement of his head, I sense that Harry is looking at me in the rearview mirror, but his eyes are hidden in the shadow from the rim of his hat. “That was some spread we picked you up from, blue blood. What’s your father’s business that he can afford a place like that?”
Harry’s been calling me blue blood ever since he and the woman riding shotgun took me against my will from my parents’ house, drove me to the airport, and flew me to upstate New York.
“You really want to know what my father does? How about loosening these handcuffs and I’ll tell you.”
“Nice try, partner.” Harry chuckles. The woman sitting beside him turns to look over the seat at me. Her name is Rebecca, and she is younger than Harry. In the eight hours since they grabbed me, I’ve learned that Rebecca is new to the business of kidnapping for hire (Harry prefers you call him a “transporter”). She has a pretty face and streaked blond hair with dark roots. But there is a hardness around her eyes and mouth that makes me think of someone older.
“Can you feel anything at all?” she asks.
“No. I’m worried I’ll have permanent nerve damage or something.”
In the dark car, she turns to Harry. “Couldn’t you loosen them just a little?”
“Fat chance,” Harry chuckles. “Come on, sugarplum, you’ve been there. You know how it works. First rule is, don’t believe a word these kids say. You loosen those cuffs, next he’ll say he needs to relieve himself by the side of the road. Now how’s he gonna do that with his hands cuffed behind him, right? So he swears on his mother’s grave if you undo them he won’t run. Next thing you know, you’re chasing him through the woods cussing yourself for being such a fool.”
Once again Rebecca glances over the seat at me. Even in the shadows I can sense her uncertainty.
“What does he mean, ‘you’ve been there’?” I ask.
“I’ve been where you’re going,” she answers.
“Why?” I ask.
Before Rebecca can answer, Harry snaps, “That’s none of your business, blue blood. I’ve heard enough out of you. Now shut it.”
“One last thing,” I tell him. “I really do have to go. You’ve been with me for the last eight hours, so you know I’m telling the truth. And I give you my word that I won’t run.”
“Ha! Now that is what we call manipulation,” Harry says with just a hint of annoyance. “See how the moment he acts agreeable it makes you feel sympathetic toward him? Like he can’t be such a bad kid, right? Giving you his word and all. Well, sugarplum, that’s the first step toward him trying to get you on his side.”
Rebecca gives him an astonished look, as if that is precisely what she’s feeling.
“Never forget, these kids have had years of experience lying, manipulating, doing whatever it takes to get what they want,” Harry counsels her. “That’s why their parents hired us. That’s why they’re paying four grand a month to send him where he’s going.”
Rebecca swivels her head and faces stiffly forward. I wonder if she feels angry or humiliated now that Harry has demonstrated how easy it is to fall under the spell of my “evil” ways.
In silence we bump down the narrow dirt road. I yawn and wish I could stretch. It was after midnight when we landed at the airport in Utica. Now it must be close to three A.M.
“How much longer?” I ask.
Neither Harry nor Rebecca answers. Rocks bang against the undercarriage of the car. The potholes are getting bigger, and we toss and heave like a boat on rough seas.
“So I guess when I said I really did have to go to the bathroom, you didn’t believe me.”
My words are met with silence.
“Or maybe you’ll say, ‘Go right ahead, it’s not your car, why should you care?’”
Harry reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. This time our eyes meet. “I told you to shut it, blue blood.” His voice drops ominously with the implicit threat or else. After a few more minutes he veers onto another dirt road. In the distance, through the dusty windshield, I can see dim lights, which gradually grow brighter. We stop before a tall chain-link fence topped with loops of razor wire. A man steps out of a small white booth and shines a flashlight into the car. Rebecca shields her eyes from the glare. I have to turn my face. The man seems to recognize Harry. He unlocks the gate and we drive through, past a dark basketball court and a bare flagpole, and pull into a gravel parking lot.
“Here we are.” Harry jumps out of the car with unexpected energy after the long ride. He comes around to my door and pulls me out with a firm grip. After sitti
ng in that awkward position for so long, my legs and back are stiff, and I straighten up unsteadily. But I also feel a brief wave of relief, as standing temporarily takes the excruciating pressure off my bladder, which has felt near bursting for at least half an hour. I shake out my legs and glance around.
“Trust me, blue blood, don’t be thinking about running,” Harry warns. “Even if you got through the fence, there’s nothing but forest out there. You’re so far away from civilization, you’ll starve before you see another human being.”
The air is cool and smells like pine. The chatter of crickets is almost as loud as traffic on a city street. In the dark I can make out four or five buildings, none more than two stories tall.
Then the crickets go silent.
And I hear screaming.
TWO
“You must accept the fact that you deserved to be sent to Lake Harmony.”
I’m allowed to use the bathroom. Then I’m put in a small, windowless room with a military-style, metalframed bed. Two stern-looking men wearing matching black polo shirts and khaki slacks sit in chairs by the door. One is tall with dark skin, a muscular build, and an athlete’s natural grace. The other is short, bulky, and troll-like, with dark stubble around his jaw and a square head that disappears into his shoulders with almost no sign of a neck. Together they remind me of the seated stone giants who guard the tomb of Ramses.
“You guys here to make sure I don’t escape?” I ask as I sit down on the bare mattress.
“Stand up and shut up,” the troll orders.
I’m tired—it must be four A.M. by now—and would prefer to lie down and sleep, but something tells me to obey, so I stand. The men in the chairs watch me. The tall one yawns. This must be boring as hell for them. It sure is for me.
“How long do I have to stand here?” I ask after a while.
“Shut up,” the troll grunts. Even his tone sounds bored. There’s no vehemence in the words.
So I stand, and stand, and stand. An hour passes, then another. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, arch my back, and wonder, How much longer is this going to last?
Sitting in the chair, the tall, dark-skinned one starts to close his eyes. His head begins to droop. The troll notices and nudges him with his elbow. The tall one jerks his head up with a start, then yawns.
Outside, a bird chirps, and even in this windowless room I sense that the sky has gone from black to gray. I yawn and stretch and more than anything want to lie down and sleep, but both men keep a steady eye on me, and I know what the answer will be if I ask.
How much longer? While I don’t know the answer to that particular question, I have a feeling I do know the answer to another: Why am I here? Because my parents are trying to scare me into “behaving.” I’ll admit that this time I’m impressed by the lengths to which they’ve gone. Arranging for me to be taken against my will is pretty extreme. Back in the city Sabrina will be waking up soon. She’ll wait for me to call. But that call won’t come, and she won’t know why, and she won’t be able to find out unless she calls my parents, who have consistently refused to meet or speak to her. It’s hard to imagine they will now.
From outside come the sounds of early-morning stirring. The slam of a car door. Footsteps in the hallway. The door opens. A thin man with slicked-back black hair and a thin black mustache enters carrying a brown paper shopping bag. He’s wearing a white polo shirt and khaki slacks, and he stares at me with puffy, reddened eyes. His nose twitches every time he sniffs.
“Strip,” he orders.
The word is so unexpected that I assume I heard him incorrectly. “Sorry?”
“You heard me,” he barks.
Yes, I heard him, but… The men in the chairs sit up, more alert.
“Who are you?” I ask.
The thin man narrows his swollen eyes. “That’s the last time you will speak unless spoken to. You will remain silent and do what you’re told when you’re told.” He checks his watch. “You have exactly twenty seconds to get out of those clothes, or you’ll stand here until this time tomorrow when we’ll try again.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, but I have a feeling that’s exactly what he expects. I may not know where I am, but I do know these three men have the advantage. This may be new to me, but it isn’t to them. They’ve been through this a hundred, maybe even a thousand, times before.
I kick off my shoes, then start to unbutton my shirt. The thin man glances at his watch impatiently, but whether from fatigue or disbelief or anger I can’t get my fingers to work more quickly.
“Faster!” the thin man barks.
Every fiber in my body yearns to refuse. But doing so will only delay what I really need to accomplish, which is to get out of here and back to Sabrina. So I finish unbuttoning my shirt and yank it off, then open my belt buckle and start to pull down my pants. The men in the chairs glance at each other and the tall one raises his eyebrow, as if they’re surprised I’ve cooperated so quickly.
Meanwhile the thin man sniffs and consults his watch. I push my pants down over my ankles and step out of them. The thin man’s eyes dart at my feet, then back to his watch, so I quickly strip off my socks. Now I’m only in my boxers.
He nods. “Those too.”
Anger boils up inside me and I want to shout, Why? Who the hell do you think you are? But I already know the answer. I’ve read about places like this, and I’ve seen the TV specials. I had hours in the airport and on the plane and in the car to figure it out. I’m in a boot camp, and its purpose is to break me down and “train” me, like a cowboy breaks a bronco or a dog is taught in obedience school.
The thin man glances at his watch again. “See you tomorrow.” He turns toward the door.
“Wait.” I push the boxer shorts down, then step out of them.
The thin man stops. I’m standing naked and defenseless, and these three men are staring at me. It’s not cold in the room, but shivers race over my skin like chilling winds.
“Turn around and bend over.”
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse …
The troll smiles. He’s enjoying this. Meanwhile, my legs won’t move.
“You want to spend the next twenty-four hours standing in that spot?” the thin man asks.
I turn and bend. Strangely, this isn’t as difficult as I might have thought. Now that they’ve made me strip, what difference does it make?
“Spread ’em.”
Do it, I tell myself. For Sabrina. The sooner I’m out of here, the sooner we’ll be together again.
When he’s done searching, the thin man puts my clothes in the paper bag. In their place he leaves a green polo shirt, blue jeans, and green flip-flops. He departs while I’m putting on my new uniform. Once dressed, I assume the two men are going to take me somewhere else. But they remain seated.
“Try to get some sleep,” the tall one says.
“I have to stay here?” I ask.
“No talking!” the troll barks.
I’m not about to argue with a chance to rest, so I lie on my back on the bare mattress, stare at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and wonder how long my parents had been planning this.
THREE
“You will not stand, sit, or talk without permission.”
A hand shakes my shoulder. “Wake up.”
I open my eyes. The ceiling light is still on. A man in a black polo shirt whom I haven’t seen before hovers over me.
“Time to go,” he says.
I don’t know what time it is, only that heavy tentacles of sleep are pulling my head back down to the pillow. I close my eyes but instantly feel the hand on my shoulder again, rougher this time. “Get up.”
Groggily I try to bat the hand away, but feel him grab my wrist and expertly twist. The next thing I know, I’m rolled onto my side on the bed. His grip tightens and pain shoots through my shoulder, as if he’s trying to pry my arm out of joint.
I croak through clenched teeth. “Okay, okay.”
/> He backs off slightly and the pain eases. In a practiced tone he recites: “Your parents have signed and notarized a consent form allowing Lake Harmony to use restraint whenever necessary. The type and degree of restraint administered shall be at the discretion of the staff. Lake Harmony and its employees will not be held liable for any injury sustained by you during the administration of restraint as it is understood that such injury is the result of willful disobedience on your part. Now get up.”
In my father’s world they call this the CYA (“cover your a**”) statement. As I slowly get up from the bed, the man keeps my arm behind my back. Part of me wants to resist, but another part of me knows there is no move I can make that he has not seen before.
“If I let go of your arm, will you do what you’re told?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes … sir?”
He lets go and opens the door. “You first.”
I step out into a hallway and then through a metal door to the outside. The day is bright and the sky blue, the early morning air moist and fragrant. Some of the trees are covered with reddish buds and the beginnings of small bright-green leaves. A few have small white or pink flowers. We walk across a grassy yard. Fifty yards away, a woman wearing a white polo shirt marches a single-file line of girls between buildings. The girls are dressed in red polo shirts, jeans, and flip-flops. They march with silent military precision, roughly three feet apart, eyes forward.
We go into an old brick building with round, castlelike turrets. Inside is a small lobby with two couches and a table with some flowers, magazines, and brochures about Lake Harmony, “a highly structured boarding school specializing in intensive behavior modification.” On the walls are framed “class pictures”: smiling young people in rows, just like you might find in a small private school. At the far end of the room is a dark wooden door. The white letters on the rectangular black plaque read: DIRECTOR.
“Go on,” the black polo shirt orders.