Boot Camp

  “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.

  SEVENTEEN

  “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.

&nbsp
; “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?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter, as long as his girlfriend believes it,” suggests Babyface Miles, the kid who cried at night for the first two weeks. Now there are no more tears. He’s found a new family—not in Dignity with Joe as his “father,” but in Adam’s posse.

  “You’re saying it doesn’t matter whether he means it?” Joe asks.

  “It matters, but it’s still gonna make it impossible for them to get back together,” Miles says.

  “That’s not the point,” Joe says. “Sabrina wasn’t the problem. She was just a symptom of the problem. So you’re only half right, Miles. Maybe we’ve taken away the symptom, but that doesn’t mean we’ve solved the problem. What do you think would happen if Garrett got out of here now?” Joe may be asking Miles, but his eyes are firmly on me. “You think he’s learned his lesson? You think he’s truly owned up to all his mistakes? You think he’s reached the point where he’ll be respectful, polite, and obedient enough to return to his family?”

  “I doubt it,” says Adam.

  “So do I,” Joe says, turning now to face me. “I think it’s a good step. It gets you back up to Level Two, Garrett. Keep up the good work. Maybe someday you’ll get there.”

  “How’s your B-ball, Garrett?” Mr. Sparks asks. It’s pouring rain outside.

  “Stone hands, sir,” I answer.

  He purses his lips. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “But you play, right?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  “A little?” he asks hopefully.

  “Sorry, sir. Besides, I thought you had to be Level Four or higher to use the gym.”

  Mr. Sparks’s eyes slide right and left to make sure no one’s listening. “Listen, I got the saddest bunch of dweebs and no-talents you ever saw. We’re one man short, and we need someone who’ll make it a little challenging. A big guy to stand in the paint and put his hands up, got it?”

  “That’s about all I can do, sir.”

  “Way to go.” Mr. Sparks actually claps his hand on my shoulder, and we walk toward the gym.

  Turns out he wasn’t kidding about the Level Fours and up being a feeble bunch of basketball players. But as with soccer, as soon as one kid drops out, Mr. Sparks becomes a player as well as the ref, and the rest of the game is basically just an excuse for him to run and gun and have some fun.

  “Hey, thanks, Garrett,” he says after the game. He’s breathing hard, and his dark skin glistens with perspiration. His sweat-darkened T-shirt clings to his body, and he wears the satisfied smile of someone who’s pushed himself to the edge of playful exhaustion. The other residents have gone, but Mr. Sparks has ordered me to stay behind and hold a rickety wooden ladder steady while he cranks up the backboards.

  “For what, sir?” I ask.

  “For being a good sport about it,” he says. “I know it wasn’t much fun for you.”

  “It beat studying, sir.” I hold the ladder. Drops of his sweat make tiny splats on the gymnasium floor.

  “Never got into the game, huh?” he says, with the touch of regret I have heard so many times in my life. As if it’s some great tragedy that a guy with my size and build isn’t some kind of athlete.

  I give my standard reply: “Wasn’t meant to be, sir.”

  “That’s okay,” Mr. Sparks says. “Important thing is to know yourself.”

  “Thought I did till I got here, sir.”

  Mr. Sparks’s lips fold into a frown. He finishes cranking the backboard and climbs down the ladder, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Listen, Garrett …” His voice drops. “I got a wife, a kid, and a sick mother to support. I need this gig, and it’s not like there’s a lot of steady work around here. There are things I’d say to you, but it could cost me my job. So I’ll just say this: You gotta be true to yourself. I couldn’t say that to most of the kids here, but I can to you. You gotta decide for yourself what’s right and wrong. Don’t let them decide for you.”

  “I’ll be stuck here forever, sir,” I remind him.

  “Maybe not.” Mr. Sparks closes the ladder. “You better get going.”

  I start across the gym toward the door, but when I’m halfway there, Mr. Sparks calls from behind: “One other thing, Garrett. Watch your back.”

  “Ahem.” A throat clears. I’m in the bathroom before Shut Down. Adam is standing in the doorway. David Zitface, Unibrow Robert, and Babyface Miles are behind him. They’re wearing the boots we’re only supposed to wear for running. From his pocket Adam pulls out the pointed light-blue toothbrush shiv.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  Adam gives me his best sinister smile. Those yellow reptilian teeth look ready to tear flesh. “I want you to beg for your life.”

  “Forget it. Go ahead and kill me. Put me out of my misery.”

  “My pleasure.” Adam comes toward me.

  “Just one thing,” I add. “Let’s see you do it without the backup squad.”

  “Doesn’t work that way,” Adam says.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s it work?”

  “Like this.”

  He throws something. I was so busy watching the shiv in his left hand that I didn’t notice what he was doing with his right. Something soft hits my face and bursts into a light orange cloud. Instantly I’m blinded; my eyes, nose, and throat are on fire. It tastes like hot peppers. Wham! In the blind darkness I’m slammed against the wall and pummeled by a barrage of fists and kicking boots. Unable to see, with jagged jabs of pain coming from all sides, I sink to the floor and curl into a ball, trying to protect my head with my arms. The fists and kicks continue. All hurt. Some worse than others. A punch produces a dull throbbing pain in my shoulder. A vicious kick results in a sudden screaming jolt at my hip that makes me grimace and cower. I keep my back to the wall and my head covered, taking most of the blows on my shins and forearms. My eyes tear, but more from the burning powder than the pain.

  The beating continues. When I cover my face with my arms and protect my stomach by tucking in my legs, they stomp on my head and ribs. I can taste blood on my lips, though I’m not sure where it’s coming from. They’re crazy to do this. I’ll be covered with telltale bruises. But maybe they don’t care.

  A boot connects with my head. The pain explodes and blurs.

  I’m gone for a moment, then back, then gone again. Am I blacking out?

  Out of nowhere a voice says, “That’s enough.” The blows stop, but it’s too late. I’m fading into darkness. Strange though, that the voice … sounded like Joe’s.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Success at Lake Harmony can only be achieved by changing your attitude.”

  I wake up in the dark, uncertain where I am, flooded with aches and pains. There are deep crevices of hot agony where my body feels as if it’s working overtime to start the healing process. There’s
an odd smell in the air, and it takes a moment to place it: stale cigarette smoke. Guess it makes sense that I’d be in the infirmary. Then the darkness grows blurry and I’m gone again.

  “Garrett?” A whispered voice wakes me. I open my eyes and find Mr. Sparks beside the cot. He’s wearing a heavy blue baseball jacket zipped to the neck as if he’s just come in from outside. The infirmary is the dull gray of predawn.

  “How are you?” His face is stony. No sign of the usual smile.

  My lips are cracked and my throat feels dry. Guess I’ve been breathing through my mouth because my nose is swollen. Moving my jaw to speak hurts. “Never been better, sir.”

  “Man.” Mr. Sparks shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anyone get it as bad as you.”

  “Did Joe order it, sir?” I ask.

  Mr. Sparks hesitates. “No.”

  “But he stopped it, sir.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Adam and his gang in trouble, sir?” I ask.

  Mr. Sparks shakes his head.

  “I don’t get it, sir.”

  “It’s all about results, Garrett. You think this place could stay in business with parents shelling out four grand a month if they didn’t see results?”

  “What about Sarah, sir?”

  “An exception to the rule. Most parents give this place a year or a year and a half at best. No results, they pull the kid and try something else.”

  “What’s that got to do with Adam, sir?” I ask.

  “Mr. Z and Joe, the other group leaders … their hands are tied. There’s only so much they’re allowed to do. State and federal regulations, you know? So they use Adam and his boys to do the rest. If Adam’s got a grudge against you and decides to do some freelancing, what can Joe do? They both know that without thugs like Adam there’s no more Lake Harmony.”

  “Sir, did a kid really die here a couple of years ago?” I ask.

  Mr. Sparks nods slowly.

  “How, sir?”

  “Official cause of death was listed as heatstroke. State did an investigation and Lake Harmony was cleared of responsibility. I hear the parents have brought a civil suit, but those things take years, and there’s insurance to cover it.”