Boot Camp

  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.

  ELEVEN

  “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.”

  These enticements to speculate are a common feature of Circle. They’re an invitation to self-doubt and a call for the others to hurl abuse. The staff at Lake Harmony are a model of energy conservation. Why should they exert themselves beating you up physically or mentally when the residents are so eager to do it for them?

  David Zitface is the first to pounce. “Definitely. I’ve known sluts like her. You know what they say: ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ By now she’s got to be with someone new.”

  “Someone old enough to drive,” chimes in Chubby Girl, whose name is Rachel.

  “She’s probably relieved you’re gone,” adds Unibrow Robert. “Like, what was she doing with a kid like you anyway?”

  I wonder what they’d say if they knew that the guy Sabrina had dated before me was verbally abusive and controlling. Or that she tried to break up with me twice, but both times we got back together. It was like we couldn’t help ourselves.

  “What are you thinking, Garrett?” Joe asks.

  “I’m not sure I agree, sir.”

  “Then what do you think she’s doing?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Joe gives me a withering look as if he’s getting fed up and impatient. “This is bull, smart guy. I want to hear something honest. I want to hear something private and personal right now, or you’re going to TI.”

  When I don’t answer right away, Joe stands up and starts toward the intercom next to the door. He’s going to call a chaperone and have me taken to TI. Suddenly Sarah catches my eye and gives me an alarmed look.

  “I worry, sir,” I hear myself blurt.

  Joe turns and stares expectantly at me.

  I feel a catch in my throat. “I… I don’t know what she’s doing, sir. And that scares me.”

  Joe moves slowly back toward his chair, a nasty little smile on his lips. “She could be sleeping with your best friend. Or any of a hundred other guys.”

  An invisible weight presses down on my shoulders. It’s all about stripping you bare, leaving you defenseless and powerless.

  “You’re a frickin’ fool if you think she’s waiting for you,” adds David Zitface.

  “Definitely,” Unibrow Robert agrees.

  “And the longer you’re gone, the more unlikely it is that she’ll still be waiting when you come home,” says Joe.

  I nod. These thoughts have crossed my mind.

  “So doesn’t it feel pretty stupid that she’s the reason you’re here?” Joe asks.

  But she’s not the reason. My parents are.

  “Well?” Joe wants a response.

  “I guess, sir.”

  “You guess? You better do more than guess. You better agree. Your parents sent you here because they know what’s best for you. When are you going to figure that out?”

  It’s pointless to answer.

  No sign of Pauly. He’s either in TI or the infirmary. I find another note from Sarah:

  It must be hard not knowing.

  What’s hard is knowing that if it weren’t

  for my parents, we’d still be together.

  Doesn’t it wake sense to think about

  what Pauly said?

  I don’t see how it’s possible. Escape from Lake Harmony? Go to Canada? Then what? Forget it. There’s got to be a better way out of this place.

  Everyone is moody here. Students are happy when they earn points or rise to the next level. Losing points or getting kicked down a level is a descent into gloom. Sarah is moodier than most, with higher highs and lower lows. But ever since she chopped off her hair and slashed herself, there have been fewer highs, and the lows seem deeper and darker. The zombies like Ron and Jon walk around in a fog, but you sense they have hope. Somewhere in their rewired skulls they know they’re getting out of here soon. But there are days now when Sarah subsists under a cloud of doom and hopelessness. Like Pauly’s, her skin is pasty, and she’s getting thinner. The bandages are off her arms, the skin streaked with long, thin, pink scars and dotted with yellowish-black bruises.

  “Finish your food,” her “mother” orders at lunch. The sloppy joe on Sarah’s plate lies untouched.

  “Put me up against a wall and shoot me,” Sarah mutters, chin propped in her hand as if she doesn’t have the will to hold her head up.

/>   If any other student were that impudent, he or she would be sent to TI immediately. But they’ve apparently decided to handle Sarah differently.

  “You won’t leave until you eat at least half of it,” her “mother” says.

  “See you in the morning,” Sarah replies.

  Why don’t they send you to TI?

  I’ve been there too many times.

  They know it won’t work.

  Don’t your parents wonder why it’s taking so long?

  They don’t want we back until I’am fixed.

  “You’ve been here since you were fourteen,” Joe tells Sarah in Circle. “In a year and a half you’ll be eighteen, and you’ll be able to walk out no matter what your parents say. But by then you’ll have been here for four years. Almost a quarter of your life wasted.”

  “So you think Lake Harmony’s a waste?” Sarah replies smartly. Today she’s in one of her rare spunky moods. But even when she’s feeling good, it’s obvious she no longer cares what they do to her.

  Joe’s nostrils flare for an instant. He’s not used to such insolence. “It’s not a waste for anyone else, but it is for you.”

  Sarah shrugs as if she doesn’t care. Her skin is so pale, it’s almost translucent, and her arms are bony. She reminds me of a story I once heard about a kid who held his breath until he fainted. Sarah will not give in to them, but that doesn’t mean she won’t break.

  “You’re a selfish, good-for-nothing, pathetic loser.” We’re in Circle, and Joe is ripping into a new girl named Megan. It’s August, and I’ve been here for four months. Megan is solidly built and stocky with close-cropped blond hair and a permanent frown. Her ears, eyebrows, and lips have the telltale pinholes of piercings, and a black barbed-wire tattoo encircles her neck.

  “You’re so damn self-centered, you couldn’t see how you were destroying your family with your drugs and lying and stealing,” Joe says.

  Pauly’s rash has flared up again, and his neck and hands are covered with angry reddish splotches. By the yearning way he looks at me, I can tell that he wants to talk.