Goodhouse (6 page)

Those with injuries exited first. Several infirmary nurses, all dressed in their tan-colored uniforms with the Goodhouse logo in red, were setting up a table—unpacking a case and a screen. Surprisingly, Tanner himself stood nearby with his entourage and a couple of men, one of whom was tall and skinny, like a stretched shadow. I tried to be patient, but I felt claustrophobic. The bus was a cage, and every little noise made me swivel in my seat.

When it was our turn to exit, I pushed into the aisle, struggling to make the muscles in my arms and legs obey. The crowd felt as if it were compacting around me, a solid wall of flesh. It took all my attention to mimic normal movement, to maintain some composure, and still, I stumbled into the boy in front of me. He elbowed back, almost connecting with my chin. That's when I saw the white-haired man, the one with the rangy body—the man I remembered from that night in La Pine. He seemed to be standing alone behind the nurse's table, wearing the clothes I remembered, the black pants and the tailored shirt. He stood out as a still figure in the busy yard.
Hallucination
, I thought.
Phantom
. And I made myself look away. I wanted to forget. I wanted to get better. Wrong-thinking started in the warping of perception, and I couldn't permit myself to keep reliving the worst moments, reinforcing them. I had to make a choice.

We exited the bus, and a proctor directed us to wait in a long line at Laundry 1. Ahead of us, students were already pulling off their jackets, stripping down to their T-shirts and underwear. A sour smell wafted from the open doors, and proctors were shouting instructions, their broadcast voices interrupting each other and contributing to the confusion they were trying to dispel.

“Pants to the right, jackets to the left.”

“To the right,” another shouted. “You there, stand for inspection.”

“Each item will be placed on the countertop, and you will not be dismissed until the items have been cleared.”

The two boys in front of us palmed with speed and dexterity. Their fingers formed shapes I couldn't recognize, and then they both laughed at the same time. Rows of thick red boils dotted the backs of their arms, and above each boil was a number written in a marker directly onto their skin.

I stuck my hand into my jacket pocket—and encountered the prickly metal of Bethany's barrette. For a moment, I just stood there, unsure of what to do as the line advanced. I began to dig at the inner seam of the coat, hoping I could force the barrette into the lining, hoping it would be overlooked in the inspection. But there wasn't time. We were about to go through the laundry room doors. I quickly tossed the barrette away from me and into a clump of dirt to my right. It fell short, landing near the path—a bright, unnatural blue against that brown earth.

I felt Owen watching me and I slowly turned toward him, surprised to see even the smallest hint of indecision. If he reported me, he'd be cleared of our earlier demerits.

“Please,” I said.

But he raised his hand in the air. “Proctor!” he shouted. “Proctor to me.”

 

FOUR

Two proctors pulled me out of the line and led me to a basement room underneath the gymnasium. They told me to strip. “It was an accident,” I said. “I picked it up to return it. I was going to give it back.”

“Strip down,” the proctor repeated. I did so, taking everything off, turning slightly away as if I were modest. I wasn't. The band of my boxers hid an infraction more illegal than theft. I'd been taking one of Owen's pens and marking the site where I'd been chipped, months ago, on intake. I now had a semipermanent black scar on the right side of my belly. It wasn't very visible, merely a freckle, but all the same I kept my arm over the mark.

One of the proctors pulled a little plastic bag from his pocket, scanned the code on the front, and tossed it to me. I snatched it out of the air.

“Take your pill,” he said. I recognized the round lemon-colored tablet.

“I'm supposed to take it with food,” I said. “They were very clear about that.”

“Please show your compliance,” the proctor said. He sounded almost bored.

I pinched open the bag and quickly took the tablet. “It's down,” I said. The man clicked on a pin light and I opened my mouth to show him that I'd swallowed the pill. It was, in fact, stuck in my throat.

“Are you experiencing any unusual dizziness, fatigue, or chills?” I thought of the sickening, weightless feeling of the bus leaving the road. “Are you experiencing any anxiety?” he asked.

I stood before him, shivering and naked. “Seriously?” I said.

He left me in that room for a long time, or maybe it only felt like a long time, because there were no windows, nothing to look at but a concrete floor with a drain in the middle and a lightbulb encased in a metal cage. I didn't want to sit on the ground, so I stood. It was much cooler in here, a relief at first—and then the gooseflesh started to rise and I paced to keep warm.

I tried to cough up the pill, but this only made it lodge deeper in my throat. I needed water. I knelt and peered into the drain, where a dark liquid glinted below the metal grate. My own eye stared back and I jerked away, imagining people under the floor.

At La Pine we didn't have rooms like this. Our headmaster's idea of punishment was to make you weed a field or rewrite an essay until you “said something intelligent.” Of course, the Goodhouse schools were supposed to be identical. And maybe they were now, after the attack, but it would have been easier to adjust to Ione, to accept everything, if I hadn't felt like I was living in a distorted memory of home. These boys looked almost like my friends, with their blue uniforms, their short hair and their swagger. I seemed constantly on the verge of recognizing someone or, more precisely, I'd recognize a walk or a gesture—but if I stared, the likeness would disappear. Dr. Beckett, my intake doctor, had promised me that time would dull memory. And so I was taking my evening pill, swallowing the monofacine in anticipation, waiting to forget.

*   *   *

The sound of a door opening made me startle and turn.

“Country boy,” Creighton called. He exaggerated his vowels, both imitating and distorting my slight Oregon accent. He looked like he'd been in a fight. His eye was purple and he was favoring his right leg. He seemed pissed off, and it gave me some satisfaction.

Davis followed him into the room. He was carrying my shoes and a new, clean uniform. The proctor who'd given me my pill remained in the hallway.

“Sticky fingers,” Davis said. He shook his head in mock disappointment. “We were very surprised. One of our model students.”

“And you don't have enough hair to wear a barrette,” Creighton said. “Or was it for your girl Owen? Now, that is beautiful.”

Davis tossed me the clothes, and I quickly pulled them on. My stomach hurt. The pill felt as if it was burning a hole through me.

“I need some dinner,” I said. “I'm not supposed to take medicine without food.”

Creighton frowned. “Every boy gets dinner,” he said. “It's regulation.”

“Are you saying you've been mistreated?” Davis asked. “Because that's a serious accusation—something your class leaders want to know.”

“Personally,” Creighton said, “I'm very committed to the well-being of my fellow students.”

“Never mind,” I said, stepping into my shoes. “I had enough lunch. Forget it.”

“Wait,” Creighton said, cocking his head as if he was confused. “So you've eaten already. I don't understand.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. But he took a step toward me, and I had to force myself to stand still and let him approach.

“You lied and now you claim it doesn't matter?” Creighton said. I felt his breath on my face.

“Now hold up,” said Davis, his voice soothing. “We don't want to rush to judgment.” He walked up to me and it was just as Owen described. I looked into his eyes and he had a soft smile there, and then his fist was sunk deep in my belly and I was lying on the floor waiting for air. When it came, I heaved up a white, foamy substance. “Boy hasn't had any dinner,” Davis said.

Creighton hobbled closer to peer at me. “Look at that,” he said.

But I was looking at Creighton's right leg, the one that bore all his weight. He was like a flamingo, perched, vulnerable—a house on stilts. His red face, still fat with childhood, was balanced at the top. I tried to do a breathing exercise and to think about my status, that thing we all guarded—that pass to a good life. I must have believed in fairness still, because I felt how unfair it was, and this burned in me.

I kicked Creighton as hard as I could in his bad knee, and he crumpled with a howl. He cut the sound short, instinctively swallowing it, though he continued to writhe on the floor. I scrambled to my feet and prepared to face Davis, but he just stood there, hands at his sides, watching me, waiting to see if I was going all the way in an attempt to join their ranks.

“Demerit,” called the proctor.

“Shit,” I said, realizing the full magnitude of what I'd done. “Shit.”

“I'm gonna destroy you,” Creighton said. “You're fucking dead.” His face purpled with rage. He struggled to stand, but was unable to put any weight on his injured leg. “You're never going to graduate,” he said. “You're going to stay right here and be my little bitch.”

“Easy,” Davis said. He pulled Creighton to his feet and then restrained him. “That's not the plan.”

“It is now,” Creighton said.

But Davis merely smiled, his expression sweet and satisfied. “No,” he said. “We don't have to get our hands dirty with this one.”

*   *   *

They were gone for hours. When Davis returned, he was alone. I began apologizing the moment he stepped into the room. “I don't know what's wrong with me,” I said. “I don't understand what happened.” And it was true. I'd been reliving the moment, trying to pinpoint my error—to see what part of myself had given its consent. “I just want to tell you that it won't happen again,” I said.

“I know it won't,” Davis said.

An infirmary nurse hurried into the room. He was a short and muscular man with a considerable underbite. “This one?” he asked.

Davis nodded. The nurse pulled a metal case from his uniform pocket and began to prepare a syringe.

“What's going on?” I asked. I retreated to the far wall, my hand touching the crumbling cement of the foundation.

“I heard you were trying to get back to your people today,” Davis said. “Is that right?” He leaned against the doorframe, watching me.

“What do you mean?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“I mean, you crawled out a window and waved your arms and said,
Here I am
.”

“I was trying to get away,” I said.

“Funny how it looks the same,” Davis said.

“Bullshit,” I said. “You weren't there.”

The nurse stepped forward and held out an alcohol swab. “Right arm,” he said. I didn't move. “Please show your compliance.”

“Is this for an Intensive?” I pointed to the syringe.

“We don't know that word,” the man said. But he did. Everyone knew the school tested drugs on students. To sign up for testing was the fastest way to burn off demerits. The studies were listed as Maintenance Intensives, but of course you had to be careful. You never knew if your fingernails would fall out afterward or if you'd be unable to sleep for a week.

Whatever was in the syringe made me almost instantly sick. It sent an icy shock through my body, up past my shoulder and into my chest. The sensation was so intense that it reminded me of January in Oregon—the way a sudden breeze could leave you breathless, the way thin mountain air could cut through clothing, penetrate lungs and ears and fingers. It was overwhelming, and I almost expected to see the frosty cloud of my own breath.

Two seconds passed and the sensation lessened. Two seconds more and whatever it was had flowed through my heart and into my brain. It was a part of me.

*   *   *

Davis cuffed my hands together with a plastic cord. He made me jog behind one of the school's T-4s. These were little white carts that the proctors used to get around campus. They ran on a battery, silent except for the distinctive humming of their engines and the hiss of their rubber wheels on the pavement. They had two rows of white vinyl seats and a sun canopy overhead. It was hard to keep pace with my wrists lashed together. I was off-balance—too tall and uncoordinated. Davis swiveled in his seat to watch my efforts, to relish every stumble. I tried to keep my face free of expression, to deny him this at least.

“It was just a barrette,” I said.

“What are you bitching about?” Davis said. “I never had a girl on my Community Day.”

We were on the old campus, skimming across the cement walkways, passing the original Preston School stables, the old metalworks, the science building. They were all built of brick, with columns sunk into the façades. It gave them a grand and collegiate appearance, now at odds with their designations as Laundries 1 and 2 and Storeroom 6. We looped near the dormitories—a series of long, squat, cinder-block buildings that the boys called bunkers.

It must have been late at night because the walkways were clear, and the school seemed deserted until we got closer to Vargas, with its huge redbrick façade. A work detail was preparing the long-unused flower beds in front. I smelled the compost. I saw a black, loamy pile of it on a nearby tarp. Bushes and plants were lined up in the road; the large ones had root-balls bound in burlap. Overhead, a cloud of insects clustered with all the frantic energy of electrons circling a nucleus.

The T-4 stopped, and for a moment I thought I was joining the work detail. I felt a surge of relief. I wasn't afraid to stay up all night and dig. I'd done a lot of farm labor in Oregon and I knew I could handle it. Davis walked me toward the crew. The boys looked sullen and slump-shouldered. I recognized some faces from my class, and then I was shocked to see a La Pine boy. At first I thought he was another hallucination, but I blinked and he remained. He was a little kid named Harold. He was maybe twelve years old, and looked pitifully small next to everyone else. He had brown ragged hair and eyes that were too close together, giving him a wild appearance, almost like a feral cat. I nodded to him, but he looked away.