"No, sir," she mumbled back. She knew she was supposed to speak clearly, look him directly in the eye, and call him Coach, Sir. The orientation video was clear on that. But she was still seething over the midnight kidnapping, could still feel his cold, hard hand against her mouth, and she could barely bring herself to look at him at all.
"That's not what I hear. I hear you're having problems following your House Leader's instructions. That's not going to do at all." He was tapping the silly prod against his thigh, his chilly blue eyes boring into her. "You do understand that's not acceptable." It wasn't a question.
"Yes." Her dark eyes glared back at him, all the anger she felt at the world focused on his tan, handsome features. If she were bigger and stronger, she'd slug the son of a bitch and run.
"Fine. Let's don't have any more incidents, shall we? After morning exercises, while everyone else is at breakfast, you'll do the mile. Give you time to think about your attitude."
He turned on his heel and strode to the front of the troops, now fully assembled. He stood with his hands on his hips and studied each row in turn, his close-set eyes searching for dress code violations, slouched shoulders, unkempt hair, and God-knew what else. It was almost a relief when, at last, he nodded to the Blue House Leader to begin the exercises.
Maddie didn't mind exercising, and she really wasn't upset about having to skip breakfast and run the mile. Running had always been exhilarating to her. Sometimes she ran in her dreams, sprinting like a wild colt over fields of green, leaping gracefully over fences, her long dark hair flowing in the wind behind her.
But her hair wasn't long anymore and, by the time exercises were over, it was plastered against her scalp with sweat. Most of the kids, even the older ones, were panting and some were holding their sides as they trudged off to the showers. Maddie stood on her number and waited for Coach to give her instructions.
"I'm gonna give you a choice, Madeline." Now that no one was within earshot, he'd dropped the Toad business, like he was trying to win her over, though she couldn't figure out why. "You can take the longer, scenic route, or stay right here and run the parade grounds." He raised an eyebrow, expecting an answer.
"Scenic route," she said, still trying to catch her breath. He smiled, like he knew that would be her answer.
"Know where the stables are?" he asked. She nodded. "You follow the road there, turn right, head for the old mine. You'll see an old boxcar. You know what a boxcar is?" She nodded again, getting excited. This might be her chance to get out of here.
"Soon as you reach the boxcar, turn around and come back the way you went. It's actually longer than a mile, all told. If you prefer, you can circle the parade grounds seven times instead."
She shook her head. Even if it were double, she'd take the scenic route. Coach smiled at her like he knew what she was thinking.
"You know you can't run far enough or fast enough that I won't catch you, right?"
She looked at him like it had never even crossed her mind.
"Good." He lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt loop and spoke into it. "Tell Clutch we got a miler coming your way. Should be there shortly. Keep an eye on her, will you?"
"Ten-four," came the reply.
Coach pointed his finger as if it were a gun, pulled the imaginary trigger, and Maddie shot off like a cannon.
The road to the stables had been built wide enough to accommodate a large truck and horse trailer, and it was easy to run along. Maddie settled into a comfortable trot, her mind racing ahead of her. Coach might be expecting her to make a run for it, but even so, she was tempted to try. On the other hand, she wasn't really prepared for travel. She had no food. She had no compass. No jacket for the cold nights. Worse, she didn't really know where she was or where she'd go. The road in had been long and bumpy, and it had been too dark to see much. As much as she wanted to get out of there, she knew she'd have to bide her time and make a workable plan. The best thing she could do for now was take everything in. You never knew what knowledge would come in handy later.
Before she knew it, she'd reached the stables and she slowed down, partly to ease the cramp in her side, but mostly to gawk at the horses. There were dozens of them grazing in the open pasture behind the stables. Yellow ones, chestnuts with white nose blazes, and jet black ones with long silky tails. Scattered among them were spindly legged colts, some of them nursing, others frolicking in the spring sunshine. In the distance, she could see other clusters of horses grazing along the creek. A few yards away, a handful of cowhands were sitting on top of a fence watching the man they called Clutch work a magnificent, shiny black colt with a lead rope and switch. The horse's nostrils flared as it pranced around the corral, snorting and pawing as it went. Clutch was talking softly to the horse, calling him a pretty boy, a fine young colt, all sorts of flattering things that made the horse's dark eyes slide sideways like he was checking to see if Clutch was poking fun at him or not. In the same voice he was using on the colt, Clutch said, "Ain't you supposed to be running?"
Suddenly, Maddie realized he was talking to her. She'd come to a complete halt, watching the beautiful horse in the arena.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"Haven't picked one yet. Waiting for an inspiration." The colt kicked up his heels, and Clutch shushed him, pulling down on the lead just enough to settle the horse down. "This fella's spooked by his own shadow," he chuckled. "You got any ideas? On his name, I mean?"
She couldn't believe he was asking her. It was the first nice thing that had happened to her in so long, she almost cried.
"Well, you think on it. Hey, I think he's taken a fancy to you. Look at him showing off, now." Clutch had eased up on the lead, and the colt, given a little leeway, turned toward Maddie and reared. The cowhands on the fence laughed, making Maddie's cheeks color. "You better get going, now. Coach finds out you been lollygagging around the horses, he's liable to give you worse than a mile run."
Maddie turned toward the boxcar in the distance, smiling for the first time in ages. She forgot, for the time being, about running away. She forgot her sore legs and some of her anger. She kept her mind on the most beautiful colt she'd ever seen and racked her brain, thinking of a name that would do him justice.
Chapter Five
The interview took place in a small room off the mess hall, and, in the interest of killing two birds with one stone, Ida explained, they'd hold the interview while we ate lunch.
We carried trays of food back to a round table, and Ida shut the door to drown out the noise of the kids inside before introducing me to the interview committee. There were five of them including Ida, and, despite myself, I felt nervous. I knew that my performance would not only determine whether or not I got the job, but would set the stage for any subsequent interaction I'd need to have with the staff. To my relief, the atmosphere was relaxed, and they seemed as interested in the meatloaf as they did in my answers, so I began to relax as they took turns talking about themselves and asking questions.
The first to introduce himself was Dr. Biscane, the psychologist and co-founder of Camp Turnaround. He was a tall, angular man in his fifties, with deep brown eyes beneath a prominent forehead. His black hair was thinning, combed straight back to cover the bald spot on the top of his head. He wore neatly trimmed sideburns and a goatee, which only served to make his equestrian face seem longer. When he spoke, his voice was a deep baritone, and gently commanding. "How did you learn of Camp Turnaround, dear?" he asked, just as I pushed a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth. They were surprisingly good.
"On the internet," I said, trying to swallow. "I've been looking around for a while now, interested in alternative settings of education."
"Disenchanted, I take it, with the public school system?" he asked, smoothing his goatee.
"A little. Been there, done that, I guess. I wasn't going to go back at all, but then, after a while, I missed teaching. I missed the kids. It was the other stuff I could live without."
"Ah
, yes. The bureaucratic bullshit." Dr. Biscane smiled and the others laughed. Coach leaned forward, his elbows on the table. His rippling biceps bunched beneath his white T-shirt.
"Not that it matters that much, but I'm curious. You're too young to have retired. Did you just up and quit? Or did they fire you?"
Ida, who was sitting next to him, slapped his elbows off the table. "Don't mind him, Miss James. Coach always assumes the worst. It doesn't matter why you left the Santa Bonita District. We only care about why you want to work with us."
Nowhere in my application had I mentioned what district I'd worked for. Obviously, they'd done some homework. Luckily, I'd mixed enough truth into my application to make my story plausible. I had, in fact, quit teaching years ago, but not for the reasons I was about to explain. I had quit when my first lover, Diane, had died of cancer. I'd left my job, the house we'd shared, and everything else I'd ever loved. Somehow, I knew instinctively that the only way I was going to survive her death was to make a clean break of everything, and I had. But they didn't need to know this. I swallowed a mouthful of meatloaf and tried to look earnest.
"No, that's okay," I said. "It's a fair question. The truth is, they could've fired me, but they didn't. Out of courtesy mostly. The kids liked me. The parents even liked me. But I blew it, big time, and the administration couldn't just ignore it, so they let me take a leave of absence with the understanding that I wouldn't return. Nothing went on my record. It was a verbal agreement. I just disappeared, free to start up somewhere else if I wanted."
"But you never did," said Dr. Biscane. "Why not?"
"Because I wasn't a hundred percent sure that what happened then wouldn't happen again."
"And what did happen?" Coach asked, ignoring Ida's glance that told him to lay off. "You have a fling with one of the students?" His cool blue eyes appraised me, letting me know he wouldn't blame a kid for finding me attractive. I ignored the look, as well as my sudden desire to sling mashed potatoes in his face.
"I hit a kid," I said, looking Coach squarely in the eye.
"In the classroom?" Lacy Godfrey, who was sitting next to Dr. Biscane, asked. She was in her late twenties, a plump and wide-eyed version of Dolly Parton. She wore a frilly white blouse that accentuated an ample bosom. She taught math and the beginning computer classes, but looked like she could break into a country western tune at a moment's notice.
"Yes," I nodded. "What happened, was, my ninth grade English class was in the middle of this really good discussion on the theme of good versus evil in literature when this new kid, who'd only been in class a few days, came sauntering in late and disrupted the lesson. He was a transfer from another school and looked at least two years older than the rest of the kids. He was just trying to win approval from his new peers. I should've understood that, but the truth was, he ticked me off.
"Anyway, I asked him to sit down and let the rest of us get back to learning, and he made some rude remark that to this day I can't remember. I do remember that a few of the kids laughed, which made me even madder. I should've just let it go, but I said something ridiculously adolescent like, 'If your brain was half as big as your mouth, you could probably contribute to this discussion. But since that obviously isn't the case, I'd appreciate it if you'd sit down and shut up so the rest of us can engage in an intelligent conversation.' "
"Good for you!" Lacy said, clapping her hands. Even Dr. Biscane looked amused. Nurse Beckett, however, gave me a disapproving glance. She was a tall, bony woman with a no-nonsense haircut she wore like a helmet surrounding her stern face. She'd eschewed the mashed potatoes and meatloaf, opting for the salad and vegetable medley, a plain glass of water on the side. She was the only one who seemed to be taking the interview seriously.
"What happened?" Ida asked.
I paused. "He said, 'Make me.' "
"And?" Coach prompted.
"He was still standing near his seat. He was a good two inches taller than I, but not all that big, really. Anyway, I'm not exactly sure how I did it, but I crossed the room in about three strides, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and threw him against the door."
Nurse Beckett's lips were pursed as if she were about to get up and leave, and I quickly glanced at the others. Coach and Ida were nodding. Dr. Biscane stroked his goatee. Lacy's eyes were huge. I went on. "I guess I should've left it at that."
"There's more?" Ida asked.
"Well, the kid tried to throw a punch at me. It was a pathetic swing, really. Before I knew what I was doing, I decked him. Got him square in the nose, which was awful because blood spurted everywhere. Then, to make matters worse, when he saw all the blood, he fainted."
"All right!" Lacy said, starting to clap again.
"It's not something I'm proud of," I said, glancing first at the nurse, then Dr. Biscane. "It scared me to death." Nurse Beckett seemed to thaw, but just a little.
"What scared you most?" Dr. Biscane asked, leaning forward. "That he was badly hurt? That you'd lose your job?" His brown eyes penetrated mine, and I wondered briefly if he knew I was making the whole thing up.
"Those things crossed my mind, of course. But I think what really scared me was that I kind of liked hitting him. I know he was just a juvenile, and that made it doubly wrong. But he was... may I speak plainly here?"
"You already have," Dr. Biscane said, smiling. "Please continue." The others nodded. Nurse Beckett seemed as riveted to my story as appalled by it.
I cleared my throat. "He was an asshole. I've never been much for abiding assholes."
Dr. Biscane leveled his gaze on mine. "This place, I'm afraid, is full of them. At least that's how they come to us."
"I realize that," I said. "I think that's why I'm here. I need to get past this incident. I need to prove to myself that there are better ways of dealing with jerks than punching their lights out."
Finally, a nod of approval from Nurse Beckett.
"Sometimes you have to do that first to get their attention," Coach said, stuffing most of a biscuit into his mouth.
"The way you got that kid's attention with the cattle prod?" I asked.
Coach's cool blue eyes met mine, and he quit chewing. The table fell silent.
"You have a problem with that?"
"I didn't like watching it," I said.
"I didn't like doing it," he answered. He managed to say this with his mouth half-full. He swallowed half a glass of milk and went on. "But I got his attention, didn't I? And, in a few months, that kid's going to be looking at the world in a way he never has before. By the time he earns his first parental visit, they won't even recognize him."
I didn't answer, and the group seemed to take my silence as acceptance.
"What did the other kids do?" Lacy asked. "I mean, when you decked the, uh, jerk?" She giggled when she said this.
I managed to blush, getting caught up in my own act. "They applauded," I said. "If I hadn't told on myself, I'm not sure the administration would've ever found out. The students were on my side, and the new kid was too embarrassed to tell." Again, the table fell silent.
"Well, that satisfies everything I need to know," Dr. Biscane said, buttering a biscuit. "Anyone else have any more questions?"
The staff exchanged glances, silently confirming my status as a new employee. Even the nurse seemed mollified by my willingness to admit my wrongdoings, though it was obvious she disapproved of my past behavior.
Ida was beaming. "I had a feeling you were going to fit in here. Why don't you let Lacy show you your cabin and help you get settled in. Then you can come back up to the office and we'll fill out the dreaded paper work. Even here at Camp Turnaround, we have a bit of the old bureaucratic bullshit." The others laughed, then stood and shook my hand, each in turn offering their congratulations. Part of me felt sheepish for lying to these people so blatantly, but mostly I was relieved that the story had had the desired effect. If someone had murdered Miss Sisson, it was possible that he or she was in that room. It was important that they regard me as
both harmless and trustworthy.
The kids were still eating when we filed back through the mess hall, as were some of the staff members. I made a quick scan for Gracie, but she wasn't among those lunching. There were about eighty kids in all, seated at long tables and grouped, as far as I could tell, by gender and the color of their T-shirts. One long table had nothing but boys in orange shirts; another one boys in green; a third table, boys in blue; and the fourth group was full of yellow-shirted girls. Each group contained about twenty adolescents of varying ages and ethnicities. Despite their differences, though, there was a sameness about them. Something in their demeanor or their posture, I thought. And then it hit me. No one was slouching. In fact, when we walked into the mess hall, it seemed the whole group sort of came to attention, although no one had asked them to sit up straighter. The kids continued their conversations, ignoring the adults, yet seemingly aware of our presence. Perhaps wary was a better word. Like the deer who grazed in my front yard — seemingly relaxed, yet ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.
I scanned the girls' table and spotted the skinny, long-legged Madeline almost immediately. With the same jet black hair and inky eyes as her mother, she was a miniature version of Connie. She looked like a spindly colt, all knees and elbows. The silky black hair I'd seen in the photograph had been chopped to just below the ear, but there was no denying that, in a few years, the kid would be a beauty — even with the determined frown she wore. Thinking back to the reports her mother had found, I wondered what had happened in the fifth grade to make that frown appear out of nowhere. I wondered if Dr. Biscane was helping her work it out.
Trying not to stare at Maddie, I looked around at the other kids. At the head of the blue table sat Dobberteen, the acne-scarred exercise leader I'd seen earlier. He was watching over his charges like a nervous Mother Goose. I noticed each of the tables had an older kid sitting in a similar fashion.
"Who are the kids at the head of the tables?" I asked Lacy as she walked me toward the door.
8th Day Page 5
