“Does everything we do have to have a reason?” he asked. A slight breeze picked up and a layer of dust lifted off the field. It hovered and spun.
“Yes,” I said, “it does.”
Later that night, after lights-out, I awoke to the sound of Owen unlocking his trunk. This was nothing new. I heard the rustle of wax paper as he unwrapped graham crackers and little squares of chocolate. I rolled over and tried to concentrate on sleep, but I was so hungry I drooled onto my pillow.
“You awake?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
“Check this out,” he said. I sat up. Owen pulled the cap off a can of paint thinner. He poured a drop into our empty metal trash can. Then he used some sketch paper to make a cone with a little hole at the top like a chimney. He scraped the tip of a match across the floor and set the paper on fire. The trash can blossomed with flame.
“Holy shit,” I said. I scrambled out of bed to get away, thinking maybe he’d completely lost his mind. “Where the hell did that come from?” I couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten a match. I stood back and watched as he sandwiched a square of chocolate between two graham crackers. He used a pair of paintbrushes like chopsticks and lowered the food into the flame until the chocolate melted.
“And you gave me shit about stealing a hair clip,” I whispered.
Owen shrugged. “Tastes better melted,” he said. He made one for me, and I was so hungry it was all I could do to keep from cramming the food into my mouth. The flavor was astonishing, earthy and sweet. I wanted more. He unwrapped another bar of chocolate and set a few crackers in front of him.
“Tomorrow—” Owen began, but I cut him off.
“I got it,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”
The flame in the trash can faltered and died. Owen reached for more paper and began to fashion another cone. He took extra care this time, folding the sheet, feigning absorption in the task. I watched his fingers as they worked.
“You know why I hit him?” he said. “That kid?”
“Why?” I asked.
“I didn’t like the way he looked,” he said, and for some reason this made him laugh, a slightly high-pitched giggle that I’d never heard before. I stared pointedly, making sure Owen had time to register my surprise. “I’m very aesthetically sensitive,” he said, and this made him laugh harder.
“You’re sounding a little crazy,” I said.
“Come on, admit it,” he said. “That kid was ugly.”
I shook my head. Owen made another cracker for each of us, and dropped more paper into the trash can. We sat in silence, staring into the flickering orange maw of the fire. The room seemed to disappear; there were no more walls, no limits. Just a portal of light, a shimmering elsewhere.
TEN
After breakfast a proctor drove me to the Vargas Administration Building for my hearing. I’d never ridden in a T-4 at Ione. In this particular model, a piece of Plexiglas separated me from the driver. Sometimes, at La Pine, I’d driven the trucks they’d used in the logging camps, and they’d infused me with this same feeling—a sort of liberty—an appreciation of the wind in my hair, of the sky churning overhead. I tried to stay positive, but as we sped up the hill toward Vargas, all the pleasures of freedom seemed vivid but fleeting.
Trees like tall emerald columns lined the main drive. They were some kind of evergreen, and it bothered me that I didn’t know the names of the native plants, as I had in Oregon. Dew frosted the ground and tinged the air with the mineral aroma of wet dirt. As we got closer to the building, it looked more imposing. The clock tower stood at least five stories tall, and a pair of turrets with conical roofs flanked the massive front doors. Vargas cast a long black shadow, and I felt the temperature drop as we drove into the shade.
The proctor circled past the entrance and parked on the side of the building. He walked me to a large wooden door that led into the basement. A little plaque on the wall read ORIGINAL INTAKE DOOR, PRESTON SCHOOL, 1897. “In Vargas, you have to stay behind the yellow lines at all times,” the proctor said. “Do you understand?”
I nodded. He told me to wait in what was marked as the old delousing room. It had originally housed a chemical pool. There was a plaque here, too, with a photograph of a mustachioed man pulling a rope tied to a partially submerged boy. I stared at the picture, at the boy in his chemical bath. He was in motion, so his face was a blur—a nothing.
After twenty minutes I was called upstairs to sit on a bench outside the door where the committee met. A proctor sat beside me. I sweated through my shirt even though the hallway was heavily air-conditioned. Across from me, hanging on the wall, were pictures of past students, full-color photographs, the Goodhouse success stories: here was a research scientist, there an engineer.
When I was younger, I’d picked out my name, the one I’d hoped to earn when I graduated. It was to have been James Nash. I liked the way Nash sounded—a little old-fashioned but also generic. Nobody would ask me where I was from or how to spell it.
Finally, the door to the committee room opened. Some boy I didn’t recognize was escorted out. “Tell them to go fuck themselves,” he shouted. His shirt was ripped partway open and he had a dark stain across his denim pants. Two proctors dragged him down a nearby stairwell. They were touching him. That was bad.
A proctor stepped out of the room and called, “James Goodhouse.” I stood and followed him inside, distracted at first by the narrow pathway of yellow lines on the burgundy carpet. The room was dimly lit. Dark wood paneling covered the walls. It smelled like dust and orange polish. A metal chair stood in the middle of the room. It was clearly meant for me, and it faced a long table where the four members of the committee sat waiting.
Each man had a little brass nameplate and a glass of water. Tanner was perched at the end of the table, looking different up close—plumper, less like a dried-out man sheathed in paper bags. He adjusted his glasses as he scrolled through something on his handheld. To his left sat an older man. His nameplate read MR. MAYHEW. His yellowing hair had been raked directly back. Beside him was Dr. Beckett, my intake psychiatrist. He was a bald man with a very thick black beard, and his mouth looked like a little pink fish caught in a thicket. I tried to make eye contact with him, but he seemed preoccupied. Beside him sat a fat man wearing red cowboy boots and a bolo tie. His nameplate read MR. M. HAWKE. I wondered why anyone would be stupid enough to wear a cord around his neck, but I instinctively quelled that thought.
“Next up,” said Tanner, “we have the case of James, number 7783. Everyone should have the file. James, please sit.” He gestured to the chair. I sat, and two proctors stood behind me. I lowered my gaze. The feet of the chair were bolted to the floor.
“I’d like to open the discussion by asking if there are any comments from staff.” Tanner looked pointedly at Dr. Beckett, but it was Mr. Mayhew who spoke first.
“He’s always been very polite in my class,” he said.
“I don’t believe he’s in your class,” said Tanner.
“Oh.” The man frowned at his handheld. “Which number is this?”
“It’s 7783,” said Tanner. “James is a recent transfer student charged with theft and predatory violence. On May 25 he stole from his host family, and that evening he attacked a class leader.”
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Mayhew.
“We have imposed the usual restrictions and penalties, but”—Tanner shrugged as if he were uncertain that those were enough—“I would like to hear the recommendations of the committee.”
“I’ll go first,” said Dr. Beckett. “If I may.”
“Of course,” said Tanner.
“I’ve been reviewing my notes on James, and I want to acknowledge that there is a history of good behavior here. His record at La Pine was spotless. No behavioral issues. No serious incidents. However”—and here Dr. Beckett winced as if there were a sour taste in his mouth—“La Pine was not a particularly sophisticated school,” he said. “This empty page may be a lack of repor
ting as much as anything else. As we cannot get a clear picture of his past, I suggest the committee limit itself to what we have observed at Ione.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “That’s not how it should work.”
Tanner looked up with a bewildered expression. Students spoke only to answer direct questions, and I saw too late that my outburst would merely solidify Dr. Beckett’s argument.
“The boy will not interrupt,” said Tanner. “He can present his point of view at the end of this assessment. Understood?”
I swallowed hard, trying to get control of myself. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’m going to suggest that we start with my initial intake notes from February,” Dr. Beckett said. “I’ll send them to you now.” He clicked his handheld and then continued. “As you can see, James was furtive and withdrawn. He exhibited all the classic signs of PTSD—the hypervigilance, the irritability and paranoia.”
Committee members scanned their handhelds, presumably reading the report. I barely remembered the intake. Driving into Ione had been terrifying. The compound was huge and we’d passed a group of a hundred feral-looking boys working in the cold. I might have said anything to Dr. Beckett, and now this document would define me. In the ensuing silence I became aware of a rhythmic ticking sound. A housefly beat itself against a windowpane, trying to reach the world on the other side. The tap of its conviction filled the hushed room.
“Our general population is not equipped to handle a student with these kinds of issues,” Dr. Beckett said, “but I was hoping that James could assimilate with the help of medication.”
Tanner checked his watch. “And what is your recommendation?” he asked.
“It’s my opinion that these are not just isolated incidents but the beginning of some larger time of acting out. We could increase his medication, but frankly”—and here Dr. Beckett licked his pink fish mouth—“I’ve seen this before—the displaced anger, the explosive violence. James is not able to master his own experience and will continue to take out feelings of impotence and rage on others.”
“You don’t even know me,” I said. “You can’t predict what I’m going to do.” I didn’t mean to say the words out loud, much less shout them. “I’ve already been punished,” I said. “I’ve done everything you asked.”
Tanner slapped his hand on the tabletop. “If you are unable to control yourself,” he said, “you will be restrained. Understood?”
I nodded. Mr. Mayhew gave me a tremulous smile. “Mr. Beckett’s conclusion seems a little extreme,” he said. “This is probably an adjustment issue. My own children had a hard time when they switched schools.”
Dr. Beckett cleared his throat. “When I say it is my opinion, I bring two advanced degrees and twenty years of experience to the matter. I understand, Mr. Mayhew, your sentimental feelings in this case, but—frankly—James’s story is an old one.”
Tanner nodded in agreement. “It’s really too bad.” He took off his reading glasses and placed them on the table. He glanced at me for the first time. He looked detached and slightly bored. “Prove me wrong,” he continued. “I hope you do. But in the meantime, I’m going to recommend a transfer to Protective Confinement.”
“What?” I said.
“That doesn’t seem proper,” Mr. Mayhew said. “The Confinement Block is where we punish boys. What sort of therapy do you have in mind?”
“The block is where we have the resources to provide James with the supervision that he needs,” Dr. Beckett said.
Tanner kept glancing at his watch. “Are we all in agreement here?”
“When do I get to say something?” I asked. But they ignored me. I would rot in Confinement. I would never get out.
“I’m going to need more time to review his file,” Mr. Mayhew said.
“Returning him to the general population is just the sort of lazy optimism that has made us sloppy in the past,” Dr. Beckett said.
Mr. Mayhew frowned, and his voice, when he spoke, was a higher pitch. “Mr. Beckett—” he began.
“Dr. Beckett,” the psychiatrist corrected.
“It is not lazy optimism to listen to each boy who sits before us and weigh the particulars of his individual case.”
But Tanner was standing up and shrugging into a sport coat. He gathered his things, pausing only to ask Mr. M. Hawke what they were serving for lunch. I had to do something or I was going to be locked in a cinder-block room. I was going to disappear.
“Please don’t send me to Confinement,” I said quietly. “Dr. Beckett is making me seem like a monster. There’s no reason why I should be punished more than everyone else. I’m working extra shifts; I’m doing everything you ask. What happened with Creighton was a mistake. It’s not part of some larger acting-out. I just had a bad day, is all.”
“No,” Dr. Beckett said. “Creighton had a bad day. You had a regular day.”
“This isn’t what you think,” I said. “You don’t know the truth.”
M. Hawke, the man in the red cowboy boots, took a sip of his water and made a loud crunching noise as he chewed the ice. He had yet to speak, but now he turned to Tanner and said, “Sit down. They aren’t going to run out of hamburgers. I don’t think they’re beef anyway.”
“They’re a by-product,” Tanner said.
“Then we definitely don’t need to hurry,” M. Hawke said.
Dr. Beckett sat back in his chair, his hairy chin tucked close to his neck. Tanner leaned against the table and sighed, still poised to leave.
“We haven’t even talked about the incident,” M. Hawke said. “I want to know what happened.” He nodded at me. “In your own words, tell me why you attacked your class leader.”
“Can you look at my record for that night?” I asked. “There should be an electronic log of where I was. If you examine it closely, you’ll see that I was off campus. They took me somewhere, some building in the Exclusion Zone. Check my record. It should all be there.”
M. Hawke started to type on his handheld, and then he clicked on something that activated a wallscreen to my right. “What do you want to show us?” he asked.
“Keep scrolling,” I said. “It was around midnight or so. Maybe later.” But as M. Hawke browsed through the records of that evening, I saw that there was no confirmation of my visit to the Exclusion Zone, just a large red Infraction written beside Work detail 4, 1:26 a.m.
“It was tampered with,” I said. “Somebody changed it.”
“Yes, that’s very likely,” said Dr. Beckett, his tone heavy with sarcasm.
“It’s the truth,” I said.
Mr. Mayhew shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“I think Protective Confinement is a good idea,” Tanner said. “We don’t need any loose ends just now. Adjourned?”
“Wait.” I stood up and walked to the edge of the yellow line. “Something happened to set me off. Something very serious.” I had their attention now. I felt it in the quality of their silence. “I didn’t know who to tell and I was afraid no one would believe me.”
“Well?” Tanner asked.
I had no other options. “I saw a Zero on campus,” I said.
Dr. Beckett shook his head as if he’d misunderstood. “I’m sorry? A Zero?”
“One of the men who lit the fire at La Pine,” I said. “I’m absolutely certain.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Tanner said.
“I realize that.”
“And can you identify this man?” The muscles in Tanner’s jaw stood out as if he were angry, but his body was very still. For an uncomfortable moment he held my gaze.
“I saw him in the infirmary. His name—” And then I hesitated, thinking of Bethany and what might happen to her. “His name is Dr. Cleveland.”
“A.J.?” Dr. Beckett asked, and he looked amused as he turned to M. Hawke. “He’s talking about A.J.”
M. Hawke gave a little grunt. “And here I thought this meeting was going to be dull.”
“It’s not a j
oke,” I snapped. “I saw him kill someone.” I looked from one incredulous face to another. “If there is even a small chance that I’m telling the truth,” I said, “you need to investigate.”
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Beckett said, scrolling through his handheld. “Didn’t you spend your Community Day with A.J.’s family?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know it at the time,” I said.
“So the theft was an act of retribution?” M. Hawke nodded as if it made sense.
“No,” I said. “It’s not related. That has nothing to do with it. I didn’t even see him at the house.”
“And now that you’re caught,” M. Hawke continued, “you have a story about how the head of this family is really a criminal.”
“Please listen to me.” I turned to Mr. Mayhew. “They’re twisting my words.”
“Enough,” Tanner said. He sat down heavily, as if resigning himself to a longer meeting. “There’s an easy way to put this to rest.” And with that he picked up his handheld and called Dr. Cleveland.
* * *
Nobody spoke as we waited for him to arrive. At one point my heart raced to such an extent that my chip sent a warning to the proctors standing behind my chair.
I looked at Tanner. “You’ll help me, right?” I said. “If the doctor tries something, you’ll step in?”
“I think we’ll leave security to the professionals, James,” Tanner said, and M. Hawke chuckled as if this comment were funny. The fly continued to tap at the window. Undaunted by any evidence to the contrary, it was still on its way out into the world.
A knock sounded on the door, and then it slid open. “Here you are,” Dr. Cleveland said. “Forgive the delay. I had the wrong floor.”
“Not a problem,” Tanner said, and he smiled with such warm familiarity that I knew they must be friends. I felt a queasy, stomach-clenching despair. “I’m sorry to pull you away from your work,” Tanner said, “but I felt you should hear this.”
“Of course,” he said.
“This is James.” Tanner gestured toward me. “He has something he wants to say.”
Dr. Cleveland turned as if noticing me for the first time. He was wearing a green shirt, and his cheeks were flushed, as if he’d hurried. “Of course,” he said. “I know James.” He paused. “Go ahead. Don’t be shy.” He nodded in an encouraging way.
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