Academic Assassins

by Clay McLeod Chapman

  I read a little bit more, plowing through the prose to prove Peter Pan was worth reading—“It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning….”

  “Isn’t that what they’re doing to us?” The Mimi asked. “Cleaning our heads?”

  Table Scrap nodded at the book. “The Mimi’s got a point. That’s us he’s talking about?”

  “I’m not sure J. M. Barrie had us in mind when he wrote it,” I said. “But he may as well have written the book just for us, because…”

  I hesitated, unsure of myself.

  “Because I’m reading it to the rest of you.”

  Table Scrap’s eyes bugged out. “You’re gonna read to the rest of us? The whole book?”

  “Why not? Reading transports you. It takes you somewhere else! I’ll take that escape any day….Especially from this place.”

  Table Scrap started laughing. He pulled the book out from my hand and held it up to my face. “Reading some stupid fairy tale isn’t gonna break us out of here.”

  He tossed the book back at me. I caught the paperback, fumbling in my hands.

  “Just give it a chance,” I said. “Peter Pan’s not just a fairy tale. He’s the original troublemaker. He’s the O.G. juvenile delinquent. No hooligan has ever topped him.”

  I read a line about Peter—“ ‘Don’t have a mother,’ ” he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them over-rated persons.”—and for a split second, I couldn’t help but feel a sting in the words.

  Maybe this book was about us after all.

  “Let’s say we all go along with this book club of yours,” Scrap said. “What’s Pan gonna teach me that I don’t already know?”

  “That’s easy,” I said. “How to take down Captain Hook.”

  Dear Mom…

  I don’t know if I’ll be able to make up for the time I’ve thrown away by running from my problems, but I want to try.

  I know I can be a better person.

  I love you. I miss you.

  But I need your help. This place to you. To keep us in line, they have us . It doesn’t matter what we’ve done, we’ll get the every single time. It’s the same for the same amount of time with the exact same amount of . It so much. It feels like I’m having . I can barely . My heart’s about to my chest. Once it’s over, my mouth is so dry, but whenever I ask for water, they me.

  Please. You’ve got to believe me. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.

  I miss you.…I miss me.

  I want to come back home.

  Your son,

  Spencer

  Even the letters I write in my mind are censored. Merridew really must be getting to me.

  The orderly barricaded behind his own Plexiglas cubicle pushed a button that automatically unlocked the doors leading into the mess hall. No one came in or out unless this guy pushed that button.

  Twenty tables were positioned in a grid, each set with six stainless steel stools mounted to the floor, so ants can’t pick them up and throw them.

  Apparently that’s happened before.

  Live and learn, I guess….

  The Men in White patrol the cafeteria behind a Plexiglas barrier separating themselves from the dining ants. From above, a dozen surveillance cameras observed the scene as we shuffled down the Yellow Brick Road in a single-file line.

  Pick up your Styrofoam tray….

  Grab your plastic utensils….

  Pick up your plastic cup….

  Five Orphans worked the steam tables. They stood behind their sneezeguards, absentmindedly shoveling one ladle full of slop after another onto our trays like some human assembly line. Their one goal—Never let the line slow down.

  Gotta keep those gears turning. Gotta keep the machine moving….

  Each steam table held a bubbling puddle of dully colored mush. An off-colored gravy gurgled at a low simmer like a tar pit. I could imagine all the different prehistoric beasts trapped below, cave rat or tusked possum, served up for us to eat.

  “So…” I said to the hair-netted Orphan. “What’s today’s mystery meat?”

  He had a black eye. He hardly glanced up from the steam table as he ladled a huge scoop of gray gunk and dumped it on my tray.

  I did my best Cockney accent. “More, please….”

  That got his attention. “Huh?”

  “Oliver Twist? Ever read it? In the orphanage? Oliver asks…”

  He dumped an extra helping of mush onto my tray.

  Everybody’s a critic.

  My best guess at lunch? Chicken Alfredo. Soggy noodles lathered up in watered-down sauce. A couple lumps of cubed meat floated along the surface.

  Each tribe had its own table. Everybody sat with their own crew—no intermingling with the other ants at mealtimes. I spotted Buttercup and her Peer Facilitators sitting at the table toward the front of the mess hall. Nailbiter smiled Merridew’s own patented smile from her new, cozy perch, sitting amongst the other Facilitators. The Black Hole had sucked out her soul. All that was left was this hollow shell of the girl I’d seen banging her head against authority on the bus.

  The She-Wolves sat in the back. Sully didn’t even need to get her own meal. Some she-cub brought her a tray of specially prepared food.

  Membership has its privileges.

  I could feel Sully’s eyes on me as I passed her table. “Look who’s still alive.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed,” I said. “What’s the kitty up to now?”

  “The Mimis got ten bucks on you kicking the bucket before lights out.”

  “Only ten?” I shrugged. “Seems low. I figured I was at least good for fifty.”

  “Heard about your book club,” Sully said.

  “You should come to the library. Check us out.”

  “Nah, thanks. I’d like to steer clear of the Black Hole, if that’s alright with you. You just better not let Merridew catch on.”

  I nodded and shuffled on. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  I found the Orphans at the other end of the mess hall. An odor rose up from the garbage bins at this corner of the cafeteria, making it a pretty undesirable dining destination. There was an extra table back there, completely empty. Its surface hadn’t been wiped in years, scabbed up in petrified pasta shells.

  I sat down by myself and poked at a hardened knot on my tray. The table wasn’t much, but it would do. Every tribe has got to start somewhere….

  I claim this space for the Academic Assassins!

  Suddenly, the mess hall was silent. I glanced up and noticed Merridew had entered. She walked smilingly amongst her ants in a full-blown display of bravado.

  Was she trying to prove a point? She wasn’t backing down: No fear here.

  Grayson stepped up behind me, carrying a Styrofoam tray that held another heaping portion of lunch. “Compliments of the chef. Merridew thinks you need an extra helping, #347678. She wants to put some meat back on those bones.”

  He dropped the tray in front of me. I flinched as flecks of gravy splattered across the table.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Grayson squeezed his C.R.U. “Are you disobeying an order from an orderly?”

  Merridew was watching. Her face remained placid, immobile—but I noticed the slightest crack in the powdery foundation around her eyes. The claws of her crow’s-feet were clenching.

  “I said I’m not hungry.”

  “Say that one more time,” Grayson muttered, his thumb already hovering over the button on his remote.

  I picked up my plastic spork and scooped up a bite of mystery meat. My wrist trembled as I brought it up to my mouth and delivered the creamy payload. “Mmm….”

  “Good boy,” Grayson said. “I wanna see a happy plate before lunch ends.”

  No one was allowed to leave until every resident at a table had a “happy plate” (translation: empty). You could be stranded for hour
s waiting for your table-mates to finish.

  I spat the noodles out between my knees as soon as Grayson turned around. I kept my attention on Merridew as she petted her Peer Facilitators, beaming in their seats—Smile like good little droogs and you all get a droogy treat.

  Table Scrap leaned over from the neighboring table. “Mind if I join you?”

  “It’s a free penitentiary,” I said. “Got any ketchup?”

  He slid into the seat across from me. “Got any insider tip on how long you’re gonna survive? You know, anything that might help us Orphans come out ahead?”

  “You guys are putting money down on me too?” I asked incredulously.

  “You kidding? I got five on you getting a shiv before lunch is over.”

  I mulled it over. “Put me down for twenty on lasting my whole sentence. As a matter of fact, put me down for fifty that I outlast every one of you here.”

  Table Scrap huffed. “That’s pretty steep.”

  “I’m good for it,” I said and popped a fry into my mouth. The crick in my neck offered me a new angle to spy Buttercup sneaking up directly behind me.

  So this was it. An attack in the cafeteria.

  Quick, Spence—defend yourself!

  I brought my elbows up and started slicing my plastic spork through the air. “Get back! Stand back!”

  Buttercup held up her hands. “I come in peace!”

  “Merridew send you over to snap my neck when I’m not looking? Is that it?”

  “No—I swear! I was just wondering if….” Buttercup looked behind her, then leaned in. “When’s the next Book Club?” she whispered.

  “You think I’m telling you—”

  “After headcount,” Table Scrap cut in.

  I spun my head around to him. “What’re you doing?!”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asked.

  “How are we gonna keep Book Club a secret if we let—?”

  “Napoleon—six o’clock!” Buttercup shouted. She grabbed me by my dog collar and yanked hard, tugging me onto our table. I could feel the warm swell of gravy seeping into my uniform as the Styrofoam tray crumbled under my chest.

  I looked up and found a pimple-skinned kid lingering at my back. I hadn’t noticed him before. How long had he been standing there?

  THE NAPOLEONS

  MEMBERS: 16

  MODUS OPERANDI:

  The Napoleons are the youngest residents at Kesey. They are just kids. But these tykes have the ambition and hunger to one day be head honchos. It’s just their age and inexperience that keeps them low on the totem pole. As the pint-sized Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “An army marches on its stomach.” Those who are the hungriest, who have the will to win—they will rule the world.

  DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS:

  None of the members are over four feet tall. But don’t let their size fool you. The Napoleons are some of the meanest, most vicious kids here at Kesey. They have to be. In order to survive, these scrappy residents have to fight harder—and dirtier—than the rest.

  MOTTO: “War is the business of barbarians.”—Napoleon

  He was holding a toothbrush at his side. The end of it had been whittled down to a point. It must’ve taken him hours—days, even—to sharpen it.

  I glanced around the cafeteria to see who was watching. There was Merridew, standing stock-still by her facilitators. Her face barely betrayed a single emotion. Had she put the kid up to this? Of course she had….But why?

  Did Merridew want front-row seats to my execution?

  No. She wants me to fight back.

  This must be a part of Merridew’s master plan. If I acted up in front of everybody and kicked this kid in the face, she’d have an excuse to shock me until my brains were cooked.

  The Napoleon brought up his toothbrush. He looked petrified, wrist shaking. I could tell he didn’t want to do this. I wonder what Merridew had promised him. A couple months cut from his sentence? A free bit of freedom? Extra pudding cups?

  Time was of the essence. If this Napoleon was going to attack, he’d have to stab fast. Not that I was going to give him the chance.

  The Napoleon pulled back his hand holding the toothbrush and lunged.

  “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!” I scrambled onto the table and belted out my best television announcer impression. “Pack the family into the station wagon and make your way to the Kesey Reclamation Center for a fun-filled afternoon of brainwashing!”

  An entire table’s worth of Screaming Mimis turned their heads toward me. They weren’t the only ones. The Orphans looked up like I’d gone bonkers. Practically everybody in the mess hall was suddenly staring my way, Sully included.

  I had an audience.

  “That’s right, boys and girls! Who’s ready to say bon voyage to their own individuality and say hellooooooo to the Black Hole?”

  The Napoleon sliced at the air before my shins. He was getting ready to take another jab when several Mimis suddenly circled around him, staring up at me as if it were our designated TV time and I was the television set.

  “Everybody remember Babyface?” I shouted. “He ate right here! He walked along the Yellow Brick Road just like all of you! He was one of us!”

  The Napoleon nervously stepped back, having lost his shot at covertly cutting me, ducking his head as the Men in White fumbled for their C.R.U.s.

  If I wasn’t mistaken, I thought I could see a slight look of disappointment on Merridew’s face.

  “He was sent to the Black Hole because Merridew wants you to be afraid—”

  The shock knocked me onto my back and I landed on the table and THE CHRISTMAS TREE LIGHTS WON’T WORK WHY WON’T THEY WORK and I can’t control my body can’t keep from flopping over my tray like a fish out of water DID YOU TRY THE PLUG OF COURSE I DID and I knew the jolt was coming but I still wasn’t ready for it you can never be ready for the ice-blue blow of electricity when it courses through your limbs reaching your teeth boiling the very marrow of your bones and I pulled myself up onto my knees, breathless, and found Grayson standing in the aisle.

  “Congratulations, #347678,” he said. “You just lost your meal privileges.”

  I scrambled back on top of the table. “The more scared you are,” I shouted, “the more Merridew can do whatever she wants—”

  Grayson’s thumb was immediately on the red button and Christmas lights wrapped around the tree one of them is burnt out WHAT DID I TELL YOU got to find which bulb is broken because the whole string won’t light up if there’s a bulb—

  I staggered forward a step.

  “Charging is considered a direct violation of our regulations,” Grayson said.

  “I wasn’t…charging.”

  “Residents who attempt to remove their rehabilitative devices will—”

  “I’m not removing—”

  His thumb plunged onto the button and oh no here comes the jolt feel that icy blue wave in your brain make it stop MERRY CHRISTMAS MOM MERRY CHRISTMAS DAD A NEW BIKE HOW DID SANTA KNOW YOU’RE LYING LIAR LIAR BRAIN’S ON FIRE and Grayson’s thumb lifted off the button and my lungs unlocked and the air rushed into my chest with a loud gasp, like I had been doused with freezing water.

  Grayson waited for my next move, his thumb hovering over the button, like we were cowboys in the midst of a showdown and I had yet to pull my pistol.

  You can’t win, Spencer, I thought to myself. You’ll never win. Not against the Men in White. They can jolt you whenever they feel like it and claim self-defense.

  So to hell with it then. Let’s go down in an electrical blaze of glory.

  “Babyface is still here! He’s still in this building!”

  The circle of ants tightened, entranced with their unscheduled viewing time.

  “We can get him back! All we have to do is—”

  Grayson crushed the button and the current wrapped around my back my spine is a question mark my whole body asks why why why are you doing this to me?

  The instant his thumb was off the
button, I was back at it—“Bring back Babyface! Bring back Babyface! Bring back Baby—”

  The shock seized my chest and the words are stuck in my throat my body’s broke spasms spasms limbs flailing through the air like a marionette who’s strings were just cut my own rib cage gripped onto my lungs and commenced to slowly squeeze the air out change the channel switch the dial turn the TV off forever and ever and I started falling toward the floor face-first, coming in for a crash landing…

  …Only the Mimis suddenly caught me.

  I was lifted back up in the air.

  Even though I couldn’t speak, my throat locked up with residual electricity, I could still hear my words echoing all around me.

  “Bring back Babyface! Bring back Babyface! Bring back Babyface!”

  The rest of the mess hall was now chanting along. The other tribes had picked up the protest where I’d left off and carried on, while Merridew could only watch and listen. “Bring back Babyface! Bring back Babyface! Bring back Babyface!”

  A Napoleon on laundry detail took the time to painstakingly daub our green and orange uniforms with liquid bleach. When he tossed them into the wash, the chlorine chewed through the cloth—so once our clothes came out of the dryer, nice and clean, they now sported a stick figure holding a spear over its head along their backs, surrounded in a bleached ring. The Tribe’s symbol had been making the rounds ever since my floral rearrangement with Merridew’s prized poinsettias.

  Donning our uniforms now became an act of insubordination.

  How d’ya like them apples, Merridew?

  A symbol goes a long way. It inspires hope in those who need it most. And we ants needed all the hope we could find right about now, wherever we could find it.

  Inside these cold cinder block walls, where residents have been stripped of their individuality, their identity, their sense of self—the surest act of defiance against Merridew and her putrid policies were a couple slash marks and a circle.

  The emblem didn’t belong to me or anyone else. That’s the true strength of a symbol. Once you put it out there into the world—scribbling it on your desk, scratching it into the bathroom stall, spray-painting it along the wall—the world takes it and makes the symbol their own. I couldn’t stop it from spreading even if I tried.