by S. F. Henson
But I thought about it that night. And the more I thought about it, the more I remembered Mom’s warnings.
The next day, I refused to say it.
That led to my first Indoctrination.
Because he was afraid he’d kill me if he got his hands on me, he had my classmates do the Indoctrination. Guys I’d been throwing a baseball with the day before—Thomas Mayes and the Connor brothers.
They cornered me during free time. Thomas Mayes punched me in the face, then threw me to the dirt. The Connor brothers stretched me out and held me down, so I couldn’t protect myself. Then Thomas Mayes kicked me in the stomach with his steel-toed combat boots, saying he’d keep doing it until I said the mantra and believed it.
I was eight.
I said the words. I hate myself for it, but I said them.
But they could never make me believe them.
I lay there in the dirt, curled in a tight ball, tears mixing with sweat and blood to make tiny mud puddles, when a small hand reached toward me, palm up, the way you approach an unfamiliar dog. And like a dog, I sniffed first. Oranges. That’s the first memory I have of Kelsey. She sat there, orange slice extended toward me, and waited until I sat up and took it. Then she offered me another. I thanked her and she just shrugged one shoulder.
“You looked like you needed it,” she’d said.
I never knew if she meant the orange, or the kindness.
She helped me up with her sticky hands. “Don’t let them get away with it. Otherwise, they’ll keep coming for you. That’s what he always says, anyway.” She nodded to the edge of the field where my father stood, watching.
I waited a few months until the right time, until I found Thomas Mayes alone in a corner of the field during free time. I flicked open the blade of my pocketknife and pulled my sleeves over my hands to hide it.
He was only twelve, but had already been lifting weights. It felt like cutting a thick steak when I plunged the knife in, but it made a sucking, deflating balloon noise as I pulled it out. A satisfying, soul-draining sound.
Thomas Mayes might have acted tough before, but all that toughness spurted out of him with the blood from his belly.
He didn’t bother me again.
Not until that day in the woods.
Monday morning comes too quickly. The truck is silent as Traitor drives me across town to the high school, me gripping the worn handle on top of the backpack until my knuckles turn white, him doing the same with the steering wheel. Lewiston looks to be more worthless than Farmer, the blink-and-you-miss-it town near The Fort. At least Farmer had a Walmart. Almost every store in downtown Lewiston is closed. I spot one restaurant, but it’s in a trailer behind some lady’s house, so I don’t think that counts. Skunky didn’t show this morning, so it’s the two of us and the cloud of quiet, interrupted only by the rumble of the engine and the jingle of his keys—which I still haven’t been able to get my hands on. Every time they knock against one another, I think about the trunk in the closet.
It’s barely seven when Traitor pulls up to a red tin awning in front of the ugly gray cinder block school. I half-expect media to rush through the glass doors, assaulting me with questions, but the sidewalk remains empty.
Traitor catches my arm. “Don’t cause no trouble.”
I grab my pack and jump out. As he drives off, it occurs to me that the building may not even be unlocked this early. I cross my fingers. All I want is to figure out where I’m supposed to go and be tucked away in the back corner of a classroom when everyone else gets here.
The door swings open easily. A blast of cold air and a stale, musty odor hit me as I step through it. Chill bumps prickle my arms, making the hairs stand at attention. There’s a glass window to the right—like the kind at the Psych Center where they distributed meds—that says OFFICE. I sidle up to it and shift on my feet.
The office is dark, but someone has to be here if the place is open, right? Do I holler? Stand here like a loser until someone sees me? I look around the corner. Empty. But a bar of light peeks out from under a door a little ways down the hall. A sign on the wall beside it reads TEACHER’S LOUNGE. Below it, someone has taped a piece of white paper with “No Students Allowed” in bold. I put my ear to the door and listen, but the wood is too thick to hear through.
I’ll just open it really fast, peek inside, and see if someone can tell me where to go. They can’t be mad about that, right? I turn the handle and push the door in one fluid motion.
It hits something solid. There’s a loud crunch, followed by a scream.
Oh, shit.
My heart pounds. I hurt someone. Not just someone. A teacher. My first day, without even trying. What is wrong with me?
I could run. They haven’t seen me yet. I can get the hell out of here. Rewind. Start over. Start fresh. That’s what Ms. Erica said, although I don’t think she meant this. I even take a step. Then the door slams open.
A blonde girl glares at me over the blood spurting from her nose. Bright red flecks of it dot her white shirt like the Queen Anne’s lace I used to pick for Kelsey on her birthday. A bluish bruise is already starting to form along the bridge of the girl’s nose. She holds one hand to her face, trying to catch the stream flowing down her chin.
“What the hell?” she yells when she sees me. “Look what you did!”
“I … I’m—”
Her eyes dart to my feet and back up to my face. “Oh my God, were you leaving? You weren’t even going to see if I was okay? You were just going to leave me like this?”
“No, I—”
“Who even are you? What are you doing here?”
The blood in my own veins starts to boil. I didn’t mean to hurt her, and she’s acting like I did it on purpose. I open my mouth to answer, but she starts in again before I can get a word out.
“Don’t just stand there. Get me a paper towel or something. What’s wrong with you?”
That’s what does it. Hearing my thoughts echoed through her lips. The beast rises up inside me. “Will you shut up already?” I yell. “I didn’t mean to.”
Her jaw flops open. Blood drips onto the creamy tile. I clench my fist and turn on my heel. Staying here will only make it worse. I told Traitor this was a bad idea. At least now maybe he’ll scrap the whole school thing.
“Hey!” the girl yells.
I ignore her and keep walking. I only make it a few steps before a short, round white woman blocks my path. Her tan pantsuit is too tight to be comfortable and her red hair is too bright to be natural. She looks from me to the blonde girl, who’s still bleeding all over the floor.
“What’s going on here?”
“He did it,” the girl says.
Aw, shit.
The woman clucks her tongue. “It’s okay, Maddie. Nose injuries always look worse than they are. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She starts toward the girl, then looks back at me. “You. Wait right there.”
Son of a bitch. Staying in school may not even be an option. Not if I get expelled on my first day. That will look great on my record. I stand beside the dark office like I should’ve done to begin with. The woman returns a few minutes later.
“Mrs. Roger is taking care of Maddie.” She sorts through a key ring big enough to rival Traitor’s. “Here we go.” She separates one of the keys and unlocks the door. Fluorescent lights buzz awake. A wood grain sign on the wall says MARY RAWLS, PRINCIPAL.
I look from the sign to the woman.
“Yep, that’s me. If you’d get a move on, we can have a proper introduction.”
I follow her into my first principal’s office. We enter a reception-type area with a tall counter and a couple of plastic chairs, then skirt the counter and enter another room. The principal sits behind a wide oak desk and motions to the two faded red chairs across from her. I perch on the edge of the closest one as she places her elbows on the desktop.
“Now, then. You must be Nate. Not exactly the best start at Lewiston High.” She plucks a thin manila folder o
ut of a drawer. “Ms. Tufts and Mrs. Hayes made me aware of your situation.” She pauses. “You’re taller than I expected.”
I don’t really know what to say, so I don’t say anything. A slice of dark yellow glides by the window. Brakes squeal as the bus stops, then voices float through the open window of the outer office. Students are already starting to arrive and I’m cooped in here instead of holed up somewhere safe.
The principal opens the file. “Fighting, threatening teachers, destroying property, lack of respect for authority. And now assaulting another student.”
“I didn’t—”
She holds up a finger. “I believe today was an accident, but you have an admittedly bad pattern of behavior. I want to be clear here. We’re giving you a chance, and we want this to work out, but we’ll be watching you closely. I have to look out for my students.”
Good Lord. First the incident with Nose Girl, and now this bullshit file on me. They couldn’t construct a better story than that? I mean, it’s not that far from the truth, but still, not exactly the “fresh start” I thought everyone wanted for me. Must be the new social worker’s doing.
“Do you understand, Mr. Clemons?”
I bristle at the name. Another bus pulls up. More students flood through the front doors. Loud students. I just want out of here, so I bite my tongue. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She pushes a gray folder toward me. “There’s a map inside. Not that this place is hard to figure out. There are only two hallways. Your prior homeschooling and the independent study in the Institution was good enough for the State to consider you a sophomore, but we’ll be monitoring your grades closely. If you can’t keep up, we’ll drop you to a freshman.”
Better than I expected. I’ll be seventeen in a few months and should be a junior, but honestly, I’m surprised the education I’ve gotten so far was enough to be in high school at all.
I take the folder and open to my class schedule. Behind it is the code of conduct, the map she mentioned, and a bunch of other papers I don’t feel like reading. I flip to the map. Besides the front entrance, there are exits at each end of the T-shaped halls. Not ideal, but at least I have options if things get messy. Messier anyway.
Heavy footsteps stomp on the tile in the main office behind me. “Mrs. Roger,” a girl says, hard and clipped. It sounds like Nose Girl. “I can’t take these classes. I can’t. You have to change my schedule!”
It’s a tone I’m familiar with. Kelsey sounded just like that when she was mad at me, which was usually any time I disagreed with her. Over small things like what we thought a poem meant, or big ones like when we should leave The Fort. She’d get so pissed she wouldn’t talk to me for days, or even weeks. There was no compromise with Kelsey.
This girl isn’t Kelsey, but she is talking loud enough to draw a crowd. And I don’t want to be part of that. I keep my eyes forward, silently begging the principal to hurry so I can get out of here and get to class before more people show up.
She seems oblivious. “Your first class is homeroom. Mrs. McAvoy, second door on the right. Your locker is number two-nineteen, near the lunchroom. That’s down to the left. The combination is in your folder. Don’t give it to anyone. You’ll pass the first number once, pass the second, then directly to the third.” She stands and puts both hands on the desk. “If you have any questions, ask Mrs. Roger at the window.”
Questions? I have a ton. Like what the hell did she say? I close the folder, grateful she’s finally letting me leave, and start to stand. But she’s not finished yet.
“First bell is at seven forty-five. Homeroom starts at eight sharp. Lunch is two dollars, or you can bring your own. Do you have money for today?”
I shake my head. She beckons for me to follow her to the main office. Nose Girl stands at the counter, a red towel pressed to her nose.
“You don’t understand,” the girl says to the skinny older white woman behind the desk. “This won’t work!” She slams a piece of paper on the counter. Her eyes narrow when she spots me. Her face glows like the fires of Hell dwell in her skull.
My body tenses. I glare back, not willing to be the first to look away. I’ve already shown enough weakness. Especially for the first day. The girl’s frown deepens. She seems like she wants to say something, then the principal pushes around me. Nose Girl turns back to the woman but gives me the side-eye. My muscles relax in triumph, but it’s only momentary.
The day hasn’t even officially started and I’ve already had two confrontations with her.
“Mrs. Roger,” the principal says. “This is Nate Clemons. Give him a lunch pass. Only for today, though.” She drops my file on the counter. “Oh, and Nate? Make sure you read the code of conduct. Carefully.” She sweeps into her office and closes her door behind her.
Nose Girl glowers at the old woman. “I was here first.”
“Just a moment, Maddie,” the lady says, pawing through a gray plastic cup.
I keep my head down until she hands me a piece of yellow construction paper with LUNCH PASS stamped on it. Fancy. “Here you go, dear,” she says. “Give that to the lunch lady when you get your food.”
I slip it in my pocket and head to the hall. The floodgates have definitely opened. The place is packed. There are way too many teenagers for a town this size.
Mostly white people, with a few other races peppered throughout the crowd. My whole body is on edge. Not wanting another run-in, I stare at my shoes and weave toward the lockers. People knock against me with their elbows and backpacks as they push past. Lockers slam and people shout and the air blows at arctic levels and it’s been 594 days since it happened. 594 days and it’s August, not December, but it’s so cold and crowded and too much, too much, too much.
And I didn’t take my meds. I wanted to be sharp for my first day.
But nothing is sharp except the dead branches scratching my arms.
The faces in the hall blur together into a featureless mass and stretch to the ceiling. Except it’s not the ceiling. It’s dark, open sky. Fingers stretch and claw and scratch. I close my eyes and try to focus. This can’t happen. Not now. I struggle to get my button out of my shirt collar, but the string is pinned by my backpack.
A guy yells. Something heavy crashes to the tile, loud as a gun blast. The sounds echo around me, growing into a roar until it’s white noise.
And it’s so cold. So freaking cold.
Snow brushes my eyelashes. It sticks in my arm hair.
He’s behind me.
It’s not real. It’s been 594 days since it was real. But, oh my God he’s coming.
Crashing through the brush.
My pulse pounds out a drumbeat in my ears.
He’s got a gun.
And I’m standing still.
I want to live.
I break into a run, shoving branches out of the way. I trip over a root and crash to the ground.
The snow is heavy and wet. I didn’t have time to grab a jacket, or even a long-sleeved shirt. My white undershirt isn’t much protection. I’m struggling to get free, to get away.
Then he’s on top of me. Punching.
The gun butt swings at my head, smashes into my temple, and I see fireworks.
I’m going to die.
I can’t. Not yet.
I free an arm and knock the gun out of his hand. It thumps to the snow and we’re both scrabbling for it. My elbow catches him in the eye. He roars and smacks me hard enough to see stars. He’s pulling me back, but my fingertips graze the gun handle. I’ve almost got it. But his hand gets there first.
Fire spreads through my limbs. My arms are suddenly heavy. The snow turns to gunpowder, swirling around my head, so dark and dense I can’t see.
Then I’m at his mercy.
The first thing I feel when I come to is red-hot humiliation. It spreads through me, thawing the last traces of cold fear the flashback left behind.
Oh God, I had a flashback. On my first day.
Freaking principal. If sh
e hadn’t kept me so long, I could have found a quiet corner to wait out the storm. I would’ve been fine. Now I’m waking up on a cot in the corner of a small room. The back of my head throbs when I move, but I still turn to see where they’ve stuck me.
To my right, a balding man sits behind a beat-up wooden desk with a green plant on one end. Behind him, a short bookshelf spits books, like it ate so many it made itself sick. They’re three deep on the shelves and piled on the floor, almost up to the broken, wood fiber ceiling tiles. The fluorescent lights make everything look artificial, as if I’m peering in on a wax scene in a museum.
The cot’s stiff fabric creaks as I push myself upright. The man’s head snaps up.
“I see you’ve decided to rejoin us.”
Decided isn’t the word I’d use.
The man slides over to me, propelling himself forward on his chair’s squeaky wheels. He extends his hand. “I’m Mr. Paulsen, the counselor here at Lewiston High. I’d hoped we’d meet under better circumstances.”
And I’d hoped we wouldn’t meet at all. Still, I shake his hand.
“Your uncle is on his way with your medication. How are you feeling?”
We’d be here all day if I tried to unpack that one, so I simplify. “Dizzy.”
His head bobs up and down. “I bet. It’s barely”—he checks his watch—“eight thirty and you’ve already had quite a day. First the incident with Maddie, then this episode. Combined with the stress of a new school.”
I slump back on the cot. Shit. Does everyone know about Nose Girl by now? I close my eyes.
“Nate? You okay? Feel like you’re going to pass out again?”
My eyes flutter open. The counselor frowns.
“You know, it may be a good idea for you to go home for the rest of the day.”
I straighten. “Seriously? I can go home?” And never, ever come back.
“Dr. Sterling warned me these episodes take a lot out of you. Besides,” he leans closer, conspiratorially, “it won’t hurt to get a do-over of your first day.”
Irritation buzzes through me. I don’t want a do-over. I don’t want this at all. “You talked with Dr. Sterling?”
