by Jenni Sloane
“A-Amma Reiter,” I stammered.
“Reiter. You were told in your introductory letter to check in with me when you arrived and receive your assigned seat.”
Everyone in the room was staring at me. I gulped. “Y-yes, ma’am.” I hurried over, trying not to flush as she marked my name off her roster in thick, black marker. “Row five, seat seven.” Face burning, I took my seat as quickly as possible.
I’d never encountered a place I hated more on first impression than this school. Gothic castle on the outside, 1970s Midwest high school on the inside, it was a strange mix of frightening and drab. The fluorescent lights were too bright, and yet the rooms and corridors still felt dark. The tile was Barbie skin-colored, the walls a sickly gray white with peeling paint. The acoustical ceiling tile was water-stained and yellowing. And there were bars on the windows. Like this was a prison. Which, in a way, I supposed it was.
“What a bitch,” came a murmur to my left. A girl sat at the desk next to mine, dressed in a gray skirt and pilled navy sweater, just like me. Her long brown hair was up in an Ariana Grande ponytail, and she had large, dark eyes that were the first friendly-looking pair I’d seen since arriving at Strathmore this morning.
Did she mean me?
The girl flicked her gaze to Ms. Callahan. “Frau Cal, over there. I can’t stand her. I’m Kayle, by the way.” She glanced down at her nametag and then pulled it forward for me to see. “People always think it’s pronounced ‘Kale,’ but it’s Kay-lee. My parents were freaks.”
I couldn’t remember how words worked, so I just nodded.
She peered at me. “You okay?” She slouched back in her seat when I didn’t answer. “Relax. It’s not gonna be as bad as you’re thinking. Well, okay, fine, it’s pretty bad. But if you meet the right people, and take the right advice, you’ll survive here. Trust me.”
“You’re new too?” I was confused as to how she would know Ms. Callahan, or have advice for how to survive here.
“It’s my second year. I came here as a senior. Graduating at the end of this year. Yaaaayyyy,” she said drily, doing halfhearted jazz hands.
“Then why are you at first-year orientation?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s one of their ingenious punishments—or so they think. Get in trouble on the first day of a new school year, and they’ll send you to first-timer orientation again to ‘remind you of Strathmore’s values’ or some shit.”
“What did you do?” I was so shocked at myself for asking the question, I nearly clapped a hand over my mouth. “To get in trouble today, I mean,” I added quickly. It seemed too personal to ask why she’d been sent to Strathmore in the first place.
She shrugged, examining her nails. “I arrived at my dorm yesterday—old-timers arrive a day early to make sure the dorms are ready for the first-timers; you’re welcome—to find I’m on bathroom duty. Day one. Okay, fine. So I clean the bathrooms. I’ve just scrubbed the last sink when this trollesse comes in—trollesse. Is that the word for a female troll? It should be. She comes in, already drunk off whatever cheap ass booze she smuggled in here, and throws up in the sink. But I’m off the clock. So I leave it. And when the head girl asks why the bathroom’s a mess, I explain that I scrubbed every inch of it. Whatever happens to the bathroom after that is the problem of the next person on duty. She did not agree. Especially since the puking trollesse was Addison Malcom, whose parents are very rich, and so we must not dare suggest that Addison Malcolm is a drunken monster who can barely spell her own name even when she’s sober.”
I almost smiled. But then the classroom door opened, and a familiar tall, blonde figure walked in.
“Bennett,” I whispered in horror.
Bennett Baker made his way to the front of the classroom and stood beside Ms. Callahan.
“The myth, the man, the legend,” Kayle agreed.
I mentally smacked myself for being surprised. I’d known he had a TA job at Strathmore. It should have occurred to me way before this that I would see him here. But the past two months had been such a nightmare, I hadn’t been thinking straight at all.
The last time I’d seen Bennett Baker, he’d been standing in the driveway among the tombstones and the pumpkins, staring at his family’s shattered bird baths. The cops had been there. His parents. And, eventually, my parents. Everyone talking at once, trying to get the full story.
Bennett could have exonerated me. The cops were already prepared to believe I was a victim, even though my own parents were insisting I was the culprit. They’d taken one look at me in that dress—a dress that would have scandalized them even if it hadn’t been ripped and exposing half my bra—and it had been no use trying to explain. If their daughter was parading around town in slutty dresses and mascara, then no doubt she’d smashed all those birdbaths too. Why else was she standing in the ruins, holding the weapon?
All I really needed was for Bennett Baker—my mom may have resented the Bakers, but she would still have listened to one—to confirm that it had been Cole and his friends who’d destroyed the birdbaths. But when the cops had asked him if I’d been involved, he’d looked at me—a gaze so cold it made Cole’s look welcoming—and said, “Of course she was.” As though he’d been there. As though he’d seen what had happened.
That had been all the ammunition my parents needed.
Bennett and Ms. Callahan were whispering together. I glanced around the room. I counted only sixteen students. “Small class sizes,” the Strathmore brochure had touted. “So that we can focus on the individual needs of the students.”
I’d been shocked when my mother had brought the brochure home. Not just because I’d always figured I was the least likely person on the planet to ever need reform school, but because Strathmore, despite being a glorified juvenile detention center, cost money. Money my parents definitely didn’t have.
“They’re trying something new this year,” my mother had said, not looking at me. “A publicity move. They’ll choose one student who’s a particularly challenging case. They’ll pay for that student to attend Strathmore for a year, during which time they guarantee they can turn the student around.” She paused, staring at the brochure, and sighed slowly. “They call that student the Strathmore Challenge.”
“What does that have to do with me?” I’d asked numbly, already knowing the answer but unable to believe it.
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Amma.” She looked so tired, so…defeated. “I submitted you as a candidate. They’re interested.”
“How could they possibly believe that I’m…qualified?” I asked, my voice rising for the first time in nearly ten years. “I have no record of doing anything—”
“I told them about Mason,” she interrupted.
“Mason?” I whispered.
“I told them you’re at risk for turning out just like your brother.”
I’d spent the night in my room, holding my pillow to me like a friend and staring at the ceiling. My mom had told Strathmore that I was so bad, I could be the Strathmore Challenge. She’d told them I was just like Mason. That I scared her.
My parents had never been particularly kind—they were verbally cruel, and incredibly strict. They spent a lot of time fighting with each other. I knew they’d never really wanted kids, but hey, die-hard anti-contraception fanatics… But this was unreal. I didn’t know what I’d expected to happen after Halloween night. I guess I’d hoped that eventually my parents would cool down. That they’d listen to my side of the story.
How foolish I’d been.
“Attention!” Miss Callahan’s voice cut through my reverie like an axeblade.
I sat up straighter, wanting desperately to follow the rules. Most of the other students remained slouched in their seats. A couple of them snickered. “You are all here at Strathmore Reform to address behavioral issues. Some of your offenses are more severe than others’. But what it all boils down to is a lack of impulse control…and a lack of respect for authority.”
I narrowed my eyes.
That sounded like an extreme oversimplification. People acted out for a variety of—often complicated—reasons. How did the administration expect to reform anyone when it didn’t care what those reasons were?
I must have been scowling more savagely than I’d realized, because Ms. Callahan’s gaze suddenly locked on me. “Miss Reiter,” she said coldly. She’d remembered my name. So few people ever remembered my name. Why did I only seem to attract the attention of people I didn’t want to be known by? “Would you agree with this assessment?”
Of course not. But I also wasn’t stupid. I knew she wasn’t going to be satisfied without a response. But I also couldn’t make a single word come out of my mouth. I jerked my head in something like a nod, keeping my eyes on my desk. All I’d ever wanted in life was to be able to disappear. Just whisper a magic word and then vanish. Then nobody could trip me, or stuff tampons colored in red sharpie into the slats of my locker, or call me trailer trash, or snicker at my high-necked blouses. I had never wanted that superpower more than now.
“Why don’t you tell us what you did to be sent here?” Miss Callahan said, in a tone that made it clear this was not merely a suggestion.
My mouth opened, then closed. My cheeks felt like they’d been blowtorched. I could feel Kayle shifting uncomfortably beside me.
“Miss Reiter!” Callahan barked.
“Strange, that she doesn’t seem to remember,” said a deep, cool voice. Bennett Baker stepped beside Ms. Callahan. My eyes flicked up just long enough to take him in. To notice the details I’d been too terrified to notice that night. Tall—well over six feet. Broad build. His shoulders were large, his waist and hips thick but athletic. His starched dress shirt and sharply-creased pants couldn’t quite hide his muscular physique. His facial features were large but oddly elegant, and a natural flush ran along his cheekbones. He had head of gold curls, the ends of which fell just over his ears. He was staring at me with that disconcerting blankness I remembered so well from Halloween. Where Cole’s gaze had been laced with sharpness and cruelty, Bennett had seemed barely willing to acknowledge that I was a human. “I remember that night well.”
I gulped. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, stinging like sparks popping from a bonfire.
Bennett took a step forward, and I flinched, even though there were rows of seats between us. “I’ll repeat the headmistress’s request: Tell the group what you did to land yourself here.”
His family hadn’t pressed charges. I assumed because they knew I hadn’t really vandalized their property. Bennett knew it was Cole and his goons, so why was he doing this to me?
Because of the sign on my forehead: Easy victim.
Kick me.
Trip me.
Yank my hair.
Deface my locker.
Call me names.
Forget my real name, or never bother to learn it.
The narrators on nature shows always talk about how lions pick off the weakest member of a herd of wildebeests or antelope or whatever. The sick or wounded. But sometimes, the wildebeest the lions are chasing doesn’t look sick, or injured. It looks like a normal wildebeest. There’s some invisible weakness that only the lions can sense. The predators rip the animal open to tear that weakness out.
“I…” I whispered—and then jerked as the classroom door opened. Bennett’s head whipped around too, as did everyone else’s. Relief flooded me at the distraction…until I saw what—or rather who—the distraction was.
Cole Heller sauntered in, wearing the navy sweater required by the school’s dress code. But instead of the requisite gray pants the other boys wore, he was in dark jeans with a rip across one knee. He glanced around the room as if sizing it up, deciding whether it was worth his time to be here. As though he had a choice.
I was so shocked I almost passed out. What was Cole Heller doing at a reform school? He needed to be reformed, that was for sure. But nobody had ever held him accountable before—especially not his parents, who, according to rumor, had once been called into Monroe high for a conference after Cole split an underclassman’s lip and had breezily suggested that any “sissy” who couldn’t stand up for himself deserved to have a split lip.
Ice-cold terror poured down my spine, dousing the heat of my humiliation. I couldn’t stay here. If Cole Heller was a student here, then I couldn’t stay.
But what was I supposed to do? Get up and walk out?
“Mr. Heller,” Bennett said stiffly. “You’re late.”
Cole grinned, his gaze sliding lazily over Bennett. “Oops. My bad.”
Fire burned in Bennett’s eyes, and it was almost thrilling to see something slip past that indifferent mask. In an instant. I understood that Bennett hated Cole with an intensity I’d never seen in anyone before.
“I was, uh—” Cole slipped his hands into his pockets. “Attending to some business.”
Bennett’s Adam’s apple moved ever so slightly as he swallowed. The color in his cheeks seemed brighter. “Your pants are also in violation of the dress code.”
“Checking out my pants already, Baker?” Cole taunted. He grabbed his crotch. “Sorry, man. This package is reserved for the ladies.”
Bennett’s entire face went red. I thought he was going to lose it and start screaming at Cole. But with visible effort, he kept his voice measured. “You’ll stay after orientation to receive your detention assignment from me.”
Cole struck like a viper. He was in Bennett’s face in less than a second, and Bennett actually took a step back. The class gasped and oooh-ed. “Who do you think you are?” Cole demanded. “You think you’re so high and mighty because—”
“Mr. Heller!” A shocked Ms. Callahan snapped, finding her voice. “Sit down.”
Very slowly, Cole oozed backward—without taking his eyes off Bennett, who was still staring at him like he wanted to pummel his head against the blackboard. Finally, Cole turned to face Ms. Callahan.
The headmistress spoke tersely: “You are row six, seat seven.”
It took me a second to realize that was the seat on my other side. I started to slouch, as though maybe he wouldn’t notice me if I made myself small.
No such luck. His gaze fell on me, and the nasty smile slid from his lips, replaced by a look of pure disgust. My stomach hollowed out, becoming a dark pit of sickness and fear. He collapsed into the seat beside me, his gaze blazing a hot trail up my neck.
“The fuck are you doing here, TT?” he growled under his breath.
For a second, I wanted to scream that I was here because of him. I couldn’t scream, though. Ms. Callahan and Bennett had already launched into a joint lecture about Strathmore rules, but I couldn’t make myself listen. In some part of my brain that clearly had a death wish, the words formed. And then, to my absolute horror, I spoke them: “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Miss Reiter!” Ms. Callahan’s voice thundered. I jumped, banging my knees against the cramped desk. “You do not speak while a lecture is in progress. You and Mr. Heller will both receive detention assignments when orientation is over.”
No. No no no no. This couldn’t be happening. My job while I was here was to prove that I didn’t belong. That I didn’t need to be reformed. But orientation had barely started, and I was already in detention.
Because of Cole Heller.
I didn’t dare look at Cole. I didn’t dare look anywhere but my desk. I was shaking so hard, the pencil on my desk rattled softly.
At least Callahan seemed to have forgotten her plan to publicly humiliated me. She began to take us through a day in the life of a Strathmore student. It sounded like boot camp.
“On school days, you are expected to rise promptly at six-thirty. Your house assistant will come by to make sure you’re up and to inspect the cleanliness of your rooms. There is to be no…”
My mind grew fuzzy as Ms. Callahan piled on rules and requirements. I managed to hold on to a few details: When I wasn’t in class, I’d be expected to work either within the school or out in the com
munity. I couldn’t leave school grounds unsupervised, except for work. My locker and dorm would be routinely checked for drugs and/or weapons…Disciplinary actions included physical labor, a policy all of our parents had signed off on.
My throat was dry, and I suddenly wanted to bolt. I didn’t know if I believed in God—surprising, maybe, to some people. The people who saw a girl in gratuitously modest clothing, a cross pin on her backpack, psalms taped to the inside of her locker. My family had drilled a lot of bullshit into me. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, I believed. I just knew that in moments like this, I wanted to pray to somebody.
Dear Jesus. I clasped my hands on my desk. Please let me survive this place. Please.
Callahan droned on, parading Bennett in front of her like a show pony. “Assistants are responsible for your behavior and wellbeing. If an assistant asks you to do something, consider it akin to an order from me. Strathmore Assistants are carefully selected, and may serve as either residential or teaching assistants. Some of you have already met Mr. Bennett Baker.” She motioned to Bennett like Vanna White revealing a letter on Wheel of Fortune. “He’s in his second year here as a teaching assistant.”
Bennett nodded curtly.
“He also volunteers as a first-year counselor, so you many go to him with questions, particularly when it comes time to choose your community work program.”
Yes, I would be sure to do that.
Not.
“Assistants like Bennett can also take care of minor disciplinary issues. If you commit an offense so serious that you are sent before me, well…trust me. You don’t want that.”
She moved on to dress code: Uniforms every school day until after dinner. Then we could put on code-appropriate street clothes for rec and study time. Rec was every day at six p.m. in the main yard, weather permitting. I could feel Cole shifting beside me, but I still refused to look at him. My neck burned hot each time I felt his gaze on me.
I tried to focus on Callahan’s next words: “We pride ourselves on Strathmore’s reputation. In our many decades of operation, we’ve found very few students we couldn’t turn around. Which is why this year we’re doing something quite special.”
