Boot Camp (13 page)

“Nice being outside, isn't it?” He goes into his buddy-buddy act once the others have trotted off into the mist.

“A little chilly, but yes, sir.”

“Know how easy it would be to have this any time you wanted?”

The answer is obvious. It would be as easy as admitting that being with Sabrina was wrong, that disagreeing with my parents is wrong, that having a mind of my own is unacceptable.

“I asked you a question, Garrett,” Joe says.

“Yes, sir, I know how easy it would be.”

Sensing that he isn't going to get the answer he wants, Joe's face tightens and the convivial mood vanishes. “In accordance with Lake Harmony policy, I will be accompanying you and your parents during their visit today,” he announces. “They have already been warned that you may try to tell them things about Lake Harmony that are untrue. They understand that the students here are skilled manipulators who know how to pull on their parents' heartstrings by telling them horror stories of beatings and abuse. I have some advice for you, Garrett: Don't try it.”

From somewhere in the distance beyond the red and yellow trees comes that faint foghorn sound again. Across the field the other members of the Dignity family jog out of the mist single file. They've finished the first mile and have four more to go. Ron and Jon lead as usual. Adam, David, and Robert are toward the back. The last straggler, as always, is Pauly.

“Go ahead and join your family,” Joe says. “Just remember. If you ever want to get out of here, you'll be careful about what you say today.”

• • •

“Garrett Durrell to the office.” The call comes after lunch. I'm in my carrel working on the computer. I've felt edgy all morning, but as I rise from my chair, I can feel my heart start to race and a light sweat dot my forehead. Weird to think I'm feeling this way about my parents, toward whom I've been nothing but royally pissed since they sent me here six months ago.

“Excuse me!” Mr. Sparks snaps.

I realize my mistake and quickly sit back down. I know I'm not supposed to speak, but just the same I say, “Sorry, sir.”

There's just the hint of a smile on Mr. Sparks's lips as he says, “Don't let it happen again. Someone will come and get you.”

I wait in my carrel until Ron shows up. “Let's go.”

We head outside and across the grass to the administration building. The sun is higher now and has burned off the early-morning haze. The air is crisp and has that special fall clarity. The trees, the flagpole, everything seems to be in extra sharp focus. The memory of that foghorn flits briefly across my mind and vanishes again.

We enter the administration-building lobby. My father is standing with his back to me, speaking to Joe. Like me, he towers over our group “father.” Dad is wearing an emerald-green crewneck sweater, khaki slacks, and brown loafers with tassels. All morning I've encountered unexpected emotions—nervousness, eagerness, anxiety—but none more surprising than what I feel at this instant: an intense impulse to cry.

What is this? Why the watery eyes?
The answer
is instantaneous. I want him to get me out of here immediately. I want him to say he's made a terrible mistake and that he's come to take me home.

I'm glad his back is turned, as it gives me an extra moment to blink away the tears. Then he swivels, smiles when he sees me, and holds out his hand. “Garrett, how are you?”

Emotions well up inside me and threaten to erupt. I catch my breath and fight the sudden and intense yearning to blurt out how horrible this place is. How absolutely unbelievable it is that he and Mom sent me here.
What were you thinking? Did you have any idea what you were doing?

Joe is standing slightly behind my father, and I can't miss the squeezed eyebrows and furrowed forehead warning me to stay in line. I muster every bit of selfcontrol and shake my real father's hand. “Where's Mom?”

He gazes down at the floor. “She, uh, couldn't make it. Something last-minute came up. At work.”

The disappointment I feel is palpable, but this is so typical that I can't believe it caught me by surprise. First time she can see me in six months and she can't make it because of work. But it was always that way. Dad would show up for the school play, the band performance, and the book fair. If Mom made it to school twice a year, it was a lot. Work always came first. The excuse she gave was that it was her company. It was up to her to make sure everything ran correctly. There was always something that had to be done.

“So, why don't we start by showing you where
Garrett lives,” Joe says, eager to get things moving. He heads toward the door. It's one of those rare moments when his back is turned, and I reach out and grab a brochure from the stack on the table and slide it into my pocket. Later, while we're touring the food hall, I hide it in my Reflections notebook.

The visit goes just as Joe had hoped. My father gets the grand tour. Joe sticks to us like a nervous parent chaperoning his daughter's first date. I keep waiting for my father to ask if he can have a moment with me alone, but it never happens. I can only assume that Lake Harmony warned him ahead of time that it wouldn't be allowed.

Joe takes us through the gymnasium and the upper-level TV lounge, where the new flat-screen Sony sits in front of two dozen empty chairs, and crumpled snack bags fill the garbage. Despite having been at Lake Harmony for six months, this is the first time I've set foot in either of these places.

“As you can see, Mr. Durrell, we have a full range of athletic activities.” Joe has a way of addressing my father while keeping his eyes on me, sending warning looks that if I say the wrong thing I will pay dearly.

“Yes,” my father replies. “Very nice.”

“You know what I was wondering, Dad,” I say, realizing that in my father's presence I don't have to obey the rule of not speaking unless spoken to. I can feel Joe tense apprehensively. “How did you and Mom pick Lake Harmony in the first place?”

Joe relaxes. The question seems harmless.

“It took a lot of research,” Dad answers. “We spoke
to other families. Even used a consultant. This was the place people kept mentioning. They have an excellent record of results. One thing you can't fake is word of mouth. That's how we knew this was the right place for you.”

Joe smiles proudly.

“You know,” my father continues, “Joe sent us the letter you wrote.”

Huh?
I don't know what he's talking about. “What letter?”

“The one you wrote to … that woman.” Neither of my parents has ever been able to utter Sabrina's name out loud. But I still don't understand. I only wrote one letter, and Joe tore it up.

“That's a big step forward,” my father goes on. “It shows how far you've come.”

I glance quizzically at Joe, who gives me a knowing look. Now I get it. When Ron brought the letter to him, he made a copy to send to my parents. He and I knew it didn't represent all that much “progress,” but it was good enough to fool my folks. After all, at the six-month mark my parents have shelled out twenty-four thousand dollars. Lake Harmony has to show something for all those Franklins.

The last stop is my “classroom,” where Joe brags about the “quality” education we're receiving. The visit ends after about three hours. Suddenly it's time for my father to return to the airport and catch the last flight out.

As we walk across the parking lot to his rented car, Joe lags behind as if to give us some privacy, but not so
far as to be out of earshot. My father puts his hand on my shoulder. “Look, Garrett, I know this isn't easy for you. You must be very angry with us. I just hope you understand that we did this because we love you and want the best for you. Try to take the long view. This is about your future. Getting there may be hard and unpleasant, but I truly believe that once you're there, you'll be glad.”

“Once I'm where?” I ask.

“Where you should be,” Dad says. “I mean, in terms of maturity.”

“What's maturity?” I ask.

He frowns uncertainly. “Well, I guess it's having the judgment to know what's good for you and what isn't.”

Dark, gloomy clouds begin to gather overhead. It looks like I'm going to stay at Lake Harmony until I become “mature.” The definition of maturity being “seeing things the way my parents do.” My father didn't come here to say that he and Mom realize they were wrong, or to apologize, or to take me home. He came here to make sure I still have two arms and two legs. And having found that to be the case, he is now on his way home believing his son is in good hands and “making progress.” He will see me again in another six months. Or possibly sooner if I somehow miraculously become “mature.”

We shake hands, and he gets into the rental car and drives away. As I watch the car roll through the tall metal gate, it completely knocks the wind out of me.
I feel like I've been blindsided. Sometimes you don't realize what dream or wish you've pinned your hopes on until that dream comes and goes. Once again, tears threaten to spill out of my eyes.

“Let's go,” Joe says behind me.

I blink, then pretend to sneeze in order to wipe the tears away without him seeing. Joe silently escorts me from the parking lot. It's dinnertime, so I assume he's taking me back to the food hall.

“Not that way,” Joe orders.

“Sorry, sir?”

Joe marches me to the small windowless room where I was brought when I first arrived. He closes the door and says, “Strip.”

“You are required to participate in all physical activities.”

I do as I'm told and stand naked and shivering while Joe searches my clothes and then me. Only then am I allowed to dress and proceed to the food hall.

Pauly and Sarah both stare when I enter. I have the oddest sensation that somehow Pauly got word to Sarah about the visit and they're watching to see how it went. An RL about good nutrition mixes with the crappy smell of cheap, overcooked food. Not that it matters. Eating is the last thing on my mind. Where there might have been an appetite, there is now a numb sensation. I'm stunned by what has just happened. How
could my father drive away and leave me here?

The answer doesn't matter. What does matter is that now I know for certain that I'm trapped in this freakin' nightmare called Lake Harmony until I renounce my old self, espouse the program's belief system, display gratitude for my salvation, and demonstrate my deliverance by policing fellow students who resist.

Suddenly I'm hit by a new sensation. My bladder feels like it's going to explode. I realize I never went this morning. I stop and raise one finger.

Ron accompanies me out into the hallway and toward the closest bathroom. As we round a corner, I glimpse Joe and Adam outside the Circle room. Joe's lips are inches from Adam's ear. As he speaks, Adam nods. Neither notices me.

I do my business and return to the food hall. Carrying a tray, I sit down, aware that the other members of my “family” are giving me curious looks. Everyone knows about my visit today. With the RL blaring in my ears—
“The mineral calcium not only builds and strengthens bones and teeth, it also maintains normal heartbeat and regulates blood pressure”
—I stare down at dinner. Tonight is the once-weekly event called “train crash,” when they more or less mix all the week's leftovers together in tomato sauce. Too bad my father didn't stay long enough to sample this marvelous culinary achievement.

Adam arrives late with his tray and sits down. My “family” eats while the RL goes on:
“A diet rich in fruits, vegetables, nuts, yogurt, legumes, eggs, vegetable oils, whole grains, tea, and water results in
less skin wrinkling than a diet composed primarily of red meat, whole milk, butter, sugared products, and potatoes.”
I can only assume that no one is listening. Otherwise they would realize the hypocrisy of what they're hearing. Hardly a meal is served here without butter, sugared products, and potatoes. I'm surrounded by dozens of pasty-faced, pimply kids.

No one cares. We're not humans here; we're broken specimens, and Lake Harmony is the repair shop. Everyone is subjected to the same repair process: Tear apart and rebuild.

“Proper nutrition may prevent macular degeneration and cataracts, the two leading causes of blindness in America…”

Sick of staring at the mess on my plate, I glance at the next table, where Sarah sits, watching me. In front of her is a plate with last night's spaghetti. Over the past few weeks we've gradually shifted seats to where we can look at each other. In this miserable world, seeing her face has slowly become one of the few small pleasures.

Sarah purses her lips sympathetically. Each night we “speak” to each other with facial expressions, slight movements of our foreheads, eyes, and lips.

“So how's dear old Dad?” Adam whispers, and leers at me from across the table. Joe is on the other side of the food hall, and Mr. Sparks is nowhere to be seen.

“Bet you enjoyed seeing the old man, huh?” Adam goes on. “The SOB who sent you here, right? You probably wanted to haul off and belt the guy.”

It's a setup, plain and simple. On almost any other
day it would be easy to ignore. But not today, when I'm as raw and touchy as I've ever been. Part of me just wants to lash out at Adam and beat him into an unrecognizable pulp. And that part of me doesn't give a crap what the penalty for doing it would be.

“I heard Mom couldn't make it,” Adam whispers. “Big disappointment, huh? Guess she was too busy shopping.”

My pulse speeds up. I clench my fists under the table and take deep, slow breaths, trying to stay in control. I wish some chaperone were around to shut him up. Because if they don't, pretty soon I will.

“With crappy parents like that, you're probably better off here.”