Goodhouse (13 page)

It turned out that Owen's demerit was the one that dropped us both into Level 3. The school didn't let the high-status students mix with anyone lower. We were flagged for a dorm transfer.

The next morning—one week after Community Day—we packed our things and trudged in silence to West Dormitory 35. Proctors in a T-4 brought Owen's art supplies. The school still needed him to finish the mural in the pavilion, so nothing was confiscated. The proctor was even apologetic, saying he was a big fan of Owen's work. He helped us carry in a roll of brown butcher paper that Owen used for sketches, and then the man pulled out a picture of his girlfriend. “Her name is Denise,” he said, and blushed faintly, his neck pinking above his black collar. “I'd appreciate it,” he said, “if you could do a small canvas. I'll bring anything you need. It's for her birthday next month.”

This was the sort of flattery that usually fed Owen's ego. But now he just gave the proctor a dull nod and looked around at our shabby, north-facing room. The window glass had a thick layer of dust. There was a scorch mark on the floor, and the wallscreen had what looked like a profusion of cocks and balls scratched into the plastic.

The proctor left, and I said, “Should I clean the window or are you going to upgrade?”

Owen sat on his bunk and stared at the pile of stuff that needed to be put away. I already knew he wouldn't spend the money.

“I don't know what happened,” he said.

“I'm just glad it wasn't me,” I said.

“You're a fucking idiot,” he said. “And now I am, too.”

*   *   *

On Sunday morning I saw Bethany. She was standing inside one of the glassed-in cubicles where the infirmary's technical staff worked. The recognition sent a little jolt of adrenaline into my chest. She was deep in conversation with a nurse, a man who was leaning over her, laughing at something she'd said. For many days, I'd been preparing for this moment, imagining it, but when she finally did look up—when her gaze skipped in my direction—she didn't stop talking, didn't give any indication that she saw more than a uniform moving toward her, and then away.

She had changed her mind. Of course she had. I pretended to feel relief, but this was another deception. I found myself obsessing over the nurse, the man who had commanded all of her attention. Whenever I lined up for a meal or waited for a clearance, I considered all the things that he didn't do—didn't have to do.

Bethany had promised that regardless of where I went on campus between the hours of 12:45 and 4:15 a.m. that night, my official activity log would list me as inside the dormitory. If I didn't return in time, the program she used to override my chip protocol would expire and the school's computer would sense a discrepancy. The alarm would sound. But if she had changed her mind, if she never initiated the program, the alarm would sound the moment I stepped outside. Then I would have my answer. I would know for sure.

And so, around midnight, when my new dormitory settled into the deeper quiet of true sleep, I crept to the common area and sat on one of the benches. Two long horizontal windows bracketed the room. They'd been placed high in the wall, meant to provide light without a view. Still, part of a crescent moon was visible. As I waited on the bench, I watched the moon slip slowly out of sight. At different intervals I heard boys in the hallway, walking to and from the bathrooms with soft, measured footsteps.

Minutes and hours accumulated on the wallscreen clock, and then it was time. I stood up and stepped to the front door. I told myself it didn't matter either way, and yet I wanted to know. I'm not sure how long I waited there, trying to summon the courage to test my theory—my hand raised, almost touching the front of the door. I was caught in some vortex, pulled forward but held in place, unable to break my training but unwilling to return to my room. My heartbeat accelerated, leaving evidence of wrong-thinking in my file—joining the hundreds of student heartbeats that were currently flowing into the Goodhouse servers. Sometimes I imagined that this was what powered the school, that we ourselves fueled the lights, the Lewistons, the fence. And I was sure that in my own pulse, I heard the stuttering sound of all of us—a hammering consistency, a steady knock like a fist against a wall.

I stood for a long time, connected but alone. Then I returned to the room. Owen sat up the moment I walked past him. “Where were you?” he asked. And then: “Did you have a dream?”

I looked at my narrow bed—at the Goodhouse logo stamped on the thin felt blanket. “Yeah,” I finally said, “that was it.”

*   *   *

On Monday I arrived at the infirmary for my final cortisone shot. I checked in at the appointment desk, touching my hand to its glass surface. The desk scanned my chip and a voice told me where to go. “Please stay in your green-lit area,” the voice said.

It was then that I saw someone I recognized, someone I didn't remember until she was in front of me. It was the nurse who'd worked on Tuck, the one who'd helped me after the Exclusion Zone. She had the same bright blue stethoscope draped around her neck, her red hair visible from a distance. “Excuse me,” I called, but she was at the end of a hallway, moving out of sight. I hurried past my exam room, followed her around a corner and into a hall jammed with boys reporting to some medical study. They wore white gowns, their thin legs sticking out of the bottom, shoes but no socks. Some were sitting on long benches; others stood in clusters, trying to keep the hallway clear. The boys had obviously been waiting a long time, because the proctors were having difficulty getting them to settle. Several were palming. All were shuffling and restless. A cart full of little paper pill cups, each with a single blue pill, was parked nearby. It looked like a grouping of miniature birds' nests, the homes of paper robins.

I strained to locate the nurse, craning my neck to see over the crowd. Several posters encouraged us to eat right. One featured a talking carrot and the other a jolly cabbage. The sound of rubber soles on polished linoleum was a kind of squeaking, giggling symphony. I looked left and right. I'd been only a few seconds behind her. She was here. I knew it. And then I saw something that made my stomach clench.

A thing isn't real until other people can see it. A person doesn't necessarily exist until you've laid a hand on solid bone and flesh. And so when I saw a man with a head of thick white hair—a man who moved with the lazy fluidity of youth, despite his age—I had to make sure it was not my imagination. The squeaking symphony of shoes on linoleum became a loud buzz. The man was getting closer, or more precisely, I was walking toward him, feeling increasingly certain that the last time we'd met, he'd stood over me with a gun. He'd been silhouetted by fire, wondering whom to shoot. And here he was, wearing the white lab coat of a doctor, talking with some boy, hiding himself in the mundane world of this hallway.

An alarm shrieked, and for a few seconds I thought it was just some internal bell, the natural acceleration of the buzzing sound that was inside me. But it was the result of me stepping out of my allotted area.

“Don't move,” a proctor called.

And another said, “Where are you supposed to be?”

They were converging on me, and I was standing in front of the man with white hair. We were the same height. I'd always thought he was taller, but then, I had been lying down, pretending to be dead.

“Can I help you?” The man smiled, and I experienced a moment of sickening recognition. I knew that lopsided smile. I'd seen it on another person's face. I didn't need to glance at his name to know that he was Bethany's father. Up close, I saw the resemblance, the prominent jaw and the luminous blue eyes.

“Are you okay, son?” The doctor checked his handheld and said, “Are you part of this study?”

Several of the proctors were saying my name, saying it was time to go or I would receive another demerit. “James,” they said. “James.” But none of them knew me. They were just reading my name off their machines. The doctor held up his hand to silence them.

“You,” I said.

“Ah.” The doctor smiled. “We got a word out of him. I think he'll recover.” He told the proctors he'd walk me back to Room 5; then he put a hand on my shoulder, though staff weren't supposed to touch us unnecessarily. I was so close I could see the quiver of a small vein in his forehead. There were deep smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He was a happy man, and this bothered me.

“I know you,” I said, which was perhaps not the wisest thing.

“Yes,” said the doctor. “I recognize you now.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is very lucky. I've been meaning to speak with you. My daughter seems to feel you've been unfairly accused. She said that barrette was a gift.” He said the word
gift
as if we both knew there was no such thing. “I'm afraid she can exaggerate.”

I thought about my nights here in the infirmary and how he must have been walking around while I slept.

“You are the James who visited my family?” he asked. “Or do I have you mixed up?”

“I didn't mean to take the barrette,” I said. “It was an accident.”

“I don't believe in those,” said the doctor. We arrived at Room 5 and I stepped through the door, surprised that he followed. “I'll just wait with you,” he said, “if you don't mind.”

I couldn't stop staring at him, at the way he performed all the ordinary functions of a living being. His eyes blinked; his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“My sister thought you were quite charming.” He leaned against the exam table and folded his arms. “And my daughter wouldn't shut up about you. You've given her ideas,” he said, looking amused. “Now she thinks you are all very shy and polite.”

I read and reread the words stitched in blue cursive across the pocket of his lab coat—
Dr. A. J. Cleveland
. I realized the silence was stretching on too long. It was my turn to respond. I tried to imagine what a normal person would say in this circumstance. “Did Rachel lose her baby?” I asked.

“Yes,” the doctor said, a little taken aback. “Unfortunately.”

“Is it really the farm runoff?”

“Has my daughter tried to contact you?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“You'll let me know if she does,” he said. “She can be willful. And I'm sure you realize that this is not a good place for a young girl to take risks.”

“Why would she contact me?” I asked.

“That's what I said.” He smiled. “Who knew that one child could be so much work?”

A nurse came into the room and was startled to find the doctor. “Sir?” he said. “Excuse me. Do I have the right room?”

“Yes, you're fine,” the doctor said. He waved at the man, as if dismissing any doubt. It was the gesture of someone in command. He seemed as at ease here as he had prowling the field of bodies with a pistol.

“I was just leaving,” he said. “But, James, do let me know if you want to participate in any of the studies we're conducting. I know that officially they're full, but I'll be happy to make an exception for the boy who chopped all that firewood.”

He smiled and gave me a friendly little nod, and then he was gone.

 

NINE

I told the nurse that I felt fine, but he remained unconvinced. I tried to make a fist and take a deep breath, but for the first time in days, I failed. My hands trembled, and I started hiccupping as if my lungs had shrunk. The nurse sent me back to the dormitory to rest. They gave me a light sedative that I didn't swallow. I spit the pill into my hand, then tucked it into a shirt cuff. When I was back at the empty dormitory, I wandered the hallways, glancing through doorless portals that led into various unoccupied rooms. I paced the common area with its molded plastic chairs and long table. I walked through the green-tiled showers and the bathroom, where several stalls had small, low-hanging doors that offered minimal privacy. Then I returned to my own room, where Owen's things were not yet unpacked. He'd done a sketch of the proctor's girlfriend, but when I looked more closely, I saw that she had canine teeth and the pointed nose of a dog. The dorm was so familiar, and yet all the stains and variations of finish were different. I knew where I was, but I was also somewhere new.

Now that the doctor was no longer in front of me, now that he was a phantom again, he grew in strength.
Vengeance belongs to God.
That's what I'd been taught. La Pine had been more religious, more explicitly Christian, with its Bible classes and its daily church services. Our headmaster had seen to this. But Ione was not the same, and I was alarmed at how easily the patterns of religion had fallen away, how quickly my beliefs had proven to be nothing more than habit. The strong dominated the weak. This was what I knew, this was what I observed every day—it was nature. Maybe I wasn't a bad piece of genetic coding; maybe I was an intentional adaptation to a complex ecosystem. Wrong-thinking could ultimately be a civilizing force. Criminals necessitated law, and law enabled communities to cohere and grow. There could be no Bible without the Devil.

I paced the hall and stopped to check the inspection tags on the old fire extinguishers strapped to the wall. One of the units had a funny smell. Maybe a student had pissed on the floor. Boys sometimes urinated on the threshold of one another's room, and some even tossed cups of urine or shit through the open portals. It was a way to send a message. Or maybe the 3 and 4 dormitories were just dirtier. I returned to our room and sat on the bed.

I never thought I'd speak to Bethany again. I wasn't even sure I'd see Dr. Cleveland when I went in for another checkup. The school was big, almost four thousand students. There were people I saw constantly—boys and staff who were familiar even if I didn't know their names—and then there were ones that I'd never seen before. In that way Ione could feel small and then suddenly vast and strange. It had taken me nearly four months to spot Harold, and now, having a different class and work schedule, I saw mostly new people. Creighton and Davis were still everywhere, probably because they moved at will, but it was not unrealistic to imagine that the Clevelands could disappear altogether with only a schedule change.