Jesus Land (23 page)

“Read this carefully,” she says. I open it.

General Rules updated 3/85

The student will not abuse alcohol, tobacco or any other drug at Escuela Caribe, nor will they engage in unfitting corporal contact.

The student will not discuss negative (check) subjects such as rock music, alcohol sex, drugs, etc. Exceptions may be made for staff-led therapeutic discussions.

The student will comply, immediately and willingly, with all rules and staff orders.

The Authority Problem will be addressed. “The rod and reproof give wisdom but a child who gets his own way brings shame to his mother.” (Proverbs 29:15) The student must be willing to accept this form of discipline.

Rod and reproof?! What, are they going spank me if I say “Duran Duran”? Why didn’t David mention any of this
? I glare at Debbie, who’s leafing through a pile of papers. On closer inspection, I recognize my last report card from Harrison (C–/D+ average) and a letter in my mother’s loopy handwriting. I squint at the upside-down sentences and make out the words “boyfriend,” “rebellion,” and “condoms.” They must have found the stash of condoms under my bed; in my rush to leave after Scott got caught descending the trellis, I’d forgotten to take them with me.

In her hands, Debbie holds the results of my last Pap smear. She looks up and I lower my eyes to the binder.

A Dominican woman in an apron emerges from a doorway on the side of the courtyard carrying a tray with coffee cups, orange wedges, and toast. She sets the tray on the table without looking at either of us, turns, and walks away.

As we eat, I pretend to read the rules and steal glances up the hill, looking back down whenever Debbie lifts her head to sip at her coffee. A small figure with a ponytail walks onto the patio of the middle building with a mop and pail. That must be the girls’ home. Which one is David’s? Debbie burps, and I continue reading, my alarm growing.

Rank System:

The Student will begin The Program on Level 0 and work his way up to Level 5.

Level 0

Must be watched at all times

Must ask to move

Must ask to sit

Must ask to stand

Must ask to eat

Must not communicate with members of the opposite sex or other zero-rankers

Level 0 carries no privileges—no makeup, jewelry or house pops.

I grunt in disbelief. Ask to sit down? To begin eating? This has got to be a joke.

Requirements for Level 1.

memorize Matt. 5:1–1

memorize Isaiah 53:1–6

memorize Titus 2:11–14

memorize names of New Testament Books

3 minutes of leg lifts

15 sit-ups

15 push-ups

15 suicides (squat thrusts)

Titus? Suicides
?

Ron walks over to the picnic table holding a crossword puzzle book.

“Hey Debbie, how do you spell independence? Does ‘dence’ have an ‘e’ in it like in ‘fence’ or an ‘a’ like in . . . like in . . .”

I look up at him and he gulps and looks stricken.

“Like in ‘dance’?” I suggest.

Debbie shoots me a cool look.

“It’s spelled with an ‘a,’ like in . . . in . . . ‘pants,’” she says.

“Thanks,” Ron mutters before rushing away.

Debbie turns to me.

“Finished?”

I haven’t reached the third page, but nod anyway. She reaches over to shut the binder and drag it back to her side of the table, then she smiles her gap-toothed smile and leans forward.

“Basically, this is what happens: Everything you think, do, and say will be scrutinized to measure your progress in The Program. We keep Escuela small, about the same number of staff and students, so we can keep a good eye on everyone.”

She picks up her coffee mug without taking her eyes off mine and raises it to her mouth, slurping at it as I hold her gaze and struggle to make my face blank and unimpressed.
You can’t scare me
.

“You earn points for attitude, academics, and good old hard work.”

She glances down at my mother’s letter.

“And in your case, it sounds like you need some major improvement in your personal relationship with Jesus Christ as well. Any questions?”

I shake my head numbly and look up the hill.

“David will be down shortly,” Debbie says. “You’ll have ten minutes to catch up, and then you’re not allowed to communicate with him again until you reach Second Level. And I mean no communication—no smiling, no gesturing, nothing. You’ll have to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

My mouth drops open.

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“How come?!” I spit the words out, grabbing my coffee mug with both hands and squeezing.

“Because it’s the rules. You read them. No communication with boys until Level Two—that’s about a month if you perform well.”

“But David’s not a boy, he’s my brother!”

She inhales deeply, as if mustering up a great patience.

“To succeed in The Program, you must trust our authority,” she says slowly. “Just as Jesus requires blind faith from His
believers, we require blind faith from our students. We are here to help you. To save you.”

This woman is out of her mind. This place is out of its mind. I thought it would be like
Facts of Life,
only set on a Caribbean island. I expected a pleasantly cranky Mrs. Garrett, not a mean, cranky Debbie. I scowl down at the unfinished surface of the picnic table. The boards are pocked with termite holes, and someone has carved HEL into one of the boards.
Help? Hell
?

We sit in silence, Debbie scanning my face, me glaring at the table. No doubt she’s trying to scrutinize my thoughts at this very moment.
Scrutinize this, barf bag: Screw you
.

A bird squawks overhead, and I lift my head to watch it soar blue and red up the hill before noticing the line of people winding single file down the cement drive connecting the school to the residences. Boys. All dressed in jeans and short sleeves, all white except for a figure slouching at the back. David. My pulse quickens; I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life.

While Debbie scribbles into a notepad with one hand shielding her words, I impatiently watch the boys snake downhill. When they finally reach the courtyard, I stand and wave my arms.

“David! Over here!”

A grin spreads over his face, and he jogs toward me in a purple T-shirt emblazoned with “God Rules!” on the front.

“Hey you!” He tenses his biceps and I punch his arm, and he grimaces as if it hurt, and I punch him again.

“So what took you so long to get here?” he asks.

I shrug.

“Been busy.”

He has white tape wrapped around the nosepiece of his athletic glasses like a nerd. Even so, he’s a welcome sight. Debbie gathers her papers and walks over to the boys, who are standing outside a door at the far end of the courtyard, staring at us.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he says, still grinning.

“Me neither.”

We sit across the table from each other for several moments, grinning and shaking our heads. Here we are, me and David, in the
Dominican Republic! A
warm piney breeze puffs over us, and at the top of the hill, a flock of lime green birds flutters onto the jungle canopy. This would be prime exploration territory if we weren’t caged in by barbed wire.

The boys file into the room as a group of girls arrives. My housemates. I stiffen as they all turn to look at us.

“I’m missing the morning prayer meeting because of you,” David laughs. He looks thinner than I remember, and he’s got dark circles under his eyes. I guess he didn’t sleep too well, either. The deadbolt, Titus, and “rod and reproof” come to mind.

“What is this place?” I ask, squinting across the table at him in the high tropical light.

He pushes his glasses up his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“How come you never told me what it was really like?” As I talk, my anger swells. “Do you know I had to get special permission to talk to you just now? And that after this, that fat lady says we can’t communicate?”

“Shh!” He presses a finger to his lips and glances around, a deep crease etched into his forehead.

“Well?” I ask, glancing at my watch. “We’ve only got, like, eight minutes left.”

He leans forward.

“I
couldn’t
tell you—they read the mail,” he says in a low rush. “If you write anything negative about The Program, they dock your points and throw away the letter.”

I look around at the now empty patio, the residences on the hill, the barbed wire circling everything.

“What is this place?” I repeat.

Footsteps slap across the courtyard and I turn to see a tall man in a blue windbreaker walking over to us. He halts at the end of the table and regards me.

“I’m Ted Schlund, the Dean of Students,” he says.

He doesn’t offer his hand.

“I’m Julia, David’s sister.”

“I know who you are,” he says, lifting his eyebrows. “I know
all
about you.”

He cuffs me playfully on the shoulder with a large hand before wheeling around and marching toward the prayer hall. David watches him go with flared nostrils.

“Okay, this place is really starting to creep me out,” I say, adopting David’s quiet voice.

“Ted’s bad news,” he says. “Stay away from him.”

“Great.Got any other helpful hints?”

A muffled piano strikes up a hymn, accompanied a moment later by the mutter of singing.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
O what a foretaste of glory divine
!

David looks behind him, then leans forward again.

“First off, don’t trust
anyone
down here . . . except your lovable little brother, of course.” A smile flits over his face and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Seriously,” he says. “Everyone wants to get out of here as bad as you do. The place is full of narks and cheats and backstabbers. Best thing you can do is keep your head down and don’t make a fuss.”

His flippancy—to use one of Mother’s favorite words—is unbelievable.

“But it’s your fault I’m down here!” I say loudly, not caring who hears me. “You got me into this! That whole bit about ‘keeping the family together’? I think you just wanted company. I could be an emancipated minor right now! Do you know what that means? Free!”

“Free to do what? Flunk out of high school and be a busgirl for the rest of your life?”

We glower at each other and the hymn swells between us.

Perfect submission, all is at rest
I in my Savior am happy and blest . . .

He’s right, of course. That is where I was heading. An image of me as a shriveled-up old woman in a busgirl uniform flashes into my mind. The music ends and a man’s deep voice holds forth, his words not quite loud enough to be clear. I glance at my watch—three minutes left. If we can’t talk for a month, I don’t want our last conversation to end so harshly.

“So, what happened to you?” I ask him, sweeping my eyes over his “God Rules!” T-shirt and taped glasses.

“Broke them playing dodgeball.”

“And this?” I reach across the table to grab his sleeve. “They turn you into some kind of Jesus freak on me or something?”

He looks down at his chest and shrugs.

“I got it for Third Level. This and a Study Bible.”

“How nice. Did they give you a sucker, too?”

David rolls his eyes and laughs. The Dominican guard walks through the courtyard with his sword and German shepherd, whistling. He nods curtly at us and David nods back. The dog sniffs at something under a picnic table and the guard yanks on the leash, knocking its head against a bench.

“So, does he use that sword to chop kids up if they try and escape?”

“It’s called a machete, dufus,” he snorts. “And he’s here to keep the Dominicans out.”

“. . . and the Americans in.”

He shakes his head and grabs my wrist, twisting it around to look at my watch. The old-man worry line crimps his forehead again, and I start to wonder whether this is a permanent blemish on his seventeen-year-old face. He looks up at me.

“So, did they say when I’m coming home?”

“I don’t know, ask them,” I tell him, as I did in all my letters.

“But they won’t tell me.”

His brown eyes beg for good news, for hope, and I think back to the boys’ dark basement room, emptied and reeking of Lysol.

“I dunno . . . they might have said something about the end of the year,” I lie, pressing my thumbnail into H of the HEL knifed into the table.

He breathes in sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath underwater for a long time and just broke the surface for air. His smile is one of pure, unfiltered joy.