Goodhouse (11 page)

I lifted my heel slightly. “What is the Exclusion Zone?” I repeated. “Is it a punishment?”

Montero smiled, but it looked more like a baring of teeth. “It's a job,” he said. “That's all. It's money.”

“But that doesn't make sense,” I said. “Why would they pay you to fight?”

“My turn,” Montero said. “Move your foot.” I did, and he rattled off instructions on how the box worked, how it could act like a reader but would capture the print of whoever touched its surface. He repeatedly asked me if I understood, but he didn't wait for a response. He was in a hurry.

“I haven't agreed to help you,” I reminded him.

“I want you to capture fingerprints,” he said. “For sure, I need whoever brought you through the fence. Maybe one of your officers?”

“Class leaders,” I corrected.

“Good,” he said. “You have two weeks.”

“But why do you want a Goodhouse print?” I asked. “It's useless at Mule Creek.”

A terrific clanging noise split the air. The warning bell announced that the line was about to resume. “Get me that print,” he said. “And then maybe you'll find out.”

The machines started up again. I glanced away and—in that moment—Montero seemed to disappear. For the rest of the shift I stayed vigilant, one eye on the production line and another scanning the periphery of my vision. I thought about the man I'd seen on the shipping floor, the man pointing up at me. A few times I was sure there was someone on the catwalk, but whenever I turned to look, I found myself alone. I was also very aware of the print reader, of the way it gleamed on the cement floor—glossy and white, like a little cube of ice. A few days ago I would have reported Montero, handed over this device. But now I wasn't sure what to do. I had to consider my situation. The reader would be worth something, and I suspected that if I'd had anything to bribe Davis with on Saturday, I might not be here at all.

At the end of my shift I took a chance and retrieved it. The moment I folded it into my palm, I felt a surge of joy. This was the kind of equipment that proctors used, the sort of device that characterized the adult and civilian world. And I was holding it in my hand. I possessed it. But even as I pulled at a loose thread on my cuff, even as I slipped the reader into the seam, I knew that this impulse was a bad one—that this would be like the barrette, the sort of infraction that only led to more trouble. I told myself that I would just keep it for a few days—I would keep it and then I'd let it go.

Tim was waiting for me at the end of my shift. He stood just outside the door to the Quality Control room. “James,” he said, “everything go all right in there?”

My hand reflexively curled around the cuff of my shirt. I was carrying contraband and I'd just been threatened by a Mule Creek inmate, one who'd appeared and disappeared at will, promising to kill me if I didn't cooperate. “It was fine,” I said. “Not a problem, sir.”

“An easy assignment,” Tim said, “gives you lots of time to reflect.”

I nodded, unsure what he meant by this. He was staring at me, looking intently, as if he could sense some transgression. “And did you?” he asked. “Did you reflect?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

His hand rested on his Lewiston Volt, on the red taser strapped to his hip. “You boys,” he said. “You memorize the handbook, anticipate the right answer. But none of it,” he said, “goes any further.”

*   *   *

I had ten minutes to get back to my dormitory. I walked quickly, keeping my head down. Every hundred feet or so, I passed a tall metal pole supporting either a bank of lights, a cluster of speakers, or both. Groups of lower-school boys were gathered around each pole—some boys stood on ladders; all had sanding blocks or plastic scrapers. They were chipping away at loose paint, trying to prepare the surface for a new coat.

The sun was setting. The sky was shot through with the sorts of colors that reminded me of Bethany's living room and the dresses that the women wore—pinks, dandelion yellows, and silvery blues. Barn swallows rocketed across the sky, hunting bugs, performing aerial loops. Sometimes they moved independently or in a row like a long, undulating ribbon of birds. They switched from chaos to order and back again, their black silhouettes popping out of the horizon and then disappearing into it.

I passed Vargas with its imposing towers, and then the pavilion, which still had the look of a turkey carcass, the roof now partly lowered into place. Two civilian workers in orange hardhats had the building plans spread over the nose of a T-4. They were deeply engrossed in discussion, oblivious to the work details moving past them—dozens of boys loading small but heavy-looking boxes into the cavernous bay of a tractor-trailer. I approached the residential section—long, squat dormitories built on a grid, row after row. As I walked between the buildings, I felt the warmth radiating from each one. Sun had soaked into the concrete all day, and now, when the temperature dropped, the walls gave off heat as if the buildings themselves were alive.

I rounded the corner, hurrying toward North Dormitory 8, but I slowed at the sight of Creighton and Davis standing on the building's staircase, waiting. A T
-4
with two proctors was parked nearby, watching us. There was a bumper sticker on the cart that read
I WAS MADE FROM RECYCLED MARITIME PLASTIC!

I walked closer, not slowing my pace. There were no windows at the front of the dormitory, but boys were crowded in the open doorway, watching, anticipating. I acted like I didn't notice, a strategy that became harder when Creighton and Davis stood directly in front of me at the base of the stairs. Creighton's blond eyebrows glowed strangely in the twilight. He still favored his good leg, keeping his weight off the one I'd kicked. Davis was eating a green apple. It had a civilian grocery store sticker on the side, so it must have come from an employee. It was a small detail, but the sticker was a display of power.

“Little bird brought me some news,” Davis said.

I took a step forward and tried to pass, but Creighton shoved me back.

“Asshole,” I said, and then I clamped my mouth shut. I hadn't meant to speak aloud.

Davis smiled. “This one's getting quite the mouth on him,” he said.

“What do you want?” I stood there, staring past them to the front door. I probably had less than a minute on my AJT.

Creighton pinched my face in one of his meaty hands and yanked my head down so that I looked directly at him. “That's better,” he said. “We want to look at that pretty face of yours.” I assumed he was talking about the bruises, which were, a few days after the fact, especially gruesome. “I'm going to take you all the way to the bottom,” he said. “Whenever you fuck up, I'm going to know about it. You understand?”

I nodded.

“So, what happened in there?” Davis asked. He stepped closer, keeping his voice low. “I lost money on you.”

“Good,” I said.

He lunged, lightning quick, and punched me in the ribs. It was the exact spot that I'd bruised. I staggered backward and bent over slightly, trying to breathe against the pain.

“Arms folded,” the proctor said. He sat in the T-4, one foot on the dash. I folded my arms.

“Before you get any big ideas,” Davis said, “before you get all talkative, just remember we're happy to put you in a cage and leave you there.” His watch beeped. “Look at that.” He smiled. “One demerit.”

“I'll report you both,” I said. I raised my voice. If they wanted privacy, I wasn't going to give it to them. “Whatever that place is, it's not part of the school. It's illegal.”

“Take your predatory and consider yourself lucky,” Creighton said.

“You can't shut me up,” I said, though I wasn't exactly confident. My ribs felt like they were grinding together. I just wanted to crawl into bed. “I'm going to have a lot to say at my hearing.”

“You do that,” Davis said. “Everybody knows you tell the best stories.” And then he slapped me, open-handed, across the cheek. The force of the blow spun me to the side. My ear rang and I tasted blood in my mouth. One of the proctors got out of the T-4 and stood nearby, in case he was needed. “Arms folded,” he said.

Davis flexed the hand he'd hit me with. A slight ghosting of chapped skin decorated his brown knuckles. I assumed he was enjoying himself, but when I glanced up, his expression was thoughtful. “You think
we
did this to you?” He shook his head and gestured between us. “You and me,” he said, “we're brothers. We're the same. You did this to yourself.”

Owen pushed his way through the crowd in the doorway. I saw him emerge and then jog partway down the stairs. We hadn't seen each other since Community Day. He stopped at the sight of me, momentarily startled by the bruising on my face, by the sight of my arm in a sling.

“Let him inside,” he said. “I have to share that demerit.”

“Your boy owes us money,” Davis said.

“For what?” Owen asked, but he was looking at me. “What did you do?”

“Three hundred credits,” Davis said. “That should cover it.” The crowd in the doorway murmured. Not many of us had that kind of cash.

“He's not my boy,” said Owen.

Davis's watch beeped again. “Oh, look at that,” he said. “Another minute late.”

“AJT can be such a bitch,” Creighton said.

“I'm warning you,” said Owen.

“Then pay the fuck up. Now it's four.”

“Fine,” said Owen. He was, easily, the richest boy in the school. And of course Creighton and Davis knew that. They stood aside to let me run up the stairs.

Most of the other boys stepped back when I entered, giving me space. But Harper stopped me. “You going to let him slap you like a little bitch?” he said.

“Shut up,” I said.

“You've got to fight him,” Harper said.

“Lead the class,” called another boy in the crowd. “Or suck some ass.”

The students in the common room were gradually returning to the plastic chairs and benches, all of which were bolted to the wall. For some reason they liked to sit on the backs of the chairs—their feet planted on the seat itself—all in a row, like roosting pigeons.

“Four hundred credits?” Harper said. “I wouldn't spend that on you. I'd take him down instead.”

“You would not,” said Runt. “No way. Don't say stupid shit.” The heels of Runt's shoes had worn through the cuff of his too-long uniform pants, creating dusty, ragged half moons at the back.

“I'd do it for two hundred credits,” another boy said, and immediately there was speculation on his chances. But I knew none of them would risk it. This was a Level 1 and 2 dorm. They all had their status to think of.

When I got to our room, I immediately pulled the print reader out of the seam in my shirt and jammed it under my mattress. I collapsed into bed a little too carelessly, and was rewarded with a jolt of pain. My side ached, and I felt disturbed by something. Davis had known exactly where I was injured. This probably meant that he'd read my medical file. And this made me feel hopeless. I closed my eyes and listened to the wheeze of the inadequate air-conditioning system.

Every dormitory in Ione was laid out the same way—a common room at one end, a bathroom, and a series of bedrooms all opening onto a central hallway. Every room had two beds, two built-in desks, and a screen embedded in the wall. Even with all the sameness, the rooms on the south side of the building were significantly more desirable. They got sun during the day, while the north-facing rooms were perpetually dark. Some rooms had peeling floor tiles or water damage, so they could vary, even on the south side. But because of Owen's credits, we had the nicest room in Dormitory 8. This wasn't saying much, but I did appreciate it. Depending on the time of day, a yellow square of sunlight would fall upon the floor. It always looked to me like a portal, an escape—some shining end. I looked forward to waking in the morning and seeing the square of light. It began to seem alive, like a pet. Of course, sunshine was everywhere outside; it was becoming oppressive as the season got hotter. Yet when it came through the window, it was friendly—a visitor, all spirit and no body.

But mostly our room was superior because Owen was allowed to keep some of his projects on hand. Each student had a trunk for storage, and Owen had painted his like a galaxy, swirled with stars, planets, and comets. Usually it cost thirty-five credits to have Owen paint your trunk, but now that he was working so intently on the Founders' Day mural, he'd stopped most of his commissions. Above his desk hung a large quarter-scale mock-up of the mural. It showed our six founders in a brightly lit classroom, sun streaming through a bank of windows. Young, adoring children sat cross-legged at their feet. Many nights Owen stayed up late with a flashlight, laboring over the canvas, painting in shadows and then removing them.

When Owen returned to our room, he walked directly to his work area and selected a white stick of chalk. He knelt and drew a pale, shaky line down the middle of the room, dividing the floor space between our two beds. “When I am on this side of the line,” he said, “you don't see me. You don't talk to me. We're not in the same room.”

“I don't think it's working,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“I can still see you.” I sat up and looked at him. “And I can hear you. We're having a conversation.”

His face flushed red. His brown birthmark looked like a smudge on his cheek. “I just paid your debt,” he said.

“I don't owe Davis anything,” I said. “And don't pretend you spent that money for me.”

Owen went to the wallscreen and brought up his personal page—where my demerits were also displayed, since he owned them now as well. The two AJT citations topped a long list. Owen's heart rate ticked rapidly under his picture. He was probably hoping I would do something really terrible and land in Protective Confinement. That was a good way to lose your roommate.