Goodhouse (17 page)

“A.J., I can't add this to my workload,” Dr. Beckett said. They were having a hushed conversation. Dr. Cleveland leaned against the table, nodding sympathetically as he listened to Dr. Beckett's frustrations.

“I'm not asking you to,” he said. “I'll take full responsibility.”

“I don't even have time to step in for a consultation,” Dr. Beckett protested.

“I understand,” Dr. Cleveland repeated.

“And,” Dr. Beckett said, “we can't have him in the general population unless you can vouch for his continued good behavior.”

I strained to hear the committee, but the hum of the Lewiston Volt consumed and flattened the sound of their voices. I heard only the pounding of my pulse and the gulping suck of my lungs. It wasn't until Dr. Cleveland turned toward me that I clearly understood what he was saying.

“I would be happy,” he said, “to make James my personal project.”

 

PART THREE

EXPERT CARE

 

ELEVEN

A proctor escorted me from Vargas to join my class in Schoolhouse 1. He followed close behind, and I kept glancing back at him, unnerved by his proximity. I didn't know what Dr. Cleveland had in mind, but the term
personal project
terrified me. I walked faster. I'd made a mistake today, but that was all I knew, and part of the misery, the aftermath, was not understanding the magnitude of my error.

I found Owen lined up on the second floor of the schoolhouse, waiting to enter our remedial literacy class. Proctors were clearing the classroom, making sure that there was no contraband left behind. Two students stood for inspection just outside the door, their arms and legs spread. Everyone in line was focused on them, waiting for something interesting to happen.

“Hey,” I said. I took my place beside him and Owen did a double take at the sight of me.

“How did it go?” he whispered.

I couldn't immediately get the words out. “Not great,” I said. I was supposed to report to Dr. Cleveland's office early the next morning.

“But you're here,” he said. “That's a good sign. Did you explain everything? Like we practiced?”

“Sort of.”

“And it worked.” He nodded. “They're reevaluating us.”

“No, they're not,” I said.

“If they didn't chuck you into the PC block, it means they're reevaluating us.” And he seemed so happy, so genuinely relieved, that I wished it were true. “I was worried you would screw it up,” he said. “I thought you would just start saying crazy shit, talking about Zeros.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good thing I'm here,” Owen said, and then he smiled at me. “You have to show them you're important. Did you propose something?” he asked. “For Founder's Day?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Don't wait too long. You have to make the first move.”

The line lurched forward. We were about to enter the classroom. Proctors stood on either side of the door. I grabbed Owen's arm. I started to palm something, a jumble of letters and shorts. He needed to know what awaited us—he needed to know the truth. But that was more than I could convey, more than I even knew, and so I just squeezed his hand—a quick compression—an apology in advance.

*   *   *

Out on work detail, everything felt more menacing. I spent the evening cleaning drainage ditches, shoveling through rotting muck and the occasional animal carcass. Each time a student raised a hand to scratch his face, each time a proctor adjusted a sleeve, I was alert, crouched and ready, expecting something—but I didn't know what. In the confusion of the morning, I'd nearly forgotten that I was supposed to meet Bethany that night. She would be waiting in the school kitchens, alone. The doctor was untouchable, but his daughter was not. If anything happened to her, Dr. Cleveland would be sorry. He would feel like I felt.

And still this decision wasn't mine to make. I would never get past Owen. A roommate was there to balance you—report you, act as your conscience when you faltered. Owen would function the way he was designed to function. Whether or not he wanted to, tonight he'd be Tanner's right hand.

Work detail went late, past sundown, and I returned to the dormitory muddy and exhausted. Owen sat at his desk, drinking from a carton of chocolate milk. He had a canvas out, a fresh one that he was priming. I pulled off my damp and muddy uniform, balling it up and dropping it onto the floor as I stepped out of my wet shoes.

“Don't throw your shit on the ground,” Owen said. “This is my office.”

“It's on my side of the line,” I said. But I picked up the shirt and stuffed it into our overflowing laundry bin. And then I stared at it—that white canvas cocoon. Nobody had collected our clothes all week, and this gave me an idea.

“You aren't listening,” Owen said.

“What?” I turned toward him, unaware that he'd been talking.

“I spoke to Creighton,” he said. He shot a quick glance at our open doorway. Boys were rocketing up and down the hallway, happy to be back in the dorm, showering off the mud and stink of the drainage ditch. It was as much privacy as we were going to get. Owen lowered his voice. “He says that there's been a lot of money traded in this dorm, but it's stopped since we transferred.”

“So?” I said.

“If it starts again, he wants to know.”

“That's not our problem,” I said. I slid my wet shoes under my desk.

“He wants a cut,” Owen said.

“Don't cave to him,” I said. “Stay tight with the proctors, doing portraits and everything. Find the ones that aren't in Creighton's pocket and kiss up to them.”

“And where are you going?” he asked. “Don't talk like it's all up to me.”

I sat on the edge of my bed. I knew if I lay down and closed my eyes that I would fall asleep, and this seemed incredible to me. Despite everything that had happened today, my body still wanted food and rest. It was like, on some biological level, it couldn't accept what was going on.

“Look,” I said, “if anything happens to me, I have twenty-seven credits. They're on a card under the mat in my trunk. It's not much.” I shrugged. “But you can have them.”

“What are you talking about?” Owen said. “Is something going on?”

“If I disappear and they say I've been transferred, or if they say I'm in the Confinement Block, it's a sign that the school's in trouble. You need to be careful.”

“Well, if you disappear, I'm going to go on a spending spree,” he said. “Twenty-seven credits. That's quite a legacy. I'll buy a motorcycle for sure. Maybe a handheld. Definitely some hookers.”

“Fuck off,” I said.

He smiled. “Can I have an advance?”

When Owen left the room to shower, I opened the dirty laundry bin. I pushed past my wet and muddy clothes and found the shirt I'd worn on my last visit to the infirmary. The sedative I'd spit out was still stuck to the inside of the cuff. It had dried into a pebble. I pried it loose and placed it on Owen's sketch tablet. I pulverized it, using the end of a paintbrush. And then I sprinkled the powder into his half-full milk container.

*   *   *

Owen was asleep by the time the evening video played on the wallscreen, and by lights-out he was snoring like a motor. I'd been afraid the pill wouldn't work, that it was compromised, but now I was uneasy with how effective it had been. It was supposed to be a mild sedative. I tucked the covers around Owen. Then I lay on my own bed to wait. I was afraid I'd oversleep, and I did little more than hover at the edge of consciousness, awakening every hour to check the time. By a quarter to one, Owen had stopped snoring. I got up and held a finger under his nose to feel his exhalation. He was still alive.

I put on a clean shirt and left the room, holding my shoes in one hand. I listened hard for sounds of wakefulness, but heard only the stutter of the ventilation system, the deep, even breathing of sleep, and the occasional whimper of a dreamer. I crept to the common room and hesitated before the exit. Behind me, the familiar gray hallway was punctuated by even darker door wells, and before me was a foreign place—the shadowy, still landscape of the school at night.

I wasn't convinced that Bethany would be able to do all the things she promised, so again I lingered at the threshold, undecided. In the end, I had to make myself do it—like jumping into a cold river. I opened the front door and stepped outside in a burst of determination. I braced for the howl of an alarm, but I heard only the chime of insects and the hum of the dimmed floodlights overhead. At the far end of a row of dormitories, a T-4 with two proctors in the front seat zoomed past. The headlights were a weak yellow color, and they encased the vehicle in a sickly bubble of light. Everything ordinary seemed transformed by the hour, by the knowledge that I had disappeared from the computer. There were no patterns to police and monitor. This was what it felt like to be free.

I crept past the dormitories, heading north toward the kitchens, where she'd told me to meet her. The fastest way to get there would take me past the Exclusion Zone and near the fence. But that was too open, and there were few places to hide. I couldn't remember if or where there was a work detail scheduled for tonight. So I decided to take the safest route, weaving between the dormitories, then passing Schoolhouse 2, which was a three-story, L-shaped brick structure.

I passed an empty T-4 boxer parked in the middle of the pathway. The dashboard lit up as I approached, thinking I was its owner. The solid black box at the back seemed especially eerie in the dark, like a cut in the night, a nothingness. A large metal latch—a gray hook with a sharp point—kept the box closed. I glanced at the cameras affixed to the corners of the schoolhouse and above every entrance. I could see their red activity lights go on as I passed, which made me tense. It made me wonder what the computers were seeing.

I was distracted—I was looking up when I should have been looking around—and so I walked right past the two proctors. They were standing in a recessed doorway at Schoolhouse 2, hidden in the shadows, maybe thirty feet from my path. It was a stupid mistake.

“Stop!” one of them called. “Who's there?”

At first, all I could think was—run. I took off like a startled animal and sprinted for the far edge of the building. My legs churned underneath me; I was practically tripping over my own motion. I rounded the corner and ran toward the infirmary, which had a number of shady door wells, but this was exactly what the proctors would expect of a fleeing student. I skidded to a stop. I pivoted back toward the edge of the schoolhouse, retracing my steps, going against instinct—just reaching its façade as the proctors shot past. Now I was behind them, trying not to breathe, pressing myself against the side of the building. Questing flashlight beams darted across the exterior of the infirmary, lingering in the shadows and raking the walls.

“I saw something,” one of them said.

“Probably a deer,” his partner said.

“In a uniform?”

“I didn't see shit,” his partner grumbled. I backed up. If they turned around, they would find me. There was nowhere to hide. That was by design, of course. Open spaces, long sight lines—that was all part of security. But then I remembered the T-4. I bent double and hurried over to the little cart. Its dash was still illuminated.

“Don't call it in,” the partner said. I slid open the side of the boxer. The stench was awful, and the metal latch made a tapping noise that seemed disproportionately loud. There was a small step inside, a bench seat, and then an even smaller area for my legs. I wedged myself in, or I tried to. I was almost too big. The door didn't fully close behind me, and my right hamstring cramped. I was about to climb out, to look elsewhere, when the overhead floodlights snapped into their high-intensity mode. I closed my eyes, temporarily blinded.

“Come on,” the second proctor said. “Think of the paperwork.” They were hurrying toward the T-4, their voices growing louder and breathy with exertion. I heard the whine of another vehicle arriving, the rumble of tires on pavement.

“What are you dipshits running the floods for?” someone said. I tried to keep still, tried to think of the pain in my leg as merely a cramp and not a dire emergency. I inhaled slowly through my nose and exhaled through my mouth.

“I saw something,” the proctor said.

“Nothing scanned,” his partner said. “It had to be an animal.”

I heard footsteps and then felt someone lean on the boxer, redistributing the weight of the vehicle. Sweat dripped into my eyes and I blinked against the sting. The proctors debated what to do. At one point, I looked up and saw a man's face. I saw the black hair inside his nose and his acne-scarred cheeks, dimpled like the rind of an orange. I thought for sure he would glance down and discover me.

“Last night I saw some kind of nutria rat near the factory,” the man said. “It was huge. As big as a boy.”

“This wasn't a rat,” the proctor said, and he must have picked up his handheld, because his partner groaned and swore.

“I have a 260 sighting,” the proctor said. “Unidentified, no scan. Heading southeast from Schoolhouse 2. We are three minutes from sighting. Do you have any data to confirm?”

The vehicle rocked slightly as the man with the dimpled skin stepped away. There was a silence, and when I heard voices again, they were distant, as if the men were walking toward the infirmary. I couldn't take it anymore. I tried to slip out, but my legs refused to work properly. I spilled backward onto the ground, expecting to be apprehended and surrounded. But I was alone. All the floodlights were burning at full capacity, already mobbed by thick clouds of orbiting insects. The school was as bright as it was during the day, except the quality of the light was different. It felt garish and harsh. It would be impossible to get near the kitchens now. It would be impossible to get anywhere except back to the dormitories. They were still in darkness. I started toward them, limping as the blood sizzled through my cramped leg. I was just about to slide into the shadows when I heard my name.