“He asked to wait up for you, but I told him no,” she says, her rah-rah voice gone.
“How come?” I ask. “I haven’t seen him in months!”
“Because it’s the rules,” she says flatly.
I start to protest, but she lifts a hand to the dashboard and shoves a tape into the cassette player, and Sandi Patti’s “Lord Oh Lord, How Majestic Is Thy Name” bursts from the speakers and ricochets off the van’s metal walls. It’s the same tape Mother used to play to block us out in her van.
I shove my suitcase perch into a back corner, away from the synthesized organ music and these strangers who now control my life. Plugging my ears, I scowl out the rear window.
After jail, the judge sent me to a children’s home until my parents completed the paperwork for Escuela Caribe.
I got my first square meals in weeks at the home, but also had to do chores and participate in activities with the other kids, all of whom were much younger than me. I avoided them as much as possible until the social workers came around and forced us to participate in humiliating activities like finger painting or charades.
Then, I went home to pack. My parents were chilly to me, but Rejoice Radio played so loudly during supper that we didn’t have to talk. Afterward, I listened to WAZY for hours and hours in my room, trying to memorize the words to the songs, knowing that it would be a long time before I could listen to secular music again.
Scott showed up at the airport with a promise ring. He’d become protective of me after I left home; just as my feelings for him iced over, his flared up. As I walked down the tube to the airplane, he lurched after me, begging me to run away with him.
“Run away to what?” I asked.
He couldn’t come up with an answer before a security guard came and escorted him away.
I wake when the van bangs over a pothole and I’m chucked against the metal siding. Sandi Patti is still wailing for Jesus on the tape player, but the air pouring through the windows is cooler now, fresher. I climb back onto the suitcase and look outside. We drive down a dirt road flanked by pine trees, and then the pine trees end and the road winds through pastures dotted with the deformed ash-colored cows.
A sign spelling out JARABACOA in white reflectors appears in the headlights and I tilt my watch to the moonlight; it’s a little after two. A dim streetlamp appears at the side of the road, and then another, and then comes a row of shanties. As we drive through the tight streets of the dark village, a pack of dogs lopes silently behind us, herding us toward our destination. They stop when we ford a shallow stream crossing the road. The van tilts up a hill and bushes rake the side paneling as vegetation closes in on us.
“We’re here,” Ron calls over the music when a metal gate looms abruptly before us. He taps the horn twice, and it swings open. A Dominican with a long knife hanging from his belt and a German shepherd at his side salutes us as we drive through the gate, then closes it behind us.
Just inside, two buildings—long and low like cement chicken coops—face each other across a courtyard, and Ron pulls up to them and cuts the engine. Sandi Patti finally shuts up.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Debbie says, switching on a flashlight and dancing it over the buildings. “Tomorrow you’ll move into your home.”
Home. Group home, she means. Ron opens the side panel, grabs a suitcase, and carries it toward the buildings, and I stumble out on cramped legs.
The school is built on a steep hillside surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Far below lays a dark valley, and above us are four small buildings, the residences. Three for boys, one for girls, David wrote.
“Let’s go, it’s late,” Debbie says, wagging the flashlight at me. I jerk my suitcase from the van and tug it over the gravel, following her across the brick courtyard to a small room at the far end of the first building. I set my suitcase next to the one Ron brought in. There’s a cot shoved against the far wall, but no other furniture. Debbie unhooks a flashlight from the wall and hands it to me.
“No lights?” I ask.
“Nope,” Debbie says. “No electricity. We’re pretty much isolated out here. Pretty much alone.”
No electricity. That means no TV. No radio. No VCR. No ColecoVision. No hair dryer or curling iron. Why didn’t David mention any of this? These things are important! I shine my flashlight on a large green bug crawling up the wall over the cot.
“Don’t worry, those ones don’t bite,” Debbie says.
I turn to her.
“When do I get to see David?” I ask again, because I really need him to explain some things to me.
“We’ll discuss that in the morning, along with everything else,” she says curtly, turning to leave. “The bathroom’s two doors down. I’ll be by to wake you at seven o’clock sharp.”
I wait until her footsteps fade before stepping outside; the moon has set and the sky glitters with billions of stars. A breeze shuffles through the palm trees at the edge of the courtyard—shh shh shh— and foreign noises come from the jungle on the other side of the barbed wire. Birds? Animals? People? I contemplate the residences on the hill and wonder which one holds my brother.
A sick squalling prods me toward consciousness at dawn, and it takes me a second to recognize the crow of roosters. In the next second, I remember where I am. Reform school. I squint at my watch in the gray light that leaks through a small window above the cot. 5:20. Before the roosters started croaking, I was dreaming about swimming in the Harrison pool. I was naked and alone in the warm turquoise water, my hair streaming over my shoulders, happy. Then Jerome walked naked out of the boys’ locker room and dove into the water and the pool turned into a murky ocean. I thrashed through the cold waves in a panic, searching for the shoreline, waiting for his hand to tug me under.
My heart is still pounding as I grab my jean jacket off the cement floor and wad it under my head as a pillow. Sometime in the dark, the deadbolt slid shut on the door, locking me in. Where could I have run?
I drift in and out of sleep until the deadbolt slides back and the door swings open. “Time to begin,” Debbie says, her wide form filling the doorframe. “Meet me in the courtyard in five minutes sharp.”
After she pulls the door shut, I jump from the bed and salute her, Heil Hitler! before tugging on my clothes. I take the safari hat I bought at Tippecanoe Mall last week from my suitcase. The jungle look was in, and I was going to the jungle, so I bought it. I jam it on my head and walk out the door. Let the adventure begin.
Outside, the sky shimmers like blue cellophane. Underneath, everything’s green. The valley below is combed into orderly rows of plants and water, which I recognize from National Geographic as rice paddies.
I walk past picnic tables that I didn’t notice last night to the bathroom. These picnic tables are made of real wood, they’re not the plastic jail kind. Maybe that’s a good sign. Debbie sits at one of them with her back to me, shuffling through sheets of paper.
The bathroom reeked last night and reeks again this morning and now I find out why. Next to the toilet is a wastebasket brimming with wadded-up toilet paper, some of it smeared brown. A sign is taped to the side of the stall: Do NOT put ANYTHING but human waste in the toilet, it will CLOG!
I hold my nose as I pee, then add my dirty paper to the pile. At the sink, I twist the hot water handle all the way open, but the water stays cold. No electricity, no hot water, broken toilets. With our parents shelling out $4,000 a month to keep us both down here, I’d expect the baby-sitting service to be a little better.
I lean into the mirror over the sink and cake foundation onto a ripening cluster of zits on my forehead, then sweep electric blue mascara over my eyelashes. There, my mask is on, and I’m ready to make my debut at this new school: Party Impression, Take Two. Maybe I’ll have better luck here than at Harrison. I think fondly of the Comfort still hidden in my closet. I wish I had some now.
“Go wash that stuff off your face,” Debbie says when I sit across from her. “Makeup is a privilege
you have not earned.”
My mouth flops open at the thought of my blistering forehead. Privilege? No, makeup is a necessity. But something tells me not to press the issue and I bite my lip and shuffle back to the bathroom.
I’ll play the reform school game, just like I played the jail game and the children’s home game and the family game. And when I’m eighteen, I’ll stop playing games and start living for real.
Debbie slides a fat binder printed with the school’s logo toward me when I return to the table. “Escuela Caribe Rules & Regulations” it says on the front.
“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 terri
tory 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.”
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