Academic Assassins

by Clay McLeod Chapman

  Nailbiter let out a soft laugh. “I am more than okay. I feel happy.”

  The shell of her was still there. But the girl on the bus was gone.

  Long gone.

  I slowly backed away, Nailbiter’s glassy eyes never leaving mine.

  “Do you want to feel happy, Spencer?” she asked. “You deserve to be happy.”

  I accidentally backed into a wall. Turning around, I realized it wasn’t so much a wall—but Buttercup. Smiling. A formation of beefy boys dressed in their lima-bean green fatigues stood in perfect lockstep configuration behind her. They held their pimpled chins up, arms crossed behind their backs, unflinching and rock solid.

  “Nice group of droogs you got here,” I said, admiring the muscle.

  Buttercup melted. Her lips lifted into a smile that could curdle milk. “Your voice…It’s even sweeter than I dreamed.”

  This goliath of a girl has been dreaming about the sound of my voice?

  THE PEER FACILITATORS

  MEMBERS: 5

  MODUS OPERANDI:

  The Peer Facilitators were handpicked junior spies. This youth brigade served as a direct liaison to the program director.

  The lead Facilitator, Buttercup, was Merridew’s lapdog. But it took a lot of training to break her in. There’s a rumor going around that she was responsible for that missing chunk of Grayson’s ear. The story goes she bit it off when Grayson got too close, swallowing it down before the Men in White could fish it out of her mouth. That reserved Buttercup a couple months in the Black Hole. It didn’t take long for Merridew to realize Buttercup had a talent for “facilitating” folks with her fists, so she decided to foster young ’Cup’s talents rather than penalize her for them.

  By enforcing Kesey’s rules and regulations, The Peer Facilitators also reaped the reward of having the most privileges—minor freedoms that were often abused by tormenting the rest of the ants.

  Admission was exclusive. Nobody joined The Peer Facilitators. Merridew selected its members, while Buttercup hazed the heck out of you.

  DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS:

  Hulky but housebroken bullies. Muscle-bound and bland behind the eyes. Merridew seemed to have popped out their eyeballs and sewn in a pair of marbles for her own personal collection of stuffed animal enforcers.

  MOTTO: “Helping others help themselves.”

  “Would you like to join the Peer Facilitators?” she asked. I detected a sense of hope in her voice. “You’d be perfect, Spencer. We could rule this place…together.”

  I took a step back. “You heard Sully,” I said. “I need to explore my options. I’ve never really been a one-tribe kinda guy, you know?”

  “Sully?” she muttered. “You like her or something?”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “Like, like her like her?” Buttercup’s hands tightened into fists. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  I held my hands up to express I meant no harm. “I don’t think Sully would see it that way. We’re strictly platonic at the moment.”

  Buttercup released her fists. “Let me know…” she muttered through her gritted teeth, “…if there’s anything…” she was forcing herself to be courteous, no matter what her animal instincts were, “…I can do to help you fit in.”

  There were other tribes—but before I could talk to them Sully stood up from her washing machine and whistled through her fingers. “Have the fresh meat found their tribes?”

  Table Scrap answered back. “Not that one.”

  He was pointing at me.

  “I’m fine on my own right now, thanks.”

  “Your funeral,” he said. “You won’t survive long.”

  “Hey, buddy,” I snapped back. “I joined a tribe way before it was cool to let your tribal flag fly. Long before any of you guys.”

  “If he wants to go his own way,” Sully finally said. “Let him.”

  “Are you his babysitter?” Buttercup seemed ticked at Sully. Dare I say she was acting a weeeee bit jealous? “You gonna change his diapers, too?”

  “Hardly.” Sully nodded at me. “You’ve got a week to find your tribe. See how long you last here without one.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “There’s a new tribe in town.”

  “Says who?” Buttercup asked. “You? You just got here. You can’t just make your own tribe.”

  “Why not?” I asked. I scanned the room. “And any of you can join. No previous experience necessary! I’ll take your poor, your huddled masses, no questions asked.”

  “What’s your tribe all about?” Table Scrap asked.

  “There’s a dictator here that needs taking down—and I’m the guy to do it. Merridew’s gotta be stopped.”

  “Oh yeah?” Table Scrap laughed. “How do you expect to do that?”

  “How else do you take down a dictator? You assassinate them.”

  “Who’s your tribe?” Buttercup asked. “The Newbies?”

  “Nope,” I said. “We’re called…called…”

  …What were we called?

  What has always been the best part of the Tribe? I wondered. What did Peashooter do right?

  He had rooted his tribe in reading. He brought books to the front line. He made them weapons. Reading made you dangerous when you read the right books.

  That’s when it hit me. The name popped into my head like a tiny seedling budding up from my brain. Once it’d taken root in my mind, there was no shaking it.

  “We’re called The Academic Assassins.”

  “It was formerly a custom in our village, when a poor debtor came out of jail, for his acquaintances to salute him, looking through their fingers, which were crossed to represent the grating of a jail window, ‘How do ye do?’ ”

  —Civil Disobedience by Henry David Thoreau

  “What is happening to you now is what should happen to any normal healthy human organism contemplating the actions of the forces of evil, the workings of the principle of destruction. You are being made sane, you are being made healthy.”

  —A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

  ACADEMIC ASSASSINS

  MEMBERS: 1

  (So far.…)

  MODUS OPERANDI:

  Why spend over $50,000 a year on some ivy-choked private school when the School of Hard Knocks is free? The cruel world is our classroom—and class is always in session. School never lets out—especially when you’re stuck in a heckhole like Kesey. It will break your bones—but you will be rebuilt, reborn into something stronger. Smarter. Imaginative.

  You will be an Academic Assassin.

  Because the traditional way of learning has become obsolete. Because being book smart isn’t enough anymore. Because it’s about being life smart. Sometimes, you’ve got to use those very books against the very people who assign them.

  DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS:

  Devilishly handsome, a pair of baby blues that would melt the coldest hearts, not to mention a smile that should be on the cover of every leading men’s magazine in the country.…But I digress.

  MOTTO: “Being a dumbass is dangerous, but being a smartass is worse.”

  The Academic Assassins needed a base of operations. A corner of Kesey we—or, well, I—could call my own. Some place that wouldn’t draw too much suspicion my way, where I could avoid the flock of security cameras fluttering overhead like vultures and be left to my lonesome. Somewhere no one would ever want to go.

  Think I found just the spot: The library.

  Perfect.

  What was left of the place, at least. The hallowed aisles of this literary institution had been gutted of its books a long time ago.

  “Hello?” I called out as I peered inside. “Anybody in here?”

  Nothing but us bookworms.

  Ambling down one of the three barren aisles, I felt as if I were passing through the hollow channel of an enormous prehistoric rib cage. Whatever leviathan this library had once been, all the scavenging animals had pecked its shelves clean of
its literary meat. The few remaining tomes had been haphazardly tossed back on the stacks. Some were shelved upside down, their spines facing inwards rather than out.

  I ran my index finger along an empty shelf and examined it.

  Dust.

  Does anyone ever come in here?

  Definitely not to read.

  The closest thing to a librarian was fast asleep in the far aisle. From the looks of the cobwebs covering his white polyester uniform, this elderly orderly must have been sitting in this chair for the last fifty years. Rip van Orderly. I wondered if this guy clocked out at the end of the day or simply slept here. He looked so peaceful.

  How could I possibly wake him?

  Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the book lice bite….

  Felt like forever since I’d lost myself inside a good book. All I wanted was to barricade myself behind the walls of a novel. I’d do anything—go anywhere—just to escape this place, even for just a few pages. If I found a sci-fi novel, I’d fly off to Mars. If I came across Robinson Crusoe, I’d abandon myself on an island.

  I pulled a random book off the shelf, tugging a netting of cobwebs along with it. I blew the dust off the cover and was greeted by the sight of a smiling cartoon dog.

  Mimi’s First Trip to the Zoo.

  Written by none other than Louise W. Merridew.

  You’ve got to be kidding me….

  Merridew was a children’s book author, too?

  What doesn’t this despot do?

  As I cracked the book open, a few translucent-bodied book lice scuttled out from inside and scurried off into the shelf’s shadows.

  Let me break the plot down:

  Mimi was an adorable little labradoodle puppy who lived a happy life with a happy family of three—Mom, Dad, and sweet Suzi—who all treated their lovely li’l pup-pup as if she were a part of the clan. So when Mom and Dad decided to take sweet Suzi to the zoo one sunny afternoon, Mimi of course wanted to come along. Just as the family hopped into the station wagon, Mimi stowed away in the car. Only little Suzi saw her. The family arrived at the zoo and silly li’l Mimi sneaked in unnoticed. She met a bunch of wild animals trapped in captivity. Mimi had never seen a lion or an elephant or a seal before, so she thought the imprisoned creatures were different breeds of dogs—just like her. Suzi told Mimi that she loved her puppy the best, better than all the other animals and so on and zzzzzzzzzzzzz….

  Really stimulating stuff.

  Why it never crossed Mimi’s mind to bust her fellow animal comrades out from their cages is beyond me. That’s what I would’ve done. Guess that’s why you don’t see anyone asking me to write any children’s books….

  I slipped Mimi’s First Trip to the Zoo back on the shelf, noticing the similarly slim editions surrounding it.

  Mimi Eats All Her Vegetables.

  Mimi Loves Mathematics.

  Mimi Learns How to Be a Better Lemming.

  How many of these books were there? I felt like I was in the waiting room at my pediatrician’s office. Was I in the second grade again? There wasn’t a single book on the shelves written for someone above the age of nine, all featuring Mimi.

  I could just picture it: Little boys and girls all across the country poring over these putrid picture books, their malleable minds like Silly Putty in Merridew’s hands. Perfect for indoctrination.

  Mimi was turning kids everywhere into an army of mindless Merridews.

  Get ’em while they’re young….

  Time to wake Rip van Orderly and see just what was going on here.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I cleared my throat.

  Nothing. I reached my hand out and gently tapped his shoulder.

  “Hello?”

  His eyes bolted open, startled at the sight of me. He sat upright and reached for his C.R.U. I held my hands up to show him I meant no harm. No sudden moves.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked, blinking back to life.

  “I’m just looking for something to read….”

  “Think I haven’t heard that one before?” He suddenly let out a sound that could have either been a huff of distrust or a hacking of his lungs. “You think I don’t know you kids carve out the pages and hide your contraband inside the spine?”

  That’s not such a bad idea, actually. I’ll have to remember that….

  “Are you guys even open?” I asked.

  “Of course we are.”

  “Then…where are all the books?”

  “You’re looking at them,” he said, turning toward the barren shelves. “What’s left of them. Most books won’t make their way back to the shelves once they’re checked out. Residents like to tear the pages out to roll their own cigarettes.”

  I leaned over and asked in a hushed tone. “But what about the real books?”

  Rip van Orderly blinked. He didn’t seem to understand the question. “These are real books.”

  “They’re picture books,” I persisted. “I want to read something with a little more heft than Mimi Learns How to Respect Her Elders.”

  “Ah—I see.” The orderly nodded. Now he got it. “You mean book books.”

  “Book books. Exactly. Like Lord of the Flies or Nicholas Nickleby.”

  “Yeah,” Rip van Orderly nodded. “No.” He shook his head.

  “Yeah—or no, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded his head. “No.”

  I was totally confused.

  “The program director decided it was best to stock the shelves with books that wouldn’t be so…” He leaned in. “You know. Inciteful.”

  I hesitated. “Since when did being perceptive become a bad thing?”

  “No—not insightful. Inciteful. She doesn’t want to rouse up the residents. Her Mimi books keep everybody calm. Peaceful as lambs. Not that most residents even know how to read.” Rip van Orderly yawned. “Don’t worry. Give Mimi a couple tries and you’ll warm up to her. That zany dog’s always getting into something or other.”

  I took in the desolate library. Nobody had come in or out since I’d been here.

  No ant traffic.

  No Men in White.

  No Merridew.

  Total ghost town. Just me, Rip van Orderly, and…

  Mimi.

  This place could use a little love and attention, I thought. Brush a couple cobwebs away and—Hello, headquarters.

  “I’d like to sign up for librarian duty, sir,” I said.

  This took Rip van Orderly by surprise. “But…” he started, flummoxed. “There aren’t any librarians here.”

  “Exactly.” I looked around the room. “No offense to the fine work you’ve done here, sir—but what this place needs, I believe, is a bookworm’s touch.”

  “I don’t know…” he said. “I’ll have to ask the program director.”

  He wasn’t buying it. I was losing my shot. Had to act fast.

  “Sir…” I blinked my doe eyes, pumping up the waterworks. I even sniffled a bit to seal the deal. “I really need this job. Badly. All the other positions here are already full. This is my last chance at applying myself and becoming a model citizen.”

  Was he taking the bait?

  “It’d be your job to maintain the place,” he finally said. “Monitor whoever uses the room. Plus re-shelve the returned books. Sure you’re up for it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He mulled it over. “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone clean—”

  Before he could even finish his thought, I had wrapped my arms around him and squeezed as tightly as I could. “Thank you! You won’t regret it, sir! I promise.”

  “Just don’t steal anything, okay? Please?”

  I brandished my best can-do smile. “When have I ever let you down, sir?”

  Now—let’s see what I’m working with here.

  There was bound to be a book—just one book-book—hidden around this place. I passed down the aisles in hopes of finding some stray reading material.

  I heard an ant scream from
some far-off corner of Kesey, their voice faintly echoing throughout the building and seeping into the library.

  There really is no escaping this place….

  The door to the library opened and closed with a hollow clank behind me. I turned to see who had waltzed in, but all I saw was an empty aisle.

  Maybe I’m just hearing things, I thought.

  Turning back to the bookshelf, I spotted a zero-marked mouse chewing through a copy of Mimi’s Fun With Flossing.

  “Mickey?” Maybe it was Minnie. I could never tell the two of them apart. He—or she—paused long enough to look up and consider me, whiskers twitching.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said. “Just passing through.”

  Something caught my eye on the floor. I had to kneel to see what it was.

  A thick paperback had been discarded under the shelf, its lower corner just barely reaching out from below. I plucked the book up before Mickey could chew it.

  Moby-Dick by Herman Melville.

  Jackpot. Now I could cozy up to a classic and escape this prison for seven hundred pages.

  I opened the book up to page one.

  “Call me Ishmael,” the novel started.

  I was immediately greeted by a dense clutter of black bars. Nearly every sentence was crossed through with permanent marker. Entire paragraphs had been blacked out. There was hardly anything left to read.

  What kind of cruel joke is this?

  I tallied up the remaining text. Out of a grand total of seven hundred fifty-two pages, by my hasty estimations, only fifteen unsullied pages survived.

  Moby-Dick had been trimmed into a haiku.

  This empty rib cage of a library, bare of any books, was nothing but the skeletal remains of the once mighty great white whale himself. I was standing within its bones.

  “Call me Ishmael?” I wish. More like call me redacted.

  Who would do such a thing?

  “Let me guess.” I turned back to Rip van Orderly. “Mr. Dick is too inciteful—”

  The Man in White was gone, his post vacated.

  “Hello? Mr. Man in White? Helloooooo…?”

  A push broom had been slid through the door handles, barring anyone from entering—or getting out.

  “Looking for a good book?” someone asked from behind me.