The Redemption of Michael Hollister

by Shawn Inmon

  “Good, good. And, have you read this book before?”

  “No.”

  ”I see. You’re a fast reader, then. I will come up with some special assignments for you. In the meantime, why don’t you just read ahead.”

  Michael nodded and returned to the book, but noticed that several of the other boys were looking at him out of the corner of their eyes.

  The next class was general math, taught by Mr. Bennett. He handed out a large sheaf of basic math problems.

  “Cadets, work your way through these problems as quickly as you can. Accuracy counts, of course, but I need to see if you are having trouble in any particular areas.”

  Michael riffled through the problems. Addition. Subtraction. Multiplication and some long division. He sighed and went to work.

  Five minutes later, he handed the completed work in and returned to his desk.

  Mr. Bennett glanced through the problems, then hooked a finger at Michael. When Michael arrived back at his desk, he said, “Good work, cadet. Do you have something with you to read?”

  Michael nodded and went back to his desk. He pulled out The Island of the Blue Dolphin.

  By the end of the period, he was almost finished with it. More boys stared at him.

  Michael kept it up through each period, acing tests in social studies, geography, and science.

  Might as well see what they do with me if they know what I am. Or, at least, partially know what I am. Not sure what they’d do if they really knew what I was.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Michael Hollister? That child is really Michael Hollister?”

  Carrie was speaking out loud, but to no one in particular. Arbann, who sat at the desk next to hers, never moved her eyes from what she was doing.

  Carrie took a deep breath and held it. “Bertellia,” she said, with as much calm as she could muster, “can you hear me?”

  Of course I can hear you,” Bertellia’s disembodied voice said. “I can always hear you. You just weren’t saying anything that needed an answer.”

  “He killed me. Do you understand? He wrapped his slimy hands around my throat and choked me to death. My last memory on Earth is of his face, leering at me.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So? Come on. Even you guys aren’t that clueless, are you? I’m not going to spend my time now, watching him do ... whatever it is he’s going to do, to whoever he will do it to next.”

  “That’s fine. You don’t have to.”

  Carrie sat back a bit. She didn’t know where to look, since she was talking to someone who wasn’t anywhere in sight. Her voice lowered. “Okay. That’s better. So, what do I have to do to get him off my pyxis?”

  “Oh, you can’t.” Bertellia’s voice showed a small amount of surprise.

  Carrie shook her head. “I just told you, I won’t spend my time watching the life of the horrible person who killed me.”

  “And I told you that you don’t have to. So. What would you like to do instead? The filing room? Recycle to Earth?”

  Carrie’s smile was tinged with bitterness. “I see how it is.”

  “He did you a favor, you know.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “You were stuck, repeating the same cycle over and over. Now you’re not. He’s part of your true family. True families are rarely born together on Earth.”

  A shudder started at the base of Carrie’s spine and carried up to the top of her head.

  “That figures. The person I hate most is part of some weird cosmic family.”

  “You are doing so well, Carrie. You figure things out much more quickly than most.”

  “You must be part of my family, too, because there are times I really hate you, too.”

  “Of course you do. I have to feed the Machine as well.”

  Bertellia was gone.

  Well that’s great. Carrie was staring intently at her pyxis. She spent time watching Michael perform so well on test after test.

  Of course he’s doing well. He’s a nineteen-year-old man taking tests designed for eight-year-olds. Ooof.

  She perked up a bit when she saw him change into shorts and a T-shirt. She hadn’t known a lot about Michael in her first life, but she did remember how badly he got embarrassed in a dodgeball game.

  He is not athletic. Let’s see how being older helps him here.

  She watched as a class of boys lined up on a track to run. Just as they began the run, Carrie’s hand reached out and gave the pyxis a tiny shake.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh my.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Michael’s run of brilliance came to a halt in the sixth hour: PE. Michael had never been athletic, and reincarnating his nineteen-year-old mind inside an eight-year-old body had not made him any more so.

  Mr. Lawson, the PE teacher, began by lining them up at the start/finish line of the quarter-mile track at the back of the Academy. “One lap around, cadets, as fast as you can go.” He blew one shrill blast on his whistle, and the boys took off. A few of the more coordinated boys jumped out ahead of the pack. The remainder looked remarkably like their turtle namesake.

  At the very rear of that pack was Michael Hollister. He stumbled badly at the beginning, fell to his knees after tripping over nothing in particular, then struggled across the finish line behind everyone but Freddy Cashmore, who was asthmatic and slightly pigeon-toed. Dominick Davidner, his dark-haired bunk-mate, had been the first across the finish line. When Michael finally crossed, Dominick stood beside him and whispered, “Well, that’s a relief. I thought you were perfect at everything, but I guess not.”

  Michael shot him a look, but Dominick was smiling and slapped Michael on the back before jogging off to their next exercise. He didn’t notice that Michael had flinched away from him.

  The rest of the PE class followed the pattern, no matter what the exercise—leg lifts, wind sprints, jumping jacks, or deep squats. If Michael wasn’t the worst boy in class, he was in the bottom two.

  I hate this shit. What’s next, dodgeball?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The next day, as soon as Mr. Guzman called class to order, he said, “Cadet Hollister, you are wanted in the main building by Commander Hartfield. Report there at once, and take your books with you.”

  A quiet “Ooooohhh” rippled through the class.

  Michael flushed slightly but gathered his books and headed across campus to the main building. He hadn’t been inside since the day he, Curt, and Max had been interrogated by Hartfield. In fact, he hadn’t seen much of Curt since then, although he had still eaten most meals with Max during the summer.

  Michael opened the door that led into Commander Hartfield’s outer office. Captain Peterson was seated at the outside desk, talking on the telephone. He pointed Michael to the chairs against the wall. A few minutes later, he hung up the phone and looked Michael over as though seeing him for the first time. He stood, opened the door to the inner office, and said, “Come in, cadet.”

  The office was unchanged from when he had seen it a month before. Even Commander Hartfield looked the same—as though he didn’t sleep, or eat, or go to the movies, but simply sat behind that desk, dealing with the business of turning young boys into men and men into soldiers twenty-four hours a day.

  “Sit down, cadet,” Peterson said.

  Michael sat in the same chair he had been in a month earlier.

  Commander Hartfield had a file open on his desk and was studying it. He turned a page, read for a moment, then turned another. Finally, he looked across at Michael.

  He tapped a meaty finger against the file in front of him. “These are your records from Middle Falls Elementary. The boy I see reflected in these grades and test results is not the same boy who whipped through our first-day tests. How do you explain the discrepancy?”

  It’s easy. I lived another decade past those test results, killed someone, got caught, killed myself, and woke up back in this shitty little body.
Is that so hard for you to understand?

  Michael shrugged, but remained mute.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your marks, of course, or your test results. You wouldn’t be sitting here if there were, no matter how many strings your father pulled. But, there’s also nothing extraordinary in them. Mr. Guzman said he estimates you are reading at a college level. That’s essentially the report I got from each of your instructors, with the exception of our physical education instructor, Mr. Lawson, who said he had a long road ahead with you.”

  He closed the file. Leaned forward slightly. “So what’s different?”

  Maybe I didn’t think far enough ahead on this. I thought maybe they’d just give me some more interesting work. Time to think up a lie, and think it up quick. It’s always easier to convince people of what they want to believe. He wants to believe he’s running a school that’s superior to a public school.

  “There was no reason to try at my old school. If I ripped through Fun With Dick and Jane, so what? They didn’t have any idea what to do with me. I thought you might.”

  Hartfield’s face remained impassive. “We’ve got a few options.” He held up three fingers and began ticking them off. “One, we can leave you alone and let you be just as bored as you must have been in your last school. Two, we can use you to tutor the other students, at least in every class other than PE. Three, we can design a special course of study just for you. You don’t need an elementary or junior high education. Hell, I’m not sure you need a high school education. I promise you this. You may be smart, but I’ve got instructors who are smart, too, and they’ve been around a lot longer than you. So, what do you think?”

  “I know it’s not up to me, but I’d rather have the special course of studies. Keeping me going on the same material is a complete waste of time. Having me tutor the other Turtles is fine, but it’s not natural. Eventually, someone will resent me being put in a position over them. As you mentioned, I’m nothing special physically, so if someone wanted to bully me, they could, pretty easily. If I had my own course of studies, could I stay in with my class? Be with them, but just do different work?”

  “In most cases, yes. We might want to take you out in a few cases for lectures or explanations, but most of the time, I think we can leave you in your classroom. Why?”

  “Because I think I probably can help some of the other Turtles, if it’s not rubbed in their face. Maybe the best thing to do would have me skip PE each day? I could meet with whoever you wanted then.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Hartfield’s lips. “Don’t try to fool an old fool, cadet. I think that PE class is the one you need the most. In fact, since it’s your last class of the day, I’ll ask Mr. Lawson if he’d mind staying after class for half an hour or so to give you some extra work.

  Michael grimaced.

  “You don’t play an instrument, do you? We can always use another clarinetist or tuba player for the Hartfield Marching Band.”

  No thanks, I was perfectly capable of being ostracized without picking up a tuba.

  “No, sir. No musical talent in my family.”

  “Fine, fine. We’ll make everything else work. For today, just continue on with your regular studies. We’ll have your new program in place soon enough. Dismissed.”

  Chapter Thirty

  One week into the new school year, the first Turtle wet his bed. His name was Will Summers, and he didn’t broadcast it. He did everything to he could to cover it up. Pusser had a sharp nose, though, and soon found the soiled sheets underneath the perfectly made blanket.

  He pointed to the yellow stain and shouted, “Whose bunk is this?” even though he already knew. The boys standing around Will took an imperceptible step back. Pusser homed in on him. “Is this your bed, cadet?”

  A small, miserable nod.

  “Bed wetter, eh? Well, we have a solution to that here at Hartfield Academy.” In one smooth motion, he pulled the blanket and sheet off. He crumpled the messy sheet into a ball, then said, “Come here, cadet.”

  Will hesitated, took one step, then hesitated again.

  “Now, cadet.”

  When Will was close enough, Pusser threw the balled-up sheet at him, catching him in the face. “You will carry this sheet with you, wherever you go today. I will come looking for you, and if you are not carrying it, then you will carry it with you for a week. Understood?”

  Will’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he looked down, hoping no one would notice.

  Dominick pushed forward from the back of the barrack. “Lieutenant Pusser, sir, is that really necessary? No one would do this,” he pointed to the sheet in Will’s hands, “on purpose, and humiliating him doesn’t do any good.”

  Dominick braced for an explosion. He was the strongest and fastest Turtle, but standing a few feet away from Pusser, the differences were obvious. He was a child. Pusser was a boy in maturity, but a boy in a man’s body.

  Pusser didn’t explode, though. Instead, he smiled broadly, which showed an extra tooth that had grown in over his right canine. He strolled up to Dominick, stood six inches away from him and spoke down into the top of his head. “Davidner, right?”

  Dominick nodded into Pusser’s breastbone.

  Pusser laid a hand casually on Dominick’s shoulder. “Where’s your bunk, Davidner?”

  Staring straightforward, Dominick pointed toward the back of the barrack.

  “Top or bottom?”

  “Top.”

  “Excellent.” Pusser snap-turned and strode to the back of the barrack, where he removed Dominick’s sheet and blanket, again in one smooth pull. He dropped them on the concrete floor, unzipped his uniform pants, and urinated a steady stream on them. He sighed, a small “Ahh,” of pleasure, then replaced the soggy blanket on the top bunk, wadded the sheet up and walked back until he was standing directly in front of Dominick again. He pushed the sheet against Dominick’s chest hard enough to make him take a step and a half back.

  “Same rule for you. If I catch you without your sheet, you’ll carry it for a week. I know, I know, you all think I’m an asshole because I make you do this, but this is the way it’s been at Hartfield since the beginning. Hartfield turns boys into men, and men do not piss in their beds. Now. Anybody else got an opinion about this?”

  Goddamn, I hate bullies.

  Feeling like he was in a fever dream, but powerless to stop himself, Michael pulled his sheet off his own bunk. What the hell am I doing? He unzipped his own pants, peed on the sheet, then made his way to stand beside Dominick and Will. Will looked grateful. Dominick whispered, “I knew you had it in you.”

  Pusser towered over Michael and shook his head. “They told me you was some kind of genius, but I’ve never seen a genius piss on his own sheets before. Any other idiots want to join the moron parade?”

  It wasn’t like the scene in Spartacus where everyone leapt forward at once, but eventually, Jimmy Markson and Pete Wemmer took their sheets off, urinated on them, and got in line. When they lined up for breakfast, five Turtles carried their sheets with them.

  On the way to the cafeteria, Pusser heard it from the older cadets.

  “You must be the world’s worst babysitter, Pusser!” and, “Where’s your sheet, Pusser?” and, “Toilets broken in your barrack, Pusser?”

  TYPICALLY, 6 P.M. TO 9 p.m. was study time. When the Turtles filed in after dinner, five of them still carrying their sheets, Pusser was waiting for them.

  “I don’t know what you little idiots thought you were up to today, but it stops here, got it? Any more of this ‘all for one and one for all’ shit, and I will make your lives hell. All of you head to the laundry room. You can sit in there and study until your sheets don’t stink any more. Then, hightail it back here. Understood?”

  All five nodded, snapped off a salute, and marched to the laundry room. Once there, they piled all the sheets into a single industrial washing machine, poured the soap in and started it.

  Will Summer looked at the other boys. “Sorry
guys. This is my fault.”

  Dominick laid an arm across his shoulders. “It’s no big deal. If we weren’t doing this, what would we be doing? Homework? I’d rather be hanging out with you guys than doing that.”

  “I still feel bad ...”

  “It’s no big deal,” Dominick said. “Could have happened to any of us. If it wasn’t you, it would have been somebody else. I just don’t like bullies.”

  “And that’s exactly what Pusser is—a bully,” Michael said.

  “Yeah, but he’s our bully, right?” Jimmy Markson asked, with a laugh.

  “I guess so,” Dominick said. “We’re stuck with him, right?”

  “Probably,” Michael said. “Even if we got rid of him somehow, whoever we get next might be even worse. Pusser’s a bully, but he’s stupid, so we should be able to manipulate him. Someone else might be smarter.”

  “The genius speaks,” Dominick said. Michael flushed, but Dominick continued, “He’s right. If we can just get Pusser to be more of a human being, that’s probably better than killing him.” He looked around at the other boys with a wink. “Just kidding. He hasn’t done anything bad enough for me to kill him. Yet.”

  The washing machine tumbled and rinsed noisily.

  After a minute’s silence, Will finally said, “Anyway, I appreciate you guys standing up with me. You didn’t have to do it.” He changed the subject. “So, how’d you guys all end up here?”

  Pete Wemmer, who rarely spoke, said, “I had no chance of going anywhere else. Third-generation Hartfield. My dad’s been talking about me coming here since I was born.”

  “Me, too,” Jimmy Markson said.

  “Not me,” Dominick said. “I pissed my old man off so bad that he’s making me come here.”