“My day begins at five a.m. I need to wake a good hour before the boys in order to ensure everything is in readiness for the day’s activities. I, and all our staff, then join the wards for breakfast and exercise. As soon as the boys begin class, I head over to my office and continue working through all the paperwork that comes along with each ward, and not just the wards currently in my possession. No, no, no. At the Northeast Camp, we keep track of all our wards after they leave us. We like to know about their successes in life. Husbands report back to us on an annual basis. I enjoy reading those reports most of all. Often, I will share these reports with our new wards so they know the hope and happiness that await them in the future.”
“That sounds wonderful. How uplifting. How inspiring that must be for these young men.”
“For some, yes, depending on what stage of their reformation they are at. It is always delightful, though, when the wards are nearing graduation. These young men truly appreciate news of their predecessors’ fates.”
“So, is that the end of your day, then?”
“Oh, no, no, no, not by any stretch. The morning is barely over for me by this point. I always dine with the boys, as I mentioned—breakfast, lunch, and supper. Everyone in the camp comes together for meals. I like the boys at Northeast Camp to feel like we are a family. As you may know, many of our youth have been disowned by their real families so we embrace them as our own.”
“That is the best way to win our children over, I think.”
“So, after lunch, I will go around the camp and participate in various events. All wards have private sessions with their guardians, and sometimes, the charge, or the ward, needs a third ear to listen and help out with difficulties or concerns.”
“My word, you are a truly amazing man.”
“Thank you, Ms. Eag…Melissa. As I was saying, my days are as full as the boys’ days are. I will sometimes join them in viewing films about the outside world or help them learn to reject what they perceive as feminine seduction.”
“So far everything suggests an easy time for these young men.”
“Oh, no, no, no. Don’t be fooled. Reeducation for the straight male is never an easy process. Disciplinary measures are often necessary. Remember, heterosexual males are violent by nature, and one is often caught in a situation where offense is the best defense.”
“Of course. Do you suppose it is the same at the young women’s reeducation camp?”
“I have no idea what our female counterparts have to deal with. What I do know is that heterosexual males are among the most volatile and dangerous people in Hadrian. I have never forgotten the brutal attack on the wall over twenty years ago.”
“Oh, yes. That was horrendous.”
“The woman who survived—”
“You knew her?”
“She was my genetic mother. A kinder, more beautiful woman never existed. Those brutal, bloody barbarians, what they did to her—the scars that would never heal. Those bastards—those rapists—those murdering sons of—”
“Of course, of course, what those men did was horrible.”
“They are the epitome of heterosexuality, and they are why we must never allow any of our young men to accept or act upon such unruly physical emotions.”
“No, of course, you are right. I think what our viewers need to know is that the Northeast Camp has one of the highest success rates at retraining and transitioning our wayward young men back into Hadrian society.”
“Yes. I am committed to bringing our boys back to the only truly loving and kind sexual lifestyle. No boy leaves my camp with any inkling of heterosexual tendencies. Until I am one hundred percent certain a ward can live in harmony with Hadrian’s chosen lifestyle, he will not leave the confines of my camp. As long as there is any indication of heterosexual tendencies, I consider him to be a threat to Hadrian’s citizens and our national security.”
“Please explain for our viewers how heterosexuals might affect national security.”
“Heterosexuals need to commune with heterosexuals, so these boys will do anything in their power to aid the hordes outside our wall to enter into Hadrian. We all know the story of how it was one of our very own soldiers, who had admitted to being straight, who aided the horde that attacked our wall, murdered our men, raped our women, and killed the soul and sanity of my mother. Every heterosexual is a danger to our society. They will try to make contact with the outside world and bring them in to destroy our guarded and cherished lifestyle.”
“No more need be said, Mr. Weller. You are clearly a passionate and dedicated man. Your devotion to the reeducation of our young men and the protection of our cherished society is admirable. And, although viewers, there was never any hard evidence against the accused soldier who also died in the attack, we can surely understand Mr. Gideon Weller’s point of view. Mr. Weller, thank you again for sharing your valuable time on Salve! You, sir, are our spotlight of hope!”
Vale!
The Principal’s Office
Fank! Todd’s text is urgent, his typing frantic. He doesn’t even take the time to read what he’s written. ppal clled. papa deana dn me. offce. meetig help. Frank understands everything. Raising his hand, he asks Mr. Reiner whether he can go to the bathroom. Permission is given and Frank races down the stairs, up the hallway, and into the office. He practically slams into Coach Miller, who is leaning rather dejectedly against the doorjamb.
“Coach?” Frank’s eyes plead with the woman.
She shakes her head, grimly pronouncing, “It’s bad, Frank.” Tears begin to spill. “Why?” she asks, seemingly of Frank but really of no one. When she gets no response (not that she had expected one), she continues, “It’s so wrong.” Her hand caresses her forehead. “Who gives a damn if he’s straight!” She has to put a hand over her mouth to stifle her outburst of tears. Chewing now on the knuckle of her thumb, Coach Miller shakes her head in dismay.
The secretary is not impressed. “Being straight is illegal!” he declares.
“Why?” Coach Miller turns and demands of the younger man.
“Population control!” He rolls his eyes as if talking to a dummy. “Everyone knows that.”
“So give him a vasectomy! SNIP!” Her gesture, so sharply pointed in Mr. Whalen’s direction, suggests she would like to snip him. “Problem solved.”
Stupid woman! He sniffs in contempt as his eyes roll upward. “They’ll do that to him too, I believe. It’s standard procedure upon entering reeducation.”
“No!” Frank whispers in despair.
Mr. Whalen, paying the young man no heed, taunts the teacher. “You just don’t want to lose your star player!” Sniffing, he adds sanctimoniously, “You should be thinking of your students’ needs, not those of the game.”
Coach Miller desperately wants to shout back FUCK YOU! But because they are standing in the main office with a student present, she has to content herself with a sullen glare.
Mr. Whalen decides he has put up with this woman long enough. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Coach Miller wants to scream out, You’re not my boss! She seethes instead, knowing better. The school secretary may be lower on the employee hierarchy, but when it comes to political clout in the office, this man wields all the power. Turning, Coach Miller attempts to walk away with dignity, but her stride clearly indicates defeat.
Frank instantly runs to the secretary’s desk. “Mr. Whalen, please, I need to see the principal.”
“Incoming,” Mr. Whalen chimes. Waving his hand impatiently at the youth, he blinks to answer the call. Taking his time with the call, Mr. Whalen records all information in infinite detail before blinking off. Finally, he looks Frank’s way. “Yes? May I help you?” There is a slight edge of annoyance in his voice.
“I need to speak with the principal. Where is he?”
Grimacing, Mr. Whalen points to the chairs against the sidewall. “Sit down, Frank.” Being co-cap of the National Championship team, Frank is known by everyone at Pride.
“I don’t want to sit down. I want to talk to the principal.”
“Well, Mr. Gavin is busy.” Pointing with eyes to the man’s office door, Mr. Whalen says, “He’s in a meeting.”
“I know,” Frank replies. “I need to get in there.”
Annoyed, Mr. Whalen replies, “It’s an important meeting. He’s not to be disturbed.” Gesturing to the chairs, he says, “Sit down and wait.”
“I’m not waiting.” Frank rushes to the door but is stalled by a locked handle.
Exasperated, Mr. Whalen calls from his desk, “Sit down, Frank.”
“No! I want in.” Frank starts to knock, his knuckles rapping harder against the wood as his request is blatantly being ignored.
Finally, the door opens and Mr. Gavin pushes his head past Frank. “Whalen, I said no interruptions.” Mr. Whalen, raising eyes and eyebrows, complementing the look with chagrin, flicks open palms, then nods toward Frank’s back.
Frank, meanwhile, pushes past the principal into the office to kneel next to Todd’s chair. Terror strikes deep into his heart at the sight of the strange man sitting beside his friend. Although in his fifties, there are no lines of age etching this man’s face. Nor is there any suggestion of cosmetic surgery. His hair, however, has been dyed black, so black the look is unnatural against the pale white of his skin. His legs are crossed and his hands are folded one atop the other over his knee. His back is so straight he looks more like a mannequin than a human being. Papa Dean stands behind Todd’s chair, his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Todd is bent over crying. “Papa Dean,” Frank asks dismayed, “what’s going on here?”
The strange man silences Papa Dean with one darting look. Then, cocking an eyebrow, slightly amused by this new turn of events, he asks, “And who might you be?” His voice is soft, soothing, and sickeningly sweet.
“Who the fuck are you?” Frank demands.
“Such language! Really, Mr. Gavin,” the man addresses the principal, who has followed Frank into the office, “the way your students speak to their elders.”
“Frank,” Mr. Gavin is clearly upset, “I must ask you to leave.” He holds the door open and motions Frank toward the door.
Gripping Todd’s hand in his, Frank declares, “I’m not leaving my boyfriend.”
The stranger snorts. “Your boyfriend, you say?”
Smiling grimly, Mr. Gavin asks, “Since when?”
“Since yesterday. See this,” he says emphatically, pointing to Todd’s neck, “this is my collar. Only my boyfriend wears it.”
“Yes,” Mr. Gavin is curt, “and only yesterday T’Neal was wearing it.”
“We broke up.” Frank is equally brusque.
“That was sudden,” Mr. Gavin replies pointedly.
The strange man is clearly amused by all this. “Well, isn’t this delightful.” Swiveling in his chair, he addresses the principal. “Mr. Gavin, introduce me to Todd’s—boyfriend.” The pause serves to amplify his sarcasm.
Releasing a long sigh, begrudgingly accepting Frank’s presence, Mr. Gavin closes his office door. Before resuming his seat, he begins, “Mr. Weller, Frank Hunter—apparently Todd’s boyfriend.” He, too, expresses doubt with acerbic slurring. After sitting down, he swivels in his chair and resumes working at his computer, determined to shut out everything that has to happen here. This is not my business, he reminds himself. And just last week, he had taken Todd’s hand in his, before the entire school body, congratulating him on making the winning basket and receiving the well-earned most valuable player award at the Nationals. This is a government affair, he adds in a feeble attempt to justify his act of betrayal.
“Amazing!” Mr. Weller claps his hands with mock glee. “One day a confessed heterosexual—an active one to boot—and the next day he is one hundred percent gay.” Getting up out of his chair, he extends a hand Frank’s way. “Let me shake your hand, Frank Hunter; your accomplishment in taming this boy is truly amazing.” Looking with delight Dean’s way, he continues, “You have even outdone your father!” Looking back at Frank, he adds, “Why, in less than twenty-four hours, you have accomplished what takes reeducation camp no less than six months and sometimes up to four years to achieve.”
Frank stands, irate; he pushes Weller’s hand away. “I didn’t say he was fully tame, but I am taming him. He’s agreed to let me tame him.”
Papa Dean pipes up. “If the girl can receive reeducation at home, why can’t the boy?”
“Oh, Dean, Dean, Dean.” Leaning over Todd’s slumped shoulders, Weller taps Papa Dean’s chest. “You of all people should know the answer to that.” Turning to face Frank, he continues, “Yes, young man, your Papa Dean is a confessed strai—sorry, bad language—heterosexual—a ‘zero’ on the Kinsey scale in his own words.” Weller pauses to feign ignorance. “What exactly did you say, again, Dean?” And, then as if the answer suddenly strikes him like a bolt out of the blue, he exclaims, “Oh, yes! ‘You’ll never tame me! Never!’” The word “never” is extended like a growl. Mr. Weller’s fingers flick out into fat jazz hands, his eyes widen, accenting his sardonic demeanor. “Yes, Dean, I remember.” There is jealous animosity in his eyes. Dean Stuttgart had been his ward—yet he had failed in all his attempts to tame the man. It riles him that a summer temp, Geoffrey Hunter, in less than two months, won the boy away from him. Dean Stuttgart, a founding family descendant, would have been a coup indeed. Weller had personally promised the trading baron he would tame his son, even had dreams of marrying into that prestigious family. I could have kept your father from disowning you, he thinks grimly. Bitter in his discontent, he studies Todd. I am not going to lose this boy to any Hunter! Now, patting Todd’s head, he watches dispassionately as the boy shivers and pulls away from his touch. Defiant eyes blurred by tears dart up. Weller’s head tilts questioningly. “Is the boy here a zero on the Kinsey scale, too? Whom only the great Hunters can tame?” Todd drops his head in shame. “No,” says Weller, shaking his head. “Dean wasn’t a zero, and you’re not one either. There are no zeros born in Hadrian anymore.” Then, adding as an after-thought, “Or ones for that matter. We have genetically removed them from Hadrian’s human genome.”
“That’s impossible,” Dean expostulates.
“Really?” Mr. Weller’s eyebrows cock at that. He grins contemptuously. “Then explain you. If there weren’t a little two in you somewhere, how did the mighty Hunter tame you?”
Frank looks up dismayed, “Papa Dean, what is he talking about?” It’s not that Frank doesn’t understand the concept; it is simply that fear has him befuddled.
“The Kinsey scale, boy,” Mr. Weller answers in place of Dean. Turning on Mr. Gavin, he asks, “Don’t you teach your students anything in this school?” Mr. Gavin pointedly ignores the man’s insults. Mr. Weller, equally dismissive toward the principal, turns back to explain the elementals to Frank. “A zero on the Kinsey scale is said to be a pure heterosexual with no homosexual tendencies at all. A one only has the slightest inkling of what a homosexual is, much like the fives who have some inkling of what it means to be heterosexual. Some people say fives make the best tamers.” Looking directly at Dean, he states, “I say that’s nonsense. And then,” with a twinkling in his eye, he adds, “there are the sixes,” pointing proudly to himself. (Dean shakes his head knowingly at that!) “Well, we are the ideal state of human being. The rest of you poor bastards are somewhere in between. Twos, like your Papa Dean here, are the most difficult to contend with. Many believe they are zeros, but we know better. There are no zeros in Hadrian, and only reeducation can reveal that.” Weller’s grin actually widens. “Isn’t that right, Dean?” Looking down at Todd’s slumped shoulders, he says, “I suspect your little boy here is a two as well!” Lifting the boy’s chin, Mr. Weller forces him to look up again. Inspecting his bruises, he turns to Frank. “It looks like your method of taming includes iron fists.”
Slightly confused, Dean glances Frank’s way. Frank claimed their bruising came as a result of strai bashi
ng. A group of boys had jumped Todd in Riverside Park, and Frank had leaped in to defend him. Frank shakes his head, easing Papa Dean’s distress.
Smiling sardonically, Weller says, “Don’t worry, Todd; we won’t beat you like Frank, here.” Dean winces, knowing that promise for a lie!
Todd yanks his face away, his knuckles turning white from gripping the arms of his chair. Ready to scream, only Papa Dean’s soothing words ease him. “Shh, Todd, it’s okay.”
“Yes, Dean, it is okay.” Mr. Weller concurs. “Or, at least it will be after reeducation.”
Todd’s face drops into his hands, his wail expelled through clenched teeth, “Frank, you promised!” Looking up at his friend, through tears and desperation, he says, choking on his words, “You said if we—You said I wouldn’t have to go!”
Franks kneels instantly by Todd’s side. Both hands are clutching Todd’s. “You don’t!” Looking up, eyes pleading, he asks, “Does he, Papa Dean?”
Before Dean can answer, Mr. Weller leaps in, “Oh, Dean, Dean, Dean.” Each repetition of the name accompanies a jarring shake of his head. Mr. Weller’s smile is vicious. “Did you make promises you can’t keep?”
Dean attempts to stare the man down, but Mr. Weller is too secure in his position to worry. Although he looks away in defeat, Dean persists with his position. “No, Frank,” Dean insists. “He won’t have to go.” Once again, boring his eyes into Weller’s, he states, “If the girl doesn’t have to go, Todd won’t have to.”
Mr. Weller shakes his head sadly, with mocking, heartrending distress, “The girl, Crystal Albright, is not a confessed heterosexual.” With a circular swirl of the hand, he points to Todd. “Your boy here is.”
Dean is steaming, “She initiated everything!”
“Not according to the girl—” Weller pauses to glance Todd’s way before adding, “or the boy.”
“Why don’t you look at the video and see what really happened?” Frank demands. “Todd told me. She came on to him.”
Mr. Weller shrugs condescendingly, “I would, but the video has been destroyed.”
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