Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

  “Man, you must be new. Too new to know that they don’t tolerate any individuality around here. Certainly nothing so personal as a first name.”

  Andy nodded. “Barclay,” he said.

  The kid grabbed Andy’s hand and pumped it.

  And Andy could feel the kid’s gratitude, not just for saving him. But for the handshake, the simple offer of friendship.

  “Whitehurst,” the kid said. “Harold Aubrey, for the record.”

  “Who’s Shelton?”

  Whitehurst pulled his hand back and laughed. “Shelton? Cadet Major Brett C. Shelton? He’s god—around here, anyway. But don’t expect any mercy from him.” Whitehurst laughed, a hollow sound. Whitehurst looked around, gesturing.

  “Welcome to hell, Barclay!”

  8

  Whitehurst instructed Andy in how to wear the Kent uniform and then hurried him to the parade ground for All-School Formation. A trumpet could be heard echoing from the quad.

  “C’mon, Barclay. Believe me—you don’t want to be late for first full company fall-in.”

  Andy followed Whitehurst out of the dorm, across the quad, and then to the parade ground. It was filled with all of the military school’s students, from the pathetic seven year olds standing grimly at attention, to the older teenagers, looking almost like real soldiers.

  Andy glimpsed the female cadet he had seen when he entered. The one Tyler said was called De Silva. Her dark hair caught the sun and shimmered.

  She was standing in the group that Whitehurst was waddling toward. Andy followed him, watching De Silva talking to another girl.

  That’s one good thing, thought Andy. At least there are girls here. It may be hell . . .

  But there are perks.

  Whitehurst went to the front of the line, close to De Silva. Andy stood beside him. He looked at the girl. She was still talking to her friend, but then—did he imagine it?

  She looked at him. And she smiled.

  Andy smiled back. He was about to say something when Whitehurst nudged him and pointed out to the field.

  “It’s Ellis, the company captain.”

  Andy faced forward and saw the senior cadet. And then Ellis barked, filling the parade ground with his voice. “Company fall in!”

  In an instant, everyone was standing at attention, eyes forward. Andy put his feet together, feeling as if he were playing soldier. He tried to stand stiff. But he also risked another glance at De Silva, just to his right.

  When he turned, she was looking at him. But with Ellis’s “ten-hut!” De Silva snapped forward, crisp and military.

  And Andy turned around. Across the way, with the younger kids—the minisoldiers—he saw Tyler.

  “Prepare for inspection,” Ellis shouted.

  “What a joke,” Andy whispered to Whitehurst.

  But Whitehurst hissed back at him, “Shut up.”

  Then Andy saw someone enter the parade ground from the right. Dramatically, slowly, with everyone just getting a glimpse from their peripheral vision.

  “Who’s that?” Andy whispered, obviously distressing Whitehurst.

  “It’s Shelton, damn it. Now shut up.”

  Andy, his head locked forward, followed Shelton’s progress to Captain Ellis. This is crazy, thought Andy. Shelton is just a student, just a high-ranking student. What is this, Operation Campus Storm?

  Ellis snapped his heels together and saluted Shelton.

  “All present and accounted for . . .” A slight pause, then, the last word as if shot out of rifle—“sir!”

  Ellis’s voice was quiet, restrained.

  I definitely get the feeling, Andy thought, that this is one of those cases where they have given too much power to someone of limited ability.

  “Thank you, captain.” Shelton said clearly. He then turned slowly, giving his attention to the troops.

  Shelton was facing Andy’s squad, his division, whatever it was called.

  Actually, thought Andy, Shelton’s facing me, looking right at me.

  Shelton walked to him. While all the other students stood there, straight as arrows.

  Shelton came right up to Andy’s face.

  “You’re the new boy, right?” Andy looked at Shelton, just a bit. Making eye contact. Shelton smiled and said, “How ya doing?”

  Andy smiled back. “Pretty good.”

  Shelton’s smile evaporated before Andy finished his first word. And when Shelton spoke, it was in a different voice, loud and cutting.

  “Who said you could look at me?”

  This is a damn game, thought Andy. And I just made the wrong move.

  Andy opened his mouth. But Shelton took another step, and put his face close to Andy’s.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Shelton?” Andy said.

  Shelton shook his head. Andy thought he heard someone groan behind him. Is it that bad? Andy thought. Am I screwing up that bad?

  And Shelton put his nose right on Andy’s. A crazed drill instructor. This guy has seen too many war movies. This is school . . . not D-Day.

  “That’s Major Shelton to you, asshole!”

  Andy hurried to correct himself, hoping to get Shelton’s barking mouth off his face. “Major Shelton,” Andy said.

  But he was only answered with another bark. “Major Shelton, sir!”

  It’s a damn tennis game, and I’m way down on points, Andy thought.

  Quickly he returned, “Major Shelton, sir.”

  Shelton pulled back an inch, removing the spray of spittle that came out of his mouth every time he screamed at Andy.

  “And what’s your name, dipweed?”

  “Andy Barclay . . . sir.”

  Shelton grinned.

  He must live for moments like this.

  Maybe, maybe he also has a taste for even nastier stuff. Like old John Pastuk . . . old Slash. I’m going to have to watch him real carefully.

  “That’s better, private,” Shelton said. Shelton turned and saw Whitehurst.

  Andy watched Shelton’s eyes grow wide. Did his pupils dilate or am I imagining it? Andy thought. He felt Whitehurst beside him, looking straight ahead.

  Andy imagined the fat cadet praying: Please, let Shelton keep on moving.

  But he didn’t.

  Shelton planted himself in front of Whitehurst. He shook his head, and then he raised his voice, so everyone could hear. Even the little seven-year-old cadets. In case they needed a role model in life.

  “Whitehurst,” Shelton boomed, “you are, without a doubt, the most pathetic . . .” He paused.

  Shelton searched his limited vocabulary.

  “Thing that I have ever seen.”

  Shelton came close to Whitehurst’s face and gave him the spittle-and-bellow treatment. “Now, wouldn’t you agree?”

  And Whitehurst didn’t say anything.

  Good for you, Andy thought. That’s the way.

  “I asked you a question, fat boy!”

  Another pause. Out of the corner of his eye Andy could see that Shelton had his face right up to Whitehurst’s.

  Whitehurst stammered, “I—” Then—an amazing act of bravery—“No, sir. I don’t agree, sir!”

  Shelton yelled at him. “Are you contradicting me, fat boy?”

  Andy heard something from the side . . . down where De Silva stood. Barely audible. But not missed by Shelton.

  “You asshole . . .”

  Shelton moved away from Whitehurst and marched down the line to De Silva.

  She saved him, Andy thought. She saved Whitehurst’s butt. Not only is she gorgeous, not only can she put together a wicked rope bridge, but she’s also a hero.

  Now Shelton stood in front of De Silva, but he didn’t get quite so close to her. A bit of respect there, Andy noted.

  “What did you say?”

  Andy expected her to answer, “Nothing, sir.” She would probably try to let the thing slide away.

  But then, in a voice that rivaled Shelton’s for volume, she shouted, “I said
, ‘You asshole’ . . . sir.”

  There were giggles everywhere. And despite the insanity of all this, Andy was enjoying the show. It may be a stupid game, but—thanks to De Silva—our side just got a few points.

  Shelton looked around as if he could squash the giggles by glaring at the cadets. Then he turned back to De Silva. She had an advantage over him, Andy thought. She’s obviously a damned good soldier. Tough, brave. But she also has something else that Shelton wants. And hasn’t gotten.

  “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, De Silva?”

  “Yes, sir.” Andy heard her answer brightly.

  Andy risked looking down the line. There were more giggles. Everyone, except Shelton, was enjoying this.

  But Shelton nodded and took a step backward. “All right, De Silva. Give me twenty-five. Right now!”

  Now the giggles in the company were replaced with groans. Twenty-five? Right, Andy thought. Twenty-five push-ups.

  I don’t know if I could do even five push-ups.

  But he saw De Silva throw herself to the grass and start doing the push-ups. He watched her going up and down, the line of her back straight. They were smooth, clean push-ups. She did them fast, without any groaning or struggling to get her bottom back in the air.

  “One! . . . two! . . . three! . . .” She counted them out.

  De Silva moved effortlessly, shouting out the numbers. Shelton, acting satisfied, walked away from her and headed back to the center of the field, addressing the rest of his troops.

  “You girls in the company may think that because you’re so much weaker, you deserve special treatment.”

  Yes, a real asshole, Andy thought.

  The genuine article.

  He thought of Kyle in the factory with him. How brave she was, how she saved him from Chucky when it would have been so much easier to leave to save herself. Kyle was a tough kid. She could have knocked Shelton on his ass in seconds.

  “Well, forget it, girls. There will be no special treatment, not for anybody.”

  And punctuating Shelton’s little speech about equality for the sexes, Andy heard De Silva—even louder now, as if hammering home to Shelton that she was going to do this, no problem. None at all.

  “Eighteen . . . nineteen . . . twenty . . .”

  She didn’t even sound winded.

  Andy looked right at her.

  What a woman, he thought.

  There was a murmur from the cadets. Everyone’s pulling for De Silva, thought Andy. It’s De Silva versus Shelton, and there was no question who most of the school was pulling for.

  But then Andy remembered something Whitehurst had said. Something about Shelton’s lackeys . . . his goons. He must have some friends, some underlings.

  Shelton turned and saw De Silva breezing through the push-ups. He didn’t look like a happy camper.

  You prick, Andy thought.

  “Twenty-one . . .” De Silva said.

  Shelton sneered at De Silva. “One-handed. Give me the next four one-handed, De Silva.”

  More groans from the cadets. But De Silva threw her weight to one side, and now grunting, really struggling, she did the next push-up with one arm.

  I thought only Rocky could do that, Andy thought. Rocky and Arnold.

  And those two guys from Saturday Night Live, Hans and Franz . . . who want to “pump you up.”

  De Silva was tilted and she could look right at Andy. Her face was red, her hair touched the grass. And though her lips were pulled back from her teeth, grimacing with the effort, she smiled at him.

  No one’s going to beat her, Andy thought.

  And then, looking at her, at her spirit, her strength, her determination, he grew scared for her.

  As if it couldn’t last.

  As if all that spirit had to be crushed.

  Because that’s how the world works.

  “Twenty-three! . . . Twenty-four! . . .”

  Shelton walked back to her. He put his shiny shoes right next to her face when it landed. Welcome to Fascist Teenagers Training Camp.

  “Twenty-five!” De Silva shouted.

  Andy watched De Silva fall to the ground—for just a second—before she stood up, back at attention. She ran her fingers through her hair, as if she had just taken a little stroll around the block.

  “Whew,” she said.

  An understatement.

  I’m in love, thought Andy.

  Shelton stood before her, shaking his head. Cracking De Silva could grow to be an obsession of his. Maybe it already was an obsession.

  That, and making life hell for Whitehurst.

  Shelton looked around at the company, his day ruined.

  “Captain Ellis,” he yelled, “lead the company in parade drill. One hour.” He shook his head, walking off the grass. “They look terrible.”

  Ellis saluted again.

  Shelton walked away.

  Although Andy thought that this might just be one of the worst places in the world to be, he also thought that there are three plusses.

  There was Tyler—a kid who seemed all alone, just like Andy. There was Whitehurst, who needs a friend if anyone does.

  And there was De Silva. Who didn’t need anybody and who was the best looking girl Andy had ever seen.

  Stupid military uniform or not.

  There are worse places, Andy thought.

  He marched with them, stamping on the grass with the other pretend soldiers who seemingly—had only one enemy.

  Major Shelton.

  9

  Ronald Tyler skipped—just a bit—as he went into the administration building.

  Maybe, he thought, there will be a letter today. Dad promised a letter a week. And there had been nothing waiting for him at his grandmother’s house.

  “Maybe back at school,” she said. “Sure.”

  Tyler had smiled and nodded to her. Sure, maybe even two letters.

  A letter from his dad was magic. Course his letters weren’t ever long. He was a busy man, so busy. But still he told Tyler about the places he went, the people he met, the planes he flew.

  Tyler ran up the steps, nearly bumping into a senior cadet, who luckily was not one of Shelton’s goons. This guy just smiled. There were nice people here, kids like Barclay. He was a nice kid. Doesn’t know the ropes and he needs my help, thought Tyler. But he’s a nice kid.

  He entered the building and went up the big staircase. Then he took a left down to the mail room. Tyler saw the guy who worked there. Sergeant Clark—always smiling. He was shuffling through letters.

  Tyler was excited.

  He ran to the counter. Clark looked up.

  “Hey, Tyler, how ya doing?”

  Tyler nodded. “Great.”

  The boy waited. Waited for him to say. Oh, yeah. Got some mail for you. A couple of things. Here you go. Looks like they came from overseas.

  Tyler waited.

  But Clark shook his head. “Oh, sorry. Nothing from your dad today.” Clark smiled. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Tyler nodded. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. He pushed away from the counter. He didn’t feel like skipping anymore. And Kent didn’t feel like a school anymore. It felt like a prison. Tyler started to turn away.

  “Listen, your dad’s busy flying those big jets and defending the country, Tyler. I bet he’ll write to you just as soon as he gets a chance.”

  Tyler nodded and backed away another step from the counter.

  “Sure. I know.” He forced a smile.

  Tyler started to turn away. All of a sudden it felt terrible to be here, standing outside this room filled with mail, with postcards, letters, and packages—for everyone else.

  But Sergeant Clark—his bald spot catching some of the light—leaned over the counter. “Say, Ty, I got a job for you. You came in with the new kid, right?”

  Tyler nodded. Let me go, he thought. I just want to go. I don’t want any job. But he watched Clark bend down and pick up a package wrapped in brown paper, a big package. Why, it’s al
most as big as I am, Tyler thought. A big box.

  “Could you run this over to that new kid, Barclay? Could you do that for me?”

  Tyler came closer to the counter, to the mysterious package, so big.

  Tyler felt totally curious. He didn’t even know if he could lift it.

  Clark lowered the package down to him, slowly. Tyler wrapped his arms around it, trying to make his hands touch, to lock his fingers together. But they didn’t touch. Tyler couldn’t see over the top of the package either.

  “I—I don’t know,” Tyler said.

  Clark laughed. “Hey, you’ll do fine. It ain’t too heavy, now is it?”

  Tyler shook his head. It wasn’t heavy, but it sure was big.

  “No, sir. I guess I’m okay.”

  Tyler lowered the package a bit so he could see in front of him.

  “Attaboy,” Clark said. “I appreciate it.”

  Tyler turned, wobbly, and aimed himself down the corridor, toward the stairs leading down to the door and out of the administration building.

  The box rattled in a funny kind of way.

  Tyler played a game with himself as he walked. He played guess what’s in the box. Can’t be cookies and food, Tyler thought. That stuff was always heavy. No way I could lift a box filled with food.

  Tyler felt the box slip a bit, and he had to slap against the side of the box to stop it from slipping out of his hands. And then he bounced into the wall, smacking his arm and the box hard.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  The box slipped a few more inches. Tyler took a deep breath. He tried to jiggle the box upward, but now it just slipped from his hands and crashed to the ground.

  God, Tyler thought. I hope that there’s nothing important in there—nothing that could break.

  Tyler crouched down beside the box and quickly picked it up. He gave it a shake, and something rattled inside. Something big, Tyler thought. He started walking again.

  Okay, so it’s not food, and it’s too heavy for clothes, so—so—

  What is it?

  He got to the steps leading down. Tyler peered over the top of the box. He heard voices down there, and he saw the door. He took one step down. The box wobbled in his arms. He brought his other foot down. That’s the way, one step at a time. That’s the way, he thought.