by M. F. Lorson
The loud screech of a coach’s whistle cut through the gymnasium. In the center of the room stood a boy who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. His authoritative stance made it clear that he was meant to be commanding, though his wind tossed hair and early summer tan took away from that whole commander of a tight ship thing he was going for. He was a senior, maybe. It was hard to tell. He held a bullhorn. You would think in a gymnasium filled with no more than one hundred kids that a bullhorn wouldn’t be necessary but then again we weren’t your garden variety high school students. Obviously none of us did well with authority, passive behavior wasn’t likely to keep us corralled. The boy spoke into the bullhorn.
“If you have been assigned Barrack A, join your lead in the top right hand corner of the gym.” His voice was loud, clear, and all business “Barrack B, left hand corner. If you’re in Barrack C you’re with me.” Groups of new students began to disperse. According to my intake card I was Barrack A although I could have figured as much out on my own. Barrack B and C were both all male. Barrack A was also a considerably smaller group. I suppose statistically juvenile delinquents are predominantly male. My group consisted of twenty girls. There were a few hardcore types with piercings, tattoos and self inflicted haircuts, but for the most part we looked normal. Nobody seemed to be wearing a sign that said “In for murder” so I supposed that was good. But then again even being here meant you were smart. Certainly smart enough to keep your conviction from being written all over your face. The boys on the other hand looked the part. Guessing who was in for what became sort of game. Those with tattoos….violent crime. Those with fancy new iwatches……petty theft. The nerdy types….hacking, likely. The twitchy skinny fellows….definitely of the meth variety. Maybe I was right about them and maybe I wasn’t. Either way I was avoiding my hypothetical violent criminals and thieves. The guy with the bullhorn however, I couldn’t determine. He looked normal, too good to be scum, datable. “Datable?” What the heck was I thinking. In my fifteen years I hadn’t ‘dated’ anyone. This place seemed like a poor choice to start. And yet, he was God awful pretty.
My lead on the other hand was the polar opposite. It looked like it would be physically difficult for her to smile. Her hair was buzzed close to the scalp and there were no less than six piercings in each ear. The self mutilation didn’t stop there. She had a stud below her bottom lip and a bar through her right eyebrow. If she was ever pretty, she had done a good job of changing that. She wore tan slacks and a navy blue polo with the words Huntley and Drake emblazoned across the right breast. All of the leads were dressed this way so determining personality based on outfit was impossible. She eyed us all cautiously before spinning on the heels of her badly beaten combat boots. I made a mental note to observe the other leads shoes. Were we all getting combat boots or was this a personal choice? If it was a personal choice things didn’t look too uplifting for Barrack A.
“Follow me” she exclaimed, and moved briskly out of the gym. We followed her through a series of hallways and out into the cool Oregon air. A transplant from California, I wasn’t used to July afternoons that felt like March. We moved quickly but it seemed to take forever to get from the gym to Barrack A. I knew we weren’t getting ivy league dorm rooms that was apparent in the welcoming speech but I had no idea what to expect. The term barracks seemed to imply communal space. I briefly envisioned twenty twin beds with pink canopies but pushed it aside as we rounded the corner to face what was to be my home for an unspecified amount of time. Barrack was a gracious term. What it really was, was one long room, probably designed to be a storage facility. There were twenty army cots in a single file line down the center. Each cot came with a green blanket and painfully flat pillow. At the end of the room was a single two sink, two shower, two toilet bathroom. I could see the glamorous among us beginning to squirm. Primping before classes was going to be a no go, that or survival of the fittest. I didn’t need to be cute here. I was here to get an education not a boyfriend.
“Ahem” our lead loudly cleared her throat. “For those of you thinking these conditions are less than ideal you are correct. Barrack A is not meant to be your home here. This is a training ground and the sooner you adapt the sooner you move out of here. Private rooms are earned at Drake and Huntley so I strongly suggest you learn quickly and quietly.”
“Learn what?” a smaller girl in the front asked.
“Promotions are based on academic merit and behavioral modification.” stated the lead.
“Behavioral modification” chuckled Ariel, an amazon woman standing in the back of the room. “If any of us could do that, we wouldn’t be here.” Girls giggled on either side of me but our lead wasn’t amused. If anything she looked exhausted, as if greeting us was draining.
“No one expects you to be polite, no one expects you to change your personality or start spending your weekends serving at soup kitchens. But, they won’t grant you permanent status if you don’t abide by the rules. All they ask is that you don’t cheat steal or break curfew. If you want out of this room you’ll learn to live that way. And if you can’t manage that they’ll send you home at the end of the summer and although I don’t know you individually I have been you and if there’s anywhere you want to be less than Drake and Huntley, it’s back home.” No one asked any more questions. We each set our bags on the right hand side of the room for inspection and watched as staff members sifted through our belongings. All electronic items were confiscated, junk food confiscated, recreational clothing confiscated. We were each issued a uniform. The uniform consisted of one pair of khaki slacks, one khaki skirt, two navy blue polo shirts, one white button down and a gold sweater vest. Shoes were of our choosing so our lead was the combat type. Even if her barrack speech had bordered on kindness.
Once the inspections were finished we were instructed to pick a cot, place are bags below it and enjoy twenty minutes of “free time”. I was relieved when Sydney announced that free time was over and orientation was slated to begin again in the courtyard.
It’s not that I was looking forward to the rest of orientation, but a certain level of curiosity made it more appealing than say loitering on my cot examining the water stains in the tile above. Thus far everything I had heard about this place had been non-specific. It was supposed to change us, better us, but how? How was I supposed to thrive here when I hadn’t anywhere else? I was deathly afraid that for me Huntley and Drake would only be a new place to fail in. Orientation took place in the courtyard directly outside of Barrack C. It was run by our three leads. Our lead Sydney, gave a brief introduction of herself and then turned the floor over to Luke and Jordan. I recognized Jordan from earlier with the bullhorn. Luke the lead from barrack C was short and thick. He looked like he spent a disproportionate amount of time in the gym. If his physical appearance was intimidating his personality had the opposite effect. He was warm and funny and when he talked about himself you got the feeling he was mentor material for a reason. Sydney didn’t say much during her intro, just that she was a senior and should be regarded as a leader not a friend. Jordan was the same. Though he talked for two full minutes there wasn’t one thing in his speech that revealed anything remotely important about himself. If anything most of his speech could be classified as nervous rambling. He was so clear and articulate earlier with the bullhorn. I guess the same rules didn’t apply when it came to talking about himself. I couldn’t tell whether or not I wanted to know him but I knew I wanted to know about him. I glanced down at his shoes. Maybe they would say something about his personality. No luck, black leather work boots. I could over analyze that and assume they were a symbol of his ambition or work ethic but it seemed more likely to me that he picked them for use not expression. I did the same with my own. I wore light weight electric blue running shoes, everyday but holidays. They weren’t a statement, they were practical. In my old life I never knew when I was going to have to run my way out of something. I didn’t know what it would be like here but I wasn’t so foolish as to l
et my guard down and come unprepared.
After introductions were finished Jordan launched into the meat of orientation. Each student would be evaluated based on their ability to thrive in two categories. Academic merit, and specialized skills. I found the specialized skills thing to be a bit irritating considering the whole “This is not Hogwarts” bit from Mr. Humphries opening speech.
We would receive our evaluation at the end of four months. Those who did not meet the criteria in both categories would be sent home. Those that proved themselves multi-capable would be granted permanent status. So that was what the redhead meant when she said that statistically speaking I might not be here long enough to bother friending. It wasn’t enough to excel in one area you had to be multi-capable. I racked my brain for potential skills. The only problem was I didn’t have any. I was suddenly regretting all of the extra curriculars I seemed to think I was too good for. I’d never played a sport or musical instrument and my grades were terrible. I had only ever been really good at one thing, not getting caught and since I was now at a school specifically designed to reform juvenile delinquents it was pretty clear that, that skill was no longer viable. As if reading my thoughts Jordan began a second announcement. “For those of you concerned that you do not possess any skills, you’re not the first to feel that way, and it doesn’t mean you won’t make it. Some strengths you are born with, others you build.” I raised my hand. I had no idea if raising my hand would result in getting called on but it was worth a shot. At my old school it was required but here I was getting the impression that people spoke when they had something to say. Jordan looked at my hand in the air. I could be mistaken but I was pretty sure he was making an effort not to smile.
“Question?…….” He leaned over to Sydney who whispered something in his ear. “Kate, you have a question?”
“Yeah” I responded, my heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t the nervous type but being here surrounded by nothing remotely familiar made it hard to feel confidant. “How often does someone without ‘born strengths’ make it through the first cut?” Jordan chuckled lightly, “ The answer is not uplifting, but I have seen freshman do it. It comes down to character”
“Oh don’t scare her Jordan, that’s not the only way.” Luke was grinning widely. “ There’s always an alternative. Your parents wouldn’t perchance be willing to make a sizeable donation would they?” Now that really was laughable. The only sizeable donation my parents had any intention of making to this school was me. They had dropped me off with the same regard you give to a great uncle whose unexpected visit you’ve had the unpleasant privilege of hosting. I wouldn’t be asking them for help nor was it likely they would reach out to offer any. “Judging by the look on your face Kate, I’m going to assume you’ll be attempting the character route.” Luke was laughing. He laughed a lot. I wasn’t altogether sure I liked any of our so called mentors. The leads were all residents that meant they were safe, they could laugh at the idea of someone going home because they knew it would never be them. I didn’t have that luxury and maybe I wasn’t being fair but I had a hard time picturing any of them ever being in my position. What I really wanted to know was what their strengths were and how they “proved” themselves worthy of a permanent spot on campus. If there was a formula I wanted to know it, because if it came down to skill and character, I was screwed.
After the meeting in the courtyard we were taken on a tour of the campus. Each lead was trailed by a line of new students. Like a mother duck and her babies we bobbed around campus, following Sydney in and out of random buildings. She wasn’t a real talker. If there were facts to be heard, details to be pointed out, she neglected to mention them. Each stop on the tour was a one word explanation. Example: Cafeteria, Gym, Laboratory, Conservatory, Arts, etc. She had no real affection for the school which led me to believe the only thing less pleasant than long term residency here was Sydney’s life at home.
Lunch was cold turkey sandwiches with watermelon and a single serving sized bag of lays potato chips. Heeding the warning from earlier I pulled the turkey from my sandwich. Either I was paranoid or the light was playing tricks on me. Either way I could swear the meat had a green tint to it. Lettuce and wonder bread were safe but incredibly bland. It took all of three bites before I gave up on the sandwich entirely. I wasn’t starving I’d survive on watermelon and potato chips. I was beginning to see what the redhead meant when she said I would need a good lunch by the end of the semester. All three barracks ate lunch together. We were in a large meeting room outfitted for audio visual presentations. According to the schedule posted outside of the room we were here for an “information session” with the Dean of Social Sciences. Though I had hardly spoken to anyone since arriving I got the sense that I was not the only one growing weary of speeches designed both to inspire and intimidate simultaneously. We were assigned to tables of four. The barracks were all intermingled with one another so I assumed the purpose was to get to know people outside of our own group. The leads sat together at a table in the back corner of the room. They ate in silence. We all ate in silence. Every crunch of a potato chip was a firecracker up against all that quiet. At my old school the school counselor had labeled me anti-social. I didn’t mind the term. It suited me. For me to be silent was nothing unusual, but I tended to surround myself with people who weren’t. It was a great deflector shield from unwanted attention. Yet here, with everyone dressed like clones, eating clone lunches in clone silence it felt as if every difference among us was magnified by some giant invisible microscope.
I imagined that we were all experiments in an oversized Petri dish. If we were, what would the scientists observe when they looked at me? Strictly scientific observations would reveal what? Brown hair, Length: approximately 20 inches, Eyes: green, Skin tone: light tan, Height: indeterminable in the seated position. I didn’t mind imagining how I might look to a scientist. Scientists made observations not judgments. I swiveled my imaginary Petri dish to study the girl to my right. Body type: slightly overweight, Hair: short and dark, Eyes: brown. Skin tone, pale. There were no visible piercings, birthmarks or other identifying marks, she was ordinary save for a very expensive pair of Salvatore flats. If my mother hadn’t been such a shoe nut I might not have this bizarre habit of judging people based upon their choice of footwear. To my left was a boy I saw lumped in with the other tech nerds at orientation, skinny, acne scarred where a beard would be (if he were able to grow one) and short dark hair with a cowlick that made the right quadrant of his head look like one of those swooshy white storms they’re always showing on the weather channel. “What about me?” The unexpected voice startled me and everyone else apparently, because a rustling of clothing and body parts revealed that the whole room was waiting at attention. I too was waiting for a follow up, until I realized the question was directed at me! “What do you think about me?” he asked again. I blinked, uncomfortable in my own skin “Undoubtedly you’ve determined that his face is home to more oil than all of Saudi Arabia and her shoes indicate a certain degree of spoiled rich bitch, (I saw you take a peek under the table) but what about me. Take a good long look, I don’t mind. You don’t have to pretend you dropped your napkin, or are desperate to check the clock for the third time this hour. Take it all in and then let me know what you think.” His face was split with a wide and cocky grin. “Make sure you speak up though, seeing as how everyone’s listening anyway.” He leaned back in his chair gazing around the room at everyone so blatantly eavesdropping on our conversation. Some turned away, pretending to be fully entranced in their turkey on wonder bread, but most kept their eyes on our table. I wanted to ignore him but when I didn’t respond, he didn’t look away. I could feel his eyes burning into me as I folded and unfolded the napkin in my lap. I felt like a track set to repeat but I couldn’t stop. Any hope I had of going unnoticed had been destroyed the second he opened his big gorgeous mouth.
I stared back at him, making the observation in my head but saying nothing. Body type: athletic,
Hair: dirty blond, neatly cut, Skin tone: lightly tanned, Eyes: green, like my own, Shoes: the kind that were meant to look like casual track shoes but had probably cost 180 bucks at Banana Republic. The clock continued to tick in the background but I could think of nothing I wanted to say, that I wanted fifty other people to hear. “I won’t be insulted sweetheart, give it your best shot.” If he was trying to get under my skin he was doing a good job. The last thing anyone wanted to be in a place like this, was somebody's “Sweetheart”. He was an arrogant asshole, a very good looking but arrogant asshole. Screw the negative attention. I decided I would tell him so, one of those things anyway. I opened my mouth to speak but was interrupted by a loud clang as a fork in the back of the room slammed against its owner’s plate. Jordan’s chair made an awful screeching sound as he shoved back from the lead table, rising to his feet and briskly making his way toward us. I could see the blood pulsing through the vein in his forehead. This was not the boy from orientation or even the stern announcer from the gym. Whatever version of Jordan this was. I hoped not to see it often. He was standing over our table, glowering down at the boy across from me. With Jordan breathing down his neck you would think the boy would have lost some of his swagger. Instead he looked every bit as self satisfied as he had a minute ago. Jordan on the other hand looked like steam ought to be coming out of his ears.
“Maybe you two would like to continue this conversation on your own time. I could care less what Miss. Elliot thinks of Mr. Erickson’s skin condition or any other part of him for that matter.”
The boy across from me, Mr. Erickson apparently, smiled coyly at Jordan.