All Good Children (16 page)

When they're two desks away, I can hear what Mom is whispering in every child's ear.
I'm sorry
.

I start to shake. I want to get up and leave, but I can't move with all these kids here, and the camera and Werewolf and my mother.

Xavier is ahead of me, staring at his RIG. Mom gasps when she sees him. He looks up and smiles. “Hello, Mrs. Connors.”

She breathes slow and deep. “Hello, Xavier. How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.”

“Oh my goodness, you're a good-looking boy!” Linda says. “How old are you? Eighteen? Twenty-five? You belong on a poster in a college dormitory, that's where you belong.” She laughs and looks at Mom. “I know they're mostly all good-looking these days, but this boy is something special, wouldn't you say?”

Mom rests her hand on Xavier's shoulder. “He's a very beautiful boy.”

Xavier smiles shyly at my mother, speechless for once.

When the thermometer beeps, she shakes her head. “He has a bit of a temperature. We should wait until he's well.”

Linda scowls. She reaches across Xavier's desk and snatches the thermometer from Mom's hand. She wobbles her head around and mutters, “Well, hmm, I don't know. It's just on the edge. We should do him anyway.” She jabs her needle into Xavier's left arm.

Mom stares at the needle in her own hand. She swallows and tries to smile. “I don't think so. I know he takes other medications and there may be contraindications, especially with a temperature.”

“It's critical that we get the detentioners done quick,” Linda says. “Don't make me regret offering you this job.”

Mom groans and sucks in her lower lip, stares down on Xavier's angelic face. “What other medications are you on, dear?”

Linda huffs and snorts. She tries to squeeze behind Xavier's chair, but there's not enough room. She stomps around the back of my desk and comes up on the other side, her fat shoes squealing along the floor. She seizes the syringe from Mom's hand and plunges it into Xavier's right arm.

“Ow!” he shouts.

“No,” Mom moans.

Linda yanks out the needle, scowling. “That's the sort of consequence hesitation brings.” She hands a patch to my mother. “We are here to do these children, and we are doing these children. Now let's get a move on.”

Mom presses the patch on Xavier's arm, stroking it gently to fix it to his skin.

“Thank you, Mrs. Connors,” he says.

She turns to me with the saddest face I've seen since Dad's funeral. “Hi, Max.” Her voice is soft like a little girl's.

“Oh my goodness!” Linda shouts. “This is
your
son! He's at
this
school!”

All the kids turn around and strain to get a look at my mother while she fills a syringe just for me.

Linda laughs and slaps the air. “No wonder he was so odd at that football game! Oh my goodness. You'll see such a difference after this. Oh, you'll love it.”

Mom sticks a thermometer in my ear. It feels obscene, and I cringe away from her. She leans into my desk, smelling of latex and toxins. “I'm glad you explained it to me,” she tells Linda. “I'm glad I could be here for this.”

“Don't you mention it,” Linda says as she readies her needle. “It makes all the difference to be there for them.”

Mom reads my temperature and nods.

“Mom—,” I start to beg.

She pinches my arm, tight and twisted, digging in her nail. “Be quiet, Max!”

I feel like I'm six years old.

She lays her gloved fingers on my right arm. “It will make all the difference for me to be here.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, not even air.

She leans toward me and whispers, “Don't say anything.”

“Mom, don't—”

“Shh.”

Linda jabs my left arm.

“That doesn't hurt, does it?” Mom asks softly. I look up at her. She smiles. “Does it hurt, Max? I tried to do it gently.”

There's no needle in my right arm. There's something cold and wet against my skin, but no penetration. I peer down, but Mom's hand covers the syringe and I can't see what she's doing. A bitter chemical stench rises into my face.

“Almost done,” she says.

She presses gauze to my skin, reaches for my hand, lays my finger over the tiny white square. “Hold this in place, please.” She flicks the needle into the garbage, lays the syringe on the white tablecloth. It's empty. She takes a patch from her pocket, removes the wrapping, sticks it on my arm. “There,” she says. “That didn't hurt at all, did it?”

I can't respond.

Mom turns to Dallas at the desk beside me. “You're next.”

“I'll come round the other side,” Linda says. “You might as well stay there and work your way up on the left. I don't mind walking around.” She wheezes and squeaks as she walks behind me. “That's one row down and four to go. We'll be out of here before four thirty, but don't worry, we get paid for the full hour no matter what.”

Mom slips on a fresh needle and stabs it into a bottle. I watch the syringe suck up a pale dose of zombie. She sets the bottle down and holds the needle high.

“Mom, you can't—”

“That's enough, Max,” she hisses.

Students stare at me like I'm a freak.

“Voices down,” Werewolf reminds us.

“Is he afraid of needles?” Linda asks.

“Yes, but he needn't be.” Mom turns to Dallas. “Ready?”

Dallas smiles like she's offering ice cream.

I lay my head down on my desk to get a better view of his arm. Mom cups her left hand over the needle so it's hard to see. Her right thumb pushes slowly on the syringe. It looks like she's really giving him the shot. My heart thumps as if my blood is too thick to push through the valves.

“Ow,” Dallas says. He looks up at Linda, who just stuck him in the other arm.

“A big boy like you afraid of a little needle?” Linda shouts. “I'm surprised anything can get through those muscles of yours. They're hard as a rock.”

“Almost done,” Mom says softly.

Dallas looks at her, smiles, tries to see what she's doing to his arm.

“There,” she says, pressing gauze to his skin.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she says, “Don't talk. Just rest. Hold this in place.”

She flicks the needle into the garbage and grabs another patch from her pocket. I stretch back in my chair and get a brief but clear view of Dallas's arm. There's no mark, no piercing, just a moist gloss.

Mom presses on the patch and pats his shoulder. “All done.”

She works her way up the aisle of desks, whispering, “I'm sorry” to everyone. Everyone but me and Dallas.

She stops and sighs when she gets to Tyler Wilkins.

“Hello, Tyler,” she says sadly. She looks across the desk at Linda, but she doesn't bother speaking.

“My goodness, child, you smell like cigarettes,” Linda chatters. “Do you know how many toxins one cigarette contains?” She looks at Mom and her smiles fades. “Oh for God's sake, what is it now? Does he have a temperature?”

“No, but—”

“Then get to it, Karenna. We have to do them all.”

Mom looks at Tyler's homely face. “I'm sorry, Tyler.”

He laughs and runs a hand down his tattooed arm. “It's all right. I'm not afraid of needles.”

I watch the drug go deep into his skin.

I'm not sorry to see Tyler Wilkins zombified. But I suppose there are people who'd say the same about me.

There's a dear little home in Good-Children street—

My heart turneth fondly to-day

Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet

Make sweetest of music at play;

Where the sunshine of love illumines each face

And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

For dear little children go romping about

With dollies and tin tops and drums,

And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout

Till bedtime too speedily comes!

Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet

With little folk living in Good-Children street.

From Eugene Field's

“Good-Children Street”

in
Love Songs of Childhood
(1894)

PART TWO
ADJUSTMENT

EIGHT

My mother sits on her bed, folded small like a child, hugging her knees. She's in pajamas at dinnertime. Ally's eating a sandwich in the living room, watching cartoons.

“How did you know?” I ask.

Mom sniffles and shrugs. “Parents are always notified of detention.”

“I mean how did you know about the drug?”

“Oh. Linda told me when she called. I recognized the name.”

“As what?”

“It's a derivative of one we use at the home.”

“On who?”

She shrugs or shudders, I can't tell which. “Everyone.”

“Everyone,” I repeat. I lean against Ally's dresser, rattling her plastic dolls. They fall on their sides, backs bent, legs splayed, smiles painted pink.

“It's not how you think,” Mom says. “Our patients are in pain. They're lonely and bored. Antisocial. That's how this drug started out—for mood disorders.”

“Elaine wasn't antisocial.” I recall stepping into the geriatric center with my class three years ago. From the sad ranks of old folks slumped in rows of collapsible chairs, Elaine jumped up and shouted, “Hallelujah! There are children alive in the world!”

“She wasn't disordered,” I tell Mom. “She was a firecracker.”

My mother stares at me, biting her lip.

“I guess she's no firecracker anymore,” I say.

She huffs and scowls. “These drugs help my patients cope, Max.”

“All of them? How could you drug all your patients? Most of them aren't even sick. They're just old.”

“I can't give them happy lives, Max. I can't make their children visit. I can't find them jobs or make them feel important. I feed them and bathe them and give them their shots.”

“Did they ask for those shots?”

“There are seventy-two patients under my care every ten-hour shift! That's eight minutes each. That's what I give them. The other nine hours and fifty-two minutes, they are ignored. They used to lie there and cry. Remember when you visited? It's not like that anymore. They eat well, they take part in social activities, they exercise, they have hobbies.”

“I bet they line up neatly too.”

“They are happy to be alive now, Max.”

“They're not happy, Mom. They're just not crying anymore.”

“You don't understand.”

“No. I don't understand. Why not just give me the shot if you don't think it's wrong?”

She gapes at me, outraged. “It's not for children. It's for people with nothing else in their lives. It's wrong to give it to children.”

“
You
gave it to children!” I remind her. “Why didn't you call the police? Why didn't you stop it?”

She squints at me, confused. “It's not illegal. The school has the authority to treat students for behavioral problems.”

“We don't all have behavioral problems.”

“Sure you do, Max. Everybody does. Everybody can be improved—you've told me that yourself. They've just never done it on this scale before.”

“Why didn't you take us out of there?”

“Take who out? I'm not allowed to take your friends out of school. I doubt if I'm allowed to take
you
out.”

“You still should have done it.”

“And put you where? It would be the end of education for you and Ally. Linda says they've already treated the trade schools. There is nowhere else to go.”

“Take us to another town.”

“And live on what? How will you find work if you never finish school? Do you know what the rest of the world is like, Max? We're lucky I have a job here.”

“A job where you drug people against their will.”

“Stop it! I did what I could today.” She looks away and lays her head on her knees.

“How did you fake it?” I ask.

She grabs a dirty napkin off the cluttered nightstand and peels back the layers to reveal a small stained sponge. “I was scared to try it with Xavier. I didn't know how much it could hold. I only brought two patches anyway, for you and Dallas.” She sighs and shakes the memory from her head.

“What's in my patch?”

“Estrogen.”

“Estrogen? No way. Am I going to grow boobs?”

“I don't think so.”

“You don't
think
so?”

“It's just a month's worth. But you have to keep it on for three.”

“Three months? Linda said the patch was for a week.”

“She lied.”

“Why? People will take them off early. Is that safe?”

“Their parents will tell them to keep them on. Don't worry. The patch is part of the treatment. It balances the side effects of the shot.”

“Will kids get sick if they take them off?”

She sighs. “They won't take them off, Max. By tomorrow or the day after, they'll do whatever they're told.”

I scratch my head and stare at the ceiling, trying to think of something to say. I hear Ally singing in the living room, “A—my name is Ally, my husband's name is Arnold, we live in Arkansas, and we sell apples!”

“You'll get a new patch in three months,” Mom tells me. “Make sure you take it off and put the empty estrogen patch back on.”

I nod at the ceiling.

“Then in six months, you'll get another shot,” she tells me.

I look at her in surprise. “How many drugs are they giving us?”

“It's the same drug, just another dose.”

“It wears off? So there's a chance for Xavier?”