Pressure (3 page)

Twenty-three days after my parents dropped me off, the room’s inhabitants were punished on my behalf.

I hadn’t even forgotten my entire history report, just the last page, which had somehow slipped out of the paper clip. Racing back to the residence hall meant I’d be late for class, but that was better than turning in incomplete work. Since I’d never been late before, I probably would have only received a very stern reprimand.

Running on the sidewalks was against the rules, of course, but it wasn’t a major infraction. Again, with my flawless behavior record up to this point, it probably wouldn’t have earned me more than a warning.

The collision, however, was a definite source of concern.

I ran smack into Mr. Wolfe, my math teacher. The papers he’d been carrying flew everywhere, some of them getting caught in the breeze. Through what I like to think was divine intervention, it was me who was knocked to the ground and not him.

He didn’t say a word, and simply began picking up the papers. After standing indecisively for a long, frightening moment, I started to help pick up the papers that had blown onto the grass.

A couple of minutes later I handed him the stack. “Be more careful next time,” he said, and then continued on his way.

I walked back to the residence hall to get the last page of my report. Very carefully.

As we returned from dinner that evening, my stomach plunged at the sight of red on our door.

It was a bright red door hanger, like the do not disturb signs used in hotels. Officially, it was known as a Summons, but the student body called it the Mark of Blood. You could see the bright red color all the way from the end of the hallway, and that was the point. If your door was “bloody,” everybody on your floor knew it. I’d only seen one bloody door since arriving at Branford Academy, and it was serious business. It had been on the second floor, and we’d all gone down to look at it, gawking like tourists.

“Aw, shit,” said Jeremy, as we headed down the hall.

“What’d we do?” asked Peter.

I hadn’t told any of my roommates about what happened that afternoon. I tried to convince myself that this was a coincidence, and that one of the others had screwed up today. Maybe Peter had spilled scalding hot coffee on a teacher, or Jeremy had projectile vomited on Mr. Sevin’s car. Something like that.

Jeremy ran up ahead and pulled the hanger off the doorknob. We hurried over to him, and he held up the Summons so that we could see all four of our names, written in clear block letters. Summons time: Immediately.

At least we wouldn’t have to suffer long. Jeremy had told me about some roommates who, several years ago, had received a bloody door on Monday that didn’t summon them until Friday. On Thursday, they strung up four separate nooses from their ceiling and simultaneously hanged themselves. Three died; one ended up with a broken neck and was currently living in an insane asylum, paralyzed and constantly screaming in terror because the cruel nurse put a bright red door hanger in his padded cell.

It wasn’t a credible story, particularly because I couldn’t see any logical reason that a quadriplegic would need a padded cell, and it seemed unlikely that there would be a doorknob on the inside of his cell from which to hang anything, but as my stomach pitched and jerked I could certainly see how a bloody door might drive somebody to madness.

We silently headed back to the stairwell, doomed men on the Walk of the Damned.

We walked to the administrative building. Mr. Sevin’s office door was open, and his secretary sent us inside without a wait. We sat down on uncomfortable plastic chairs in front of his desk.

“I understand that there was an incident this afternoon?” Mr. Sevin asked, adjusting his glasses as he glanced at me.

I tried to ignore the dirty looks that Peter, Jeremy, and Darren gave me. “Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Fletcher, you do realize that students are expected to have their assignments with them when they report for class, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is not a difficult concept to grasp. Despite that, under normal circumstances your behavior would only merit a warning. However, due to the…ah, unfortunate additional aspect of the situation, I’m afraid I must punish your room collectively.”

“But it was an accident,” I insisted.

“An accident that will not be repeated,” he said. “This weekend’s trip to Perkinville is canceled for the four of you. You will remain here, cleaning the school grounds.”

Jeremy groaned loudly.

“They didn’t do anything,” I said.

“Mr. Fletcher, are you questioning Branford policy?”

I shook my head.

“I expect an actual response when I ask a question, not a pantomime.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Perhaps in the future you will be sure that you have all necessary materials before you leave the room, and will conduct yourself in a less turbulent fashion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. The four of you are dismissed.”

“This sucks,” muttered Jeremy, flopping down on his bed.

“I’m really sorry,” I said for the sixth or seventh time since we’d left the administration building. “I didn’t mean to get you guys in trouble.”

“I’ve been looking forward to Perkinville all month,” said Jeremy. “Why couldn’t you remember your stupid assignment?”

“I told you, the page slipped out.”

“It’s because you’re so turbulent,” said Peter, grinning. “I hate turbulent people. I think we all need to be a little less turbulent. Jeremy, wipe that turbulent look off your face.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it’s not. We were gonna see a movie!”

“Yeah, but it was probably a turbulent movie.”

“You don’t even know what turbulent means,” Jeremy said, and then he rolled over on his side and glared at me. “Just stay away from me for a while.”

“How’s he supposed to do that?” asked Peter. “You live in the same room, dork.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Leave him alone, Peter,” I said. “He’s allowed to be mad. I’d sure be mad.”

“But he doesn’t need to be a whiny jerk about it.”

“I’m not being a jerk,” said Jeremy. “It’s just not fair.”

“This whole school isn’t fair! That’s why we’re here. Duh.”

“Why don’t you guys fight a little louder?” asked Darren. “Let’s get ourselves in more trouble. Let’s stay on school grounds for the rest of our lives. That’d be fun.”

Everybody was silent.

“We don’t need to go to Perkinville,” said Peter, finally. “Perkinville sucks. We’ll have fun here. I promise.”

Mr. Wolfe himself administered our punishment. I would have expected him to have something better to do on a Saturday than chaperone our manual labor, but maybe it was something he enjoyed doing.

Branford Academy grounds were kept clean as a rule, so it didn’t appear at first glance, or even second or third glance, that there was much for us to do. Our job was to scour the campus lawn for every speck of litter, presumably at the molecular level.

“I don’t want to see even the slightest trace of garbage on this grass,” Mr. Wolfe explained. “I want you on your hands and knees looking for trash. I should be able to walk through here with a magnifying glass and not find anything but grass, dirt, and insects.”

He split us into two groups. Peter was put with Jeremy, and I was put with Darren. Darren and I were instructed to go over the entire front lawn of the classroom building, and informed that there would be an inspection afterward. Since it would not have surprised me a bit to see Mr. Wolfe whip out an industrial-size magnifying glass and Model XL-3000 refuse detector, we took this task seriously.

The objective, of course, was not to create a tidier Branford Academy, but for the other students to see my roommates and I crawling around looking for nonexistent trash. A little humiliation went a long way. Only the seventh graders had gone to Perkinville, so there were plenty of kids around to watch us work while they enjoyed their free time.

Not that any of them would express this enjoyment. From what I understood, laughter, pointing, or a sarcastic comment was a sure way to instantly become part of the group being punished. But I saw the smiles, and the burning sensation in my cheeks and ears wasn’t just from the heat.

“I found a dime,” announced Darren as we entered our second hour.

“Yee-ha.”

Darren sat down. “Let’s take a break.”

“We’d better not.”

“He won’t be back for a while.”

Mr. Wolfe had just left, presumably to check up on Peter and Jeremy, so Darren was probably right. I crawled over and sat down next to him.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever had to do,” I remarked.

Darren nodded. “Yeah.”

“They should at least have us paint a garage or something.”

He ignored my comment and just sat there and stared at a pair of bluebirds perched in a lower branch of one of the trees. I looked back to make sure Mr. Wolfe hadn’t suddenly materialized behind us, and then watched the birds with him. They weren’t doing anything particularly interesting.

“What do you think they’d do if I shot one of those birds?” he asked.

“You don’t have a gun.”

“If I did have a gun. What do you think they’d do?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“They’re just birds. Who cares about birds?”

“I’m sure some people do.”

“Not me.”

“But some people do. Bird-watchers and stuff.”

“I’d do it,” he said in a soft voice. “I’d kill a bird. I’d kill a fuckin’bird.”

He looked at me to gauge my reaction.

“People kill birds all the time,” I said. “Chicken, turkey…”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t shoot them for food. I used to shoot at birds with my BB gun. They’re hard to hit, did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“They are. ’Course, it wasn’t a very good gun. I had to sneak it out of the house. I never did hit one. Or maybe I did and it didn’t do anything to them. Have you ever been shot by a BB?”

“No.”

“Me either. I was going to shoot myself in the hand to see how it felt, but I didn’t know what it would do.”

“I knew a kid who got his eye shot with a BB.”

“Really? Did you see it happen?”

“No, but he wore an eye patch for a few weeks.”

“I would’ve liked to see that. I wonder what it looked like under the patch?”

“He never showed anybody.”

“That’s too bad.”

I looked over my shoulder again. Still no sign of Mr. Wolfe. “We should get back to work.”

“Okay.” Darren began to crawl through the grass again, sifting through the individual blades with his right hand. “Yeah, I’d kill a bird.”

“What’s Darren always writing about?” I asked.

We’d been released from cleanup duty, approximately half an hour before the seventh graders were due to return. Crawling around in the grass hadn’t seemed like it would be strenuous work, but after several hours of it we were all totally exhausted. Darren had gone back to Dorm B, while Peter, Jeremy, and I sat underneath a tree, relaxing.

“I dunno,” said Peter.

“What do you
think
he’s always writing about?”

“I dunno.”

I told them about Darren’s bird comments. “I’ve always thought he was kind of creepy,” Peter admitted. “I don’t like sleeping in the bunk over him. I keep thinking he’s going to shove a knife through the mattress or something.”

“Maybe we should find out what he writes about,” I suggested.

Jeremy began to write with an imaginary pencil.
“Dear Diary, I think tonight I’m going to stick a knife through Peter’s mattress and kill him. Love, Darren.
”

“Ha ha.”

“Hee hee.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “We should look at his journal.”

“It’s probably love letters to Ms. Mosher,” said Jeremy.

Ms. Mosher, who worked in the library, was a perfectly decent if strict woman, but our objective twelve-year-old opinion was that she was the single ugliest human being on the face of the earth. She looked like a not-so-green version of Yoda. Jeremy’s comment ended any trace of a serious conversation, and we broke up into hysterical laughter.

Ten minutes before lights out, Darren left the room to go brush his teeth.

His journal rested on his shelf.

A quick peek couldn’t hurt anything, could it? Sure, there was the flagrant invasion of privacy matter, and the chance that he might have forgotten his toothpaste or dental floss and catch me in the act, and the fact that his journal could be somehow rigged to let him know when unauthorized personnel had gained access, or it could even be booby-trapped, but aside from that…

It was the wrong thing to do.

I decided to do the right thing. I went to bed.

After the cleanup experience, my relationship with Darren changed. He became a bit more comfortable around me, and I became a bit less comfortable around him. It wasn’t just the bird thing; after all, I shared the natural morbid curiosity of any young boy. I’d sun-roasted a few ants in my time, I’d examined the neighbor’s cat with fascination after it got run over by a motorcycle, and once I’d even begged my parents to drive more slowly by a grisly traffic accident, though I was secretly relieved when they refused.

But there was something in his tone, something disturbing that I couldn’t quite identify. I got the sense that, given a chance, Darren wouldn’t just shoot a bird; he’d break its legs and twist its head off. Maybe he’d even press the tip of his tongue against its neck, to get a quick taste.

The remaining weeks of the semester passed, and I made no effort to get a hold of his journal. We spoke more often, usually about schoolwork or TV shows, but we never really crossed the line from roommates to friends. He just made me feel kind of creeped out.

One day I swore I saw him brush a feather off his shirt as he walked into the residence hall, but I searched the entrance for several minutes and couldn’t find it.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. I can’t talk long, we’re on our way out, but how are you doing? Are you studying hard?”

“Pretty hard.”

“Do you still like it there?”

I’d never actually told her that I
did
like it here. “It’s okay.”

“That’s good. Are you getting along with your roommates?”