The House of the Scorpion (35 page)

“Can you swim?” he asked Chacho.

“Where would I learn a swanky thing like that?” Chacho got mean when he was tired. Matt knew that
swanky
meant something only an evil, rotten, spoiled aristocrat would do.

“I know how to swim,” announced Fidelito.

“Where'd a puny loser like you pick it up? In a shrimp tank?” snarled Chacho.

Instead of getting angry, Fidelito treated the suggestion seriously. Matt had noticed that the little boy was amazingly
good-natured. He might wet the bed and barf at the drop of a hat, but his goodwill more than made up for it. “I am puny, aren't I? I could probably swim in these tanks.”

“Yeah, and the shrimp'd eat your weenie off.”

Fidelito cast a startled look at Chacho. “Ooh,” he said. “I didn't think of that.”

“Where did you learn to swim?” Matt asked, to change the subject.

“
Mi abuelita
taught me in Yucatán. We lived on the seashore.”

“Was it nice?”

“
Was
it?” cried Fidelito. “It was heaven! We had a little white house with a grass roof. My grandma sold fish at the market, and she took me out in a canoe on holidays. That's why she taught me to swim, so I wouldn't drown if I fell overboard.”

“If it was so great, why did she run for the border?” Chacho said.

“There was a storm,” the little boy said. “It was a hurry—a hurry—”

“A hurricane?” Matt guessed.

“Yes! And the sea came in and took everything away. We had to live in a refugee camp.”

“Oh,” said Chacho as though he instantly understood.

“We had to live in a big room with a lot of other people, and we had to do everything at the same time in the same way. There weren't any trees, and it was so ugly that
mi abuelita
got sick. She wouldn't eat, so they force-fed her.”

“It is the duty of every citizen to survive and contribute to the general good,” said Chacho. “I've had that yelled at me a couple million times.”

“Why wouldn't they let your grandma go back to the seashore?” asked Matt.

“You don't understand,” Chacho said. “They kept her locked up so they could
help
her. If they turned all the poor suckers loose, there'd be no one left to help, and then there wouldn't be any point to a crotting Keeper's life.”

Matt was astounded. It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard, and yet it made sense. Why else were the boys locked up? They'd run away if someone left the door open. “Is all of Aztlán like this?”

“Of course not,” said Chacho. “Most of it's fine; but once you fall into the hands of the Keepers, you're lost. See, we're certified losers. We don't have houses or jobs or money, so we have to be taken care of.”

“Did you grow up in a camp?” Fidelito asked Matt. It was an innocent question, but it opened the door to things Matt didn't want to talk about. Fortunately, he was saved by the arrival of Carlos in a little electric cart. It purred up so silently, the boys didn't notice it until it was almost upon them.

“I've been watching you for fifteen minutes,” said Carlos. “You've been loafing.”

“The heat was getting to Fidelito,” Chacho said quickly. “We thought he was going to faint.”

“Eat salt,” Carlos told the little boy. “Salt is good for everything. You should turn back now, or you won't make it home before dark.” He started to go off.

“Wait! Can you take Fidelito?” Chacho said. “He's really tired.”

Carlos stopped and backed up. “Boys, boys, boys! Hasn't anyone told you labor is shared equally among equals? If one person has to walk, everyone has to.”

“You're not walking,” Matt pointed out.

Carlos's grin vanished instantly. “So the aristocrat presumes
to lecture us about equality,” he said. “The aristocrat is only a snot-faced boy who thinks he's too good for the rest of us. I am a true citizen. I've earned my privileges through hard work and obedience. No food for you tonight.”

“Crot that,” said Chacho.

“No food for any of you! You'll learn to obey the will of the people if it takes the next fifty years.” Carlos rode off in a plume of dust and salt.

“I'm sorry, Fidelito,” said Chacho. “You didn't deserve to be lumped in with the two of us.”

“I'm proud to be with you,” the little boy cried. “You're my
compadres!
Crot Carlos! Crot the Keepers!” Fidelito looked so fierce with his scrawny chest thrust out and revolution blazing from every pore that both Matt and Chacho broke down with hysterical laughter.

W
hy does everyone keep calling me ‘the aristocrat'?” asked Matt as they trudged back along the line of shrimp tanks.

Chacho wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “I don't know. It's how you talk, partly. And you're always thinking.”

Matt thought about the education he'd received. He'd read a mountain of books. He'd listened to conversations between El Patrón and the most powerful people in the world.

“You're like—I don't know how to put it . . . my grandfather. Your manners, I mean. You don't gobble your food or spit on the floor. I've never heard you swear. It's okay, but it's different.”

Matt felt cold. He'd always copied El Patrón, who was, of course, one hundred years behind the times.

“
Él me cae bien.
I think he's cool,” said Fidelito.

“Of course he's cool. It's only . . . ” Chacho turned to Matt. “Well, you seem used to better things. The rest of us were born in the dirt, and we know we'll never get out of it.”

“We're in this place together.” Matt pointed at the hot desert.

“Yeah. Welcome to hell's baby brother,” Chacho said, scuffing puffs of salt with his feet.

Dinner that night was plankton patties and boiled seaweed. Matt didn't mind fasting, but he felt sorry for Fidelito. The little boy was so skinny, it didn't seem like he could survive a missed meal. Chacho solved the problem by staring at a nervous-looking kid until he managed to get half his food. Chacho could come on like a werewolf when he wanted to.

“Eat,” he told Fidelito.

“I don't want food if you can't have any,” the little boy protested.

“Test it for me. I want to know if it's poison.”

So Fidelito choked the patty down.

As in the first camp, a Keeper arrived to give them an inspirational bedtime story. This one's name was Jorge. They all melted together in Matt's mind: Raúl, Carlos, and Jorge. They all wore black uniforms with beehives on the sleeves, and they were all idiots.

Jorge's story was called “Why Minds Gather Dust Like Old Rooms.” “If we work all day in the hot sun,” said Jorge, “what happens to our bodies?” He waited expectantly, just like Raúl had.

“We get dirty,” a boy said.

“That's right!” the Keeper said, beaming. “Our faces get dirty, our hands get dirty, our whole bodies get dirty. Then what do we do?”

“Take a bath,” the boy said. He seemed used to the drill.

“Yes! We clean off that old muck, and then we feel good again. It's
good
to be clean.”

“It's
good
to be clean,” said all the boys except for Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito. They'd been taken by surprise.

“Let's back up so our new brothers can learn with the rest of us,” said Jorge. “It's
good
to be clean.”

“It's
good
to be clean,” said everyone, including Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito.

“Our minds and our work may also collect dust and need washing,” the Keeper went on. “For example, a door that's always being opened and closed doesn't stick because the hinges never get rusty. Work is the same way. If you don't loaf”—and Jorge looked straight at Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito—“you form good habits. Your work never gets rusty.”

Wait a minute
, thought Matt. Celia's kitchen door was in constant use, but it swelled up on damp days and then you had to force it open with your shoulder. Tam Lin got so irritated by it, he put his fist right through the wood. Then it had to be replaced, and the door worked a lot better afterward. Matt thought these things, but he didn't say them. He didn't want to miss another meal.

“So if we work steadily and don't loaf,” said Jorge, “our work doesn't have time to get dirty. But our minds can fill up with dust and germs too. Can anyone tell me how to keep our minds clean?”

Chacho snickered, and Matt poked him with his elbow. The last thing they needed now was a wisecrack.

Several boys raised their hands, but the Keeper ignored them. “I think one of our new brothers can answer that question. What about you, Matt?”

Instantly, everyone's eyes turned to Matt. He felt like he'd been caught in the cross beams of El Patrón's security lights. “M-Me?” he stammered. “I just got here.”

“But you have so
many
ideas,” Jorge purred. “Surely you wouldn't mind sharing them with us.”

Matt's thoughts raced through the arguments the Keeper had already presented. “Isn't keeping your mind . . . clean . . . like keeping the rust off door hinges? If you use your brain all the time, it won't have time to collect germs.” Matt thought it was a brilliant answer, considering the question had been thrown at him out of the blue.

But it was the wrong answer. He saw the other boys tense and Jorge's mouth quiver on the edge of a smile. He'd been set up.

“Diseased opinions not suited to the good of the people have to be cleaned out with self-criticism,” Jorge said triumphantly. “Would anyone like to show Matt how this is done?”

“Me! Me!” shouted several boys, waving their arms in the air. The Keeper picked one with really spectacular acne covering his neck and ears. All of the boys had bad skin, but this one took the prize. He even had zits nestling in his hair.

“Okay, Ton-Ton. You go first,” said Jorge.

Ton-Ton had a face that looked like it had been slammed into a wall. You could see right up his nostrils and maybe, Matt thought, get a peek at his brain.

“I, uh, I thought about stealing food this morning,” said Ton-Ton eagerly. “The cook left it unguarded for a minute, and I—I, uh, wanted to take a pancake, but I, uh, didn't.”

“So you harbored thoughts contradictory to the general good of the people?” said Jorge.

“I, uh, yes.”

“What punishment should a person have who harbors contradictory thoughts?”

What language were they talking? wondered Matt. Each word seemed clear enough, but the meaning of the whole slipped away.

“I—I ought to, uh, have to recite the Five Principles of Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-Mindfulness twice before, uh, getting food next time,” said Ton-Ton.

“Very good!” cried Jorge. The Keeper selected several more hands after that, and each boy confessed to weird things, like not folding his blanket correctly or using too much soap. The punishments all had to do with chanting the Five Principles of Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-Mindfulness, except for the case of one boy who admitted to taking a three-hour siesta.

Jorge frowned. “That's serious. No breakfast for you,” he said. The boy looked crestfallen.

No more hands shot up. The Keeper turned to Matt. “Now that our new brother has been educated as to the meaning of self-criticism, perhaps he'd like to share his personal shortcomings.” He waited. Ton-Ton and the other boys leaned forward. “Well?” said Jorge after a moment.

“I haven't done anything wrong,” said Matt. A gasp of horror went around the room.

“Nothing wrong?” said the Keeper, his voice rising. “
Nothing wrong?
What about wanting to put computer chips into the heads of innocent horses? What about fouling the bag of plastic strips used for making sandals? What about inciting your brothers to loaf when you were supposed to be cleaning the shrimp tanks?”

“I fouled the plastic strips,” squeaked Fidelito.

He looked scared out of his wits, and Matt quickly said, “It's not his fault. I gave him the bag.”

“Now we're getting somewhere,” Jorge said.

“But I puked!” insisted the little boy.

“It's not your fault, brother,” the Keeper said. “You were led astray by this aristocrat. Be quiet!” he said with a hint of anger when Fidelito looked ready to take the blame again. “The rest of you must help this aristocrat see the error of his ways. We do this because we love him and want to welcome him into the hive.”

Then they all attacked him. Every single boy in the room—except Chacho and Fidelito—hurled an accusation at Matt. He talked like an aristocrat. He folded his blanket in a swanky way. He cleaned under his fingernails. He used words people couldn't understand. Everything Chacho had mentioned—and more—was thrown at Matt like balls of sticky mud. It wasn't the unfairness of the accusations that so hurt him as much as the venom that lay behind them. Matt thought he'd been accepted. He thought he'd at last come to an oasis—ugly and uncomfortable, but still an oasis—where he could feel welcome.