We emerged from the forest and stepped onto the grass surrounding the track. My legs were sore as we walked—I could still feel the imprint of each paintball, and I knew it would be worse tomorrow—but I ignored it. I was having too much fun.
“So, Benson,” Jane said, talking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Lily gave her version of the win. How about yours?”
“It was Saving Private Ryan,” I said. “The massacre on Omaha Beach.”
As our eyes met she gave me a mischievous grin, and the crowd fell silent as they looked to me. We were entering the sculpture garden on the edge of the track, and I hopped up on top of the carved stump.
“Did you ever see the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” I asked, turning to face the V’s and preparing to tell my embarrassing story.
But I instantly knew from their faces that something was wrong. Their smiles were gone, replaced with blank and somber stares. Jane was holding her breath, and Lily bit her lip. Mason stepped through the crowd and grabbed my arm, pulling me down from the stump.
“What?”
Instead of answering he pointed down at the carvings. Heather Lyon
Died in the war
Will be missed
On the side, shallower and less well carved, someone had scrawled, I love you.
I stared at Mason, too horrified to speak, and then looked at another of what I had assumed to be sculptures—this one a pile of basketball-size rocks. The top one was flat and
someone had painted words on it. JEFF “L.A.” HOLMES SUMMER ’09
Curtis put his hand on my shoulder. “This is the graveyard. I’m sorry. Someone should have told you.”
“What do you mean?” I said, now frantically moving from grave to grave. “How are these people dying?”
Mason spoke. “What did I tell you? This place is dangerous.”
Curtis nodded, following me as I moved from a log to a small wooden plaque to a large smooth stone. The stone had fresh flowers on it that couldn’t have been more than a few days old. I read the name—some other kid, just like me.
“It used to be worse,” Curtis said. “Before the truce.”
“What was the war?”
“It was as the gangs were forming. Things got pretty bad.”
I stared at him and then at the faces of the other V’s. There were tears on a few cheeks. Jane had turned away. My chest felt tight and I could feel my hands balling into fists, almost on their own. These people hadn’t been killed by the school. They’d been killed by other students. There were a dozen graves, at least.
“Come on,” Curtis said. “Let’s get back inside.”
I refused to go to the infirmary, even though Mason pestered me for the rest of the day. When we’d gotten back to the dorm and I took off my shirt, the one small bruise from my failed escape had multiplied into at least fifteen welts on my chest and back, and eight more on my arms. There were two lumps on the back of my head, under my hair, and someone had hit me in the ankle—that one broke the skin.
After showering, I spent the evening in my room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and I definitely didn’t want to join the party. On the walk back I’d felt like maybe I was fitting in and that seemed like a good thing. Maybe this school, for all the craziness, was better than any other alternative. The food was good, the paintball was fun, and I was making friends—real friends. But the graveyard had changed that. I didn’t want friends and I didn’t want food. I wanted to get out.
Curtis dropped by as the sun was going down and tried to talk me into going to the party, but I told him I was too sore and too exhausted from sleeping in the window well. It was a lousy excuse—he’d been through worse yesterday and hadn’t gotten any more sleep than I had—but I guessed he knew the real reason why I didn’t want to go. Still, he played along.
“You can get some ibuprofen down in the infirmary,” Curtis said.
“I’d have to deal with some Society moron.”
“You’d like the girl who works down there,” he said. “Blond, cute.”
I was lying flat on my back, but nothing was comfortable. “Laura is blond and cute, too. And she tried to send me to detention.”
“That’s Laura,” Curtis said. “This girl’s cool. Anna.”
“No thanks.” I’d already heard about the infirmary from Mason. In addition to Anna, Dylan worked there. I didn’t want to see him again, let alone ask him for help.
Curtis nodded, leaning over to look at a small photo of the Brooklyn Bridge that Mason had hung above his desk. “Your loss. There are a lot of cute girls here.”
I sighed, staring at the bunk above me. “I know.” I rolled onto my side but found it just as painful as my back. Curtis was still there, like he was waiting for something. “I’ll give Maxfield one thing: There’s a lot to be said for the uniforms in this place. Girls at my schools never wore skirts.”
He laughed. “Anyone in particular?”
I shook my head, and even that sent little bolts of pain up my neck.
“I think Jane likes you,” he pestered. “The V’s have all the best girls. Jane, Gabby, Rosa, Lily. Carrie, of course, but she’s taken.”
“I’m getting out of here,” I said, closing my eyes. “Not dating.”
“Have it your way.” I heard his footsteps against the hardwood floor as he left the room.
This was all so stupid, so fake. The people in here only knew about things going on inside the school, and they’d convinced themselves that it was all okay. They dated. They studied. Lily had said that in her spare time she planned new paintball tactics. And now they were downstairs celebrating that they’d won a game. In the last three days I’d gotten kidnapped, been on the losing side of two fights, fallen out of a tree while trying to escape, and been shot repeatedly. And this afternoon, at the graveyard, I’d discovered that my problems were just beginning. It could get a lot worse.
Mason came back from the showers a few minutes later. I was lying down, eyes closed. I felt like crying but didn’t want to let the security cameras see.
“Who do you follow?” I asked, needing to talk about something outside the walls of Maxfield Academy. I cracked open one eye. “Sports teams, I mean.”
Mason looked puzzled. “Nobody, I guess. Not anymore, of course.” He dug through his closet for some casual clothes. “I follow paintball.”
I stared at the bunk above me. “What sports did you like? Before you got tossed in here.”
“Used to play a little baseball.”
“The Giants took the Series last year. Where are you from, anyway?”
He tapped on the photo by his desk. “New York. I tore that out of a textbook a couple months ago. Don’t tell on me.”
“The Yankees are having a good year. Mets, too. The Knicks won’t. They never do.”
Mason pulled a sweater on, getting dressed for the party. “I barely remember the teams. It’s been too long, I guess.”
I rolled onto my side. I need medicine.
“I’m not going to be here long enough to forget,” I said, more to myself than to him.
I tried to sleep, but it just wasn’t coming. I hurt too much to get comfortable, and my brain kept replaying my escape attempt, trying to think of a new solution to getting over the wall. I could make a rope. It wouldn’t be hard to use the bedsheets. For the first time ever I could see how that movie cliche got started—it was by far the easiest substitute for rope I could think of. But then what would I do with it? The brick wall was fairly smooth—there wouldn’t be anything for a grappling hook to hold on to, even if I could make one.
I could chop down a tree, maybe. Lean it against the wall and climb it like a ladder. That’d be easier with more people, but no one seemed to be stepping up to the plate to help me, even the V’s.
Maybe I could dig under the wall. The groundskeeping sheds had to have shovels. But then I’d have to persuade Havoc to help me. Or break in.
I got out of bed. There was no use trying to sleep anymore. I moved to the window and checked my watch in the pale moonlight. It was just after three o’clock.
