Room Nine

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Room Nine Young Adult 50,000 words By Ilan Herman [email protected] 530-677-8878

Chapter One

Hands on her hips, my mom stood in the doorway to my room. I was lying on my bed reading a book, and looked up to see her squint and pucker her lips. I rolled my eyes. There she goes again. “Did you finish your homework?” “Almost,” I lied and turned a page in my book. “Where is it? I want to see what you did.” “I’m busy. Later, when I’m done reading.” “You need to tidy up your room.” I turned another page in my book. “I will, soon.” “Now! Look at this mess. Fold up your clothes and clean your desk. Look at this carpet. I’m not going to tidy up after you anymore.”

2 “I’ll do it, soon,” I said, my eyes pinned to the page. “Now!” “Soon!” “Now!” I slammed the book on the bed and stood up. “It’s my room. I’ll tidy when I’m damn ready.” “It’s my house, and these are my rules!” “It’s my house, too,” I yelled. “I have rights.” My mom walked into the room and, with a wide swipe of her arm, sent a pile of books and folders flying off my desk. They scattered all over the floor. “What the hell are you doing?” I screamed. “Get out of my room!” She walked up to me and slapped my face. “Don’t you dare scream at me,” she hissed and shook a finger under my nose. “Screw you and your rules,” I shouted. “I don’t wanna live in this house anymore.” My eyes widened in defiance. What are you going to do? My mom narrowed her eyes. “You don’t appreciate anything. You’re lazy and rude. Maybe you’re right. You shouldn’t live in this house anymore.” “Good!” I stormed out of my room and out of the house, to a nearby park where I sat under a pine tree and punched the ground until the skin peeled off my knuckles. I wished I didn’t have to live another day under her roof.

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Later that night, my mom yelled, “Talk to him! Your son is out of control.” Even as my dad straightened his shoulders, they remained tired, as did his brown eyes, saddened by the bickering that had turned our once peaceful family life into a toxic brew. Holding a snifter of brandy in his right hand, a pipe perched between his lips, he leaned back in his brown armchair and sighed, “What did you do now, Jacob?” Sitting on the couch across from him, I lowered my head, gazed at the carpet and listened to his fingers tap on the snifter. “He’s been absent from school for two weeks. This came from the principal today,” my mom said. She fished in her apron pocket, and slapped the letter on the living room coffee table. My dad put on his reading glasses. His face locked in a stoic expression, he read the page that detailed my transgression. He placed the letter back on the table, and brought out his pipe kit from his sweater’s inside pocket. Tense silence lingered while he cleaned out the pipe and then stuffed it with tobacco—a blend stored in a dark-blue pouch and that smelled like vanilla. He performed the ritual slowly, eyes fixed on the pipe. My mom stood waiting, tapping her right foot, arms on her hips. Then she stomped her way to the kitchen. That night the wind howled. The cold mid-December sky lit up with lightning and rumbled with thunder; whips of rain slammed against the walls of the house; the clotheslines in the yard hummed like a swarm of bees. I rubbed my palms, nervously waiting for my dad’s response. He pointed to the letter. “What did you do all week if you weren’t in school?”

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It was my first year of high school, one located in the downtown district, an area rife with matinee kung fu movies, pool halls, sidewalks crowded with low-lifes, and market stalls selling almost anything one desired. Within the first week of school, I’d befriended Ethan, a kid who carried a wallet filled with cash, which he shared with me, who didn’t have money ‘cause I never completed the chores my mom gave me, and thus was deprived of my allowance. Ethan looked older than a ninth grader—muscular, with broad shoulders and stubble on his chin. I appreciated his street swagger, how he treated adults as equals, and he enjoyed my bookish, oratory skills. We’d meet at the entrance to the underground, and then dine at a Greek restaurant that served fresh spanakopitas— spinach and cheese pastries, and then catch a matinee, or play pool and pinball, or wander the clamoring downtown streets. At three in the afternoon, we’d ride the underground up the mountain to where I lived amid the middleclass, and from where Ethan caught a bus that took him further up the mountain–where the wealthy lived.

I shrugged at my dad and said, “Nothin’.” “I see,” and then he asked, “How do you think you should you be punished?” “Dunno.” “I see.” His tempered voice dropped lower, thus more ominous. He placed the pipe in the ashtray and rose from his chair. “Let’s have dinner.” I followed him to the kitchen where my mom, brow etched with worry, served meat patties and mashed potatoes. We ate in silence for a few minutes when my dad looked at my mom and said, “I’ll talk with Arnie tomorrow. It’s probably time.”

5 She sighed and shook her head. “I certainly have no answers.” Arnie and my dad had fought in the war together. A big man with a bulbous nose and rosy cheeks, Arnie stayed in the service, and had ties to military and political figures. A restless twinge swirled in my gut. “What about?” “About you,” my dad said. “What about me?” The knot in my gut tightened. “About placing you in a military school,” he said, and replenished his plate with mashed potatoes from the pink bowl sitting at the center of the table. I laughed. The words sounded outrageous. My ears felt hot. “What do you mean?” My eyes darted from his stoic face to my mom’s emotional one; she wiped a tear. “We cannot continue like this,” he said matter of factly. “What we ask of you goes in one ear and right out the other.” “I hate armies and soldiers, and I’m not going!” I yelled, and stormed away from the table and out the front door, which I slammed as hard as I could. The rain slapped my face, but I embraced the downpour. I took off running toward the pool hall about a mile from my house. As I ran, I recalled the ominous tone in my dad’s subdued voice. Was he really about to send me away? I raised my head at the downpour and cussed loudly into the stormy night.

“You’re wetter than a drowned cat,” said Gabriel, nicknamed Gabi, the night manager, a sixteen-year-old redhead with bushy eyebrows and a permanent sneer who was practicing at one of the pool tables. Aside from us, the place was empty. I took off my sweatshirt and stood shaking my wet hair by the heater.

6 Gabi asked, “You got any money?” and pointed to the pool cues on the wall. “I don’t have cash, but I’ll owe you,” I lied, “I’m good for it.” “Right. And I’m going on a date with Sofia Loren.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Why, you afraid to lose?” Gabi snickered. “Lose to you? I don’t think so, Schmidt!” He started setting up the balls. As we played, I told Gabi about my brewing crisis. “My cousin’s in military school,” he said, and sunk the five of stripes. “He digs it.” “How come?” “Says it gets him out of his mom’s hair. He hates his mom.” I frowned. “My mom’s a real pain.” “My mom’s okay,” Gabi said and concentrated on sinking the seven of stripes. Then he coated his cue’s tip with blue chalk. “My dad’s the problem, beats the crap outta me sometimes.” “My dad doesn’t hit me,” I said, “and neither does my mom, except she slapped me today.” “They’ll be out my hair in two years. Then I’m moving to Australia,” Gabi said and aimed at the eight ball. He struck it gently, and sent it into the far right pocket to win the game. I looked outside. The rain had eased. It was almost ten o’clock, according to the dusty clock on the wall above a creaky pinball machine, time the pool hall closed on weeknights.

7 We emptied trashcans, swept the floor, turned off the hot dog grill, and stored the billiard balls in red plastic cases that we placed in a wooden cupboard that Gabi secured with a brass lock. While we tidied up, Gabi told me about his cousin in military school: they shot real guns; he looked impressive in his ironed uniform, collar starched and stiff; girls liked the uniform that made a teenager look older than his years. It calmed me to hear the stories, though I suspected the cousin in question elaborated upon his life, and omitted the more painful parts of military routine—useless, dogmatic rules that would make my mom’s seem harmless.

As I walked home, the rain now a pleasant drizzle, I realized that my parents had discussed the matter in detail prior to that night. Maybe my dad had tired of the bickering. Maybe the thought of sitting in his chair, with only his brandy snifter and the aromatic pipe as his companions, was too good to deny. Even through my veil of anger, I knew that he loved me and wanted the best for me, but that he was exhausted from the presence of a belligerent teenager who thought he was always right. I recalled when I was twelve: my dad joined me on a three mile swim across a lake, part of youth activities promoted by my school. He was fifty-two when he swam across the lake. My mom tried to discourage him from attending the swim, warned that he could get a heart attack, but my dad shrugged her off. “It means the world to Jacob.” It had meant the world to me. If not for my mom’s relentless insistence on me cleaning my room, doing homework, attending class, and avoiding too many sweets, everything would be fine.

8 Why couldn’t she be like Ethan’s mom, who let him do whatever he wanted and packed his wallet with money? When I asked Ethan how he got away with cutting school, he said that his dad never graduated from high school, yet owned a highly profitable furniture factory. Ethan held out his calloused palms. “From the time I was seven I worked summers in the factory. I can build a cabinet or a table, pretty much anything, and I know how to do the books. All my dad cares about is that I take over the factory when he retires. He figures if I can do that, he doesn’t care what else I do, says that street smarts are sometimes better than school smarts.” Ethan pointed out the window of the Greek restaurant we sat in. The street teemed with pedestrians rushing to and fro, middle-aged men in suits and ties, young women, dress hems above their knees, high-heeled shoes clicking on the pavement. Merchants, young and old, skinny and fat, mustached and bald, advertised their wares with loud voices from open stalls. The merchants’ voices combined with honking cabs and the rumble of diesel buses spewing gray soot from their tailpipes to create a raucous scene. Ethan leaned back in his chair, offered me a cigarette, and lit both his and mine. He dragged and exhaled three smoke rings. “Ain’t life grand?” I pointed to the street. “Who needs to sit in a classroom and listen to crap you’ll never use, when you have this?” Ethan said, “Amen.”

9 The storm clouds had dispersed by the time I got home. My parents’ bedroom door was shut. I walked quietly to my room, got into bed, and lay in the dark waiting for my restless thoughts to give way to sleep.

The next morning was a quiet one at the breakfast table, a sign the previous night’s decisions held firm. As he did daily, my dad ate toast and soft-boiled eggs, drank tea, and hid behind a newspaper. My mom served me fried eggs with toast and a glass of milk, then followed her routine and retired to her bedroom where she drank coffee and listened to classical music on the radio. Longing for my innocent childhood now replaced with teenage confusion, I sighed and slouched in my chair. My dad folded his newspaper and looked at me, his eyes tinged with the fatigue of a busy life. “It’s for the best,” he offered. “It’ll be good for you.” “I don’t wanna talk about it!” I yelled and stormed away from the kitchen, and out the front door. Blue skies greeted me, and a pale, chilly sun; the fragrance of damp earth sent pleasant shivers up my spine. Ethan wasn’t waiting at our usual spot by the underground. Confused in my loneliness, I attended class, where I kept busy staring at girls whose skirts, from the right angle—as when I pretended to drop a pen and leaned down to pick it up—revealed the mysterious darkness between their thighs. After two classes, even that lost its appeal. I took the underground up the mountain and visited the pool hall. Other students cutting school hung out playing doubles, and I waited for the chance to join a game.

10 A quiet evening at home followed, with nothing mentioned about the coming change. My mom chose to rearrange the linen cupboards, while my dad smoked his pipe and buried his face in the current Newsweek edition. I tried to read in my room but my mind thumped with anxiety and I couldn’t concentrate. I needed to try to change the verdict. I joined my dad in the living room, sat on the couch, and waited silently until he lowered the magazine and looked at me. “What is it, son?” “I promise to stop skipping class and to improve my grades.” “You’ve said that before, but haven’t kept your promises.” “I know, but this is different.” He shrugged. “Somehow I don’t think it is.” Despair and rage rose in my heart. “How can you just send me away? You don’t love me.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You don’t really believe that. I wouldn’t send you to the academy unless I thought it would do you good.” I stomped my foot. “You can’t decide what’s good for me.” “Yes I can.” He returned to reading his magazine. I stomped off to my room and slammed the door. I slept badly, and dreamt about sergeants screaming, “Clean the toilet, cadet, or you fry!” while striking me with mops and plungers.

11 The next morning, the last day of the fall semester, Ethan waited at our meeting place by the underground station. With him was a gorgeous blonde, blue-eyed girl with pouty lips and a small, delicate nose. I nervously noticed the outline of her ample breasts pressing against the fabric of her red school uniform. Ethan introduced her as “Edith, my girl.” The name Edith—reminiscent of an aging aunt—did not fit her. I blushed and nodded hello. I felt inadequate and juvenile in her presence. I couldn’t fathom how I’d behave in the company of such a sexy girl, were the two of us ever alone. “Ethan didn’t tell me you were so cute.” Edith giggled and reached out to shake my hand. My blush deepened as I felt her soft fingers rest in my palm. We spent the day doing what we always did, but I knew it was time to bid farewell to the bustling streets of the downtown district, to Ethan and I smoking cigarettes, peeking down alleys where drunks lay slumped against urine-stained walls, and the motel where whores entertained, red leather miniskirts showing thighs wrapped in black fishnet stockings, johns nervously scanning the rough surroundings, pimps watching from hidden corners. All that would soon give way to dreary barracks and tasteless food, morning marches and night curfews. I shared my situation with Ethan. He let out a protracted whistle. “Dang it, you’re screwed.” My shoulders slumped. I sat in silence, and then said, “It was fun hangin’ out with you.” “Same here, buddy, though I gotta tell you that even if you stayed in town, with me and Edith, you know . . . I won’t be around much.”

12 “I know.” The door slammed shut on whatever good life had to offer. “Also, my dad said I can quit school and work for him. I turned sixteen last week.” “Sixteen! But you’re in ninth grade.” He shrugged and laughed. “Yeah, I got left behind a couple of years.” I groaned and shook my head. It was three o’clock—time to ride the underground up the mountain. Ethan held out his rough palm. “Call me when you’re back in town.” I shook his hand. “I will,” and started to walk away when Edith chimed in her pretty voice, “Good luck, Jacob.” “Thanks.” I blushed and kept walking, awkward and unattractive in her presence. I wondered how men and women found each other. How would it feel to kiss a girl? That was impossible for me to fathom. I decided that I’d probably never have a girlfriend.

Winter break passed in solemn inactivity. Feeling martyred and sorry for myself, I stayed in my room most of the time. At dinner, I sat in brooding silence that tormented my parents. I thought of running away to join a circus, or living the hobo life riding freight trains, or becoming a stowaway on a ship sailing to the Orient, or finding a cave in the mountains where I’d live as a hermit in dignified solitude. Every ambitious plan that rose in my mind crumbled, hindered by my lack of funds. Had it been summer, I assured myself, I’d have run off, hitchhiked south, slept on a beach, and found work as a dishwasher in a hotel.

13 Two drawers in my room stored action figures and marbles, and toy soldiers, and a collection of farm animals—toys I’d once enjoyed playing with. As a child, I couldn’t wait to become a teenager—a magical age. It wasn’t. Being a teenager was depressing and scary. I vacillated between elation and dread concerning the military school. More than anything, I feared initiations. I’d read about the vicious rituals practiced by older cadets on younger ones. “Fresh meat” they were called in one book. My imagination floated to scenes of being tied to the bed, doused with freezing water, or scalding water, and beaten with broomsticks by a group of masked strangers. On my last evening at home, my mom cooked my favorite dinner: oven-roasted chicken with mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and brownies for dessert. Her eyes were red from crying. After dinner, she brought down a suitcase from the attic and packed it for me. My dad sat in his armchair and smoked his pipe. I sat on the couch and stared at the carpet. “You look pale,” he said, concern in his voice. “What are you thinking about?” “I’m afraid of getting beat up, like in an initiation,” I whispered, ashamed of my cowardice. My dad chuckled. “This is 1961. Barbaric rituals like that don’t exist anymore, and anyone who’s a bully is sure to be expelled. Besides, you’ll be living in barracks and have military duties, but you’ll also be attending the county high school, sharing it with local civilian teenagers.” “I don’t understand,” I said. In my weeks of sulking, I hadn’t asked any questions about the academy.

14 “It’s a big school,” my dad said. He winked and smiled. “Lots of girls, too.” “Oh…,” was all I could say, my imagination awash with visions of hundreds of attractive girls. “How come the academy doesn’t have its own school?” “No budget to hire teachers and buy school materials,” he said. “There are only about three hundred cadets, about seventy-five for each high school year.” “Oh…,” I said, comforted by the relative intimacy of my future dwellings, no longer imagining the anonymity of a large academy with a sprawling campus. Carrying a tray of warm, moist brownies, my mom joined us. She sat in her armchair—a pink one, smaller than my dad’s, with slimmer armrests—and passed out brownies on paper plates. After she watched me eat one, then another, then a third, fourth, and fifth, she said, “You’re my boy, and I will always love you.” Her voice trembled. Appeased by the desperation in her voice, I mumbled, “I know.” Tears crept up my throat but I swallowed them. We sat, brewing in sadness, our anger dissipated. “You’ll be fine, Jacob,” my dad said. “It’ll be an exciting, new life. You’re a very smart boy. Make the best of it.” Later that night, alone in my bed, the dark room silent but for a cool winter breeze seeping in with a whistle from beneath the shut windows, I let my tears stain the pillowcase.

A gray, windy day greeted my dad and me as we walked to the car. He carried the suitcase and placed it in the trunk. My mom, wearing a green cloth bathrobe and matching slippers, stood in the doorway, but then she rushed toward me. She wrapped her

15 warm arms around me. Even though I’d been trying to reject that warmth in my need for independence, it still evoked comforting childhood memories. “I’ll be okay, don’t worry.” I said, though my heart beat fast. She kissed my cheeks, then backed away to stand in the doorway and watch us enter the car. As we drove off, I looked back to see her waving, until we turned a corner and I could see her no more.

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Chapter Two

“Mom looked pretty sad,” I said. “She loves you,” my dad said and smiled at me. “So do I.” I sighed. “Me and her sure got on each other’s nerves.” “It’s part of growing up,” he said. “I didn’t get along with my old man when I was a teenager.” My granddad, whom my dad rarely mentioned, died long before I was born. “How come?” I asked. My dad shrugged. “We all need to create our own reality. I joined the army when I was seventeen, lied about my age. I preferred living in a foxhole than living at home.” I laughed. “Sounds like you also had all the answers.” We now drove on a two-lane road that snaked its way through fields and orchards waiting for spring, to bloom with offerings. “Do you know what menopause is?” my dad asked. I shrugged. “Something to do with women?” “Yes,” he said. “When women reach a certain age, like fifty, their body starts to change. It’s a tough time for them. They get hot flashes and some become depressed.” He looked at me, eyes questioning my understanding. “Is mom going through that?” I really needed to know.

17 “Yes,” he said and looked away. He didn’t want to talk about my mom anymore. That was okay. I knew what he was trying to tell me: He loved my mom but also acknowledged her temperament. I wasn’t an evil boy. That was a good thing to know, because sometimes I felt I was evil.

We’d been driving for two hours when we ascended a windy road. At the vista point, my dad said, “Here’s the academy,” and pointed to the valley below. Most of the grounds obscured by willow and pine trees, I could see buildings and well-maintained lawns. Expecting bare land, dusty trails, guard towers, and barbed wire, I was disarmed by the peaceful setting, and sat up to see better.

We drove up to a guard post manned by a cadet wearing a dark blue uniform with red stripes on the sleeves. His blue eyes were serious and, even though he’d no doubt shaved that morning, I saw the darkening pores above his upper lip and on his cheeks. The cadet pressed a button that lifted the white crossing. We drove up and parked by an olive-green building that housed the administration. The air in the building smelled of disinfectant. Our quick footsteps, in tandem with my rushing heart, echoed off the shiny parquet floor as we walked down a well-lit corridor with a high ceiling and arrived at a glass door that displayed the sign, Colonel Brackett. My dad smiled. “Ready to meet your new boss?” “I guess.” I wished to be anywhere but there. He knocked on the door. A voice said, “Come in.”

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Colonel Brackett was a short, balding man with a thin, gray mustache and paleblue eyes. His smile, showing one chipped front tooth, was fake. I didn’t like him. “So, you’re Jacob. I’m your commander, Colonel Brackett.” His handshake was squishy soft. I didn’t want to take commands from him, but I knew he could and would bully me if I stood up to him. “Reporting for duty, sir,” I joked. Brackett didn’t smile. He gestured to the two chairs facing his desk and said, “Please have a seat.” Restless minutes passed while my dad signed forms and asked questions. Brackett sat behind a large oak desk and swirled his thin mustache with a forefinger and thumb. He looked smug. I grew to hate him then and there. Then it was time for my dad to leave. Brackett came out from behind his desk and handed me a thick beige folder. “Rules and regulations for you to read,” he said, as the three of us walked out to the hallway. Brackett pointed to a shut door. “You can wait in there.” My dad hugged me; the scent of Old Spice aftershave tingled my nostrils. I waited for him to pull away. I would’ve been content to hug him indefinitely as I held back tears and bit my lips. “Be a good boy, Jacob,” he said. “Make your mom and me proud.”

19 I looked up at him. “I will,” I whispered, when I saw the mist cloud his eyes. I stood in the hallway and watched my dad and the colonel walk away. My dad turned and waved to me. I waved back. Then he was gone.

The generic wooden door leading to my future was painted beige. Nothing about it signified the new world I was about to enter. The room had large windows that let in the bright winter sun, and I was surprised to find two boys about my age, suitcases by their sides. One boy was tall and heavy, though not fat, and had dark hair and eyes. A chubby nose centered his round face, and his large ears tilted forward. He looked like a circus clown without needing makeup or a frizzy wig. The other boy, short and skinny, had blue eyes, wavy blonde hair, and a pouting lower lip. He was aggressively chewing his fingernails. The tall one asked, “Who’re you?” “Jacob,” I said. “I’m new.” “So are we. I’m Philip,” the boy said and pointed to the frowning blonde kid. “He’s Benji.” I straightened my shoulders. “Nice to meet you, Philip. You too, Benji.” I sat down, opened the folder and started to read through a labyrinth of endless dos and don’ts. “There will be a test tomorrow at o-nine-hundred hours,” Philip said, and then twitched his large ears and made a sullen face. I laughed. He reminded me of Dumbo with his ears that served as wings. Philip quivered his wide nostrils and twitched his ears. I laughed again; the tension of the unfamiliar setting melted away.

20 “You’re easy,” Philip said. He pointed to the frowning Benji—arms now crossed over his bony chest. “This guy’s tough.” Philip stood up, turned his back on us, then dropped his pants and exposed a large and pudgy bottom. The bright winter sun shining through the big windows highlighted the glowing red pimples on his ass. I was swaying with laughter, Philip was shaking his torso, and Benji chewed on his fingernails when the door opened and Brackett walked in. Philip quickly pulled up his pants. Thin mustache quivering, the commanding officer walked up to Philip, then rose to stand on his toes, his nose flat against Phillip’s bulbous one. Eyes blinking rapidly with the desire to rule, he growled, “Looking for trouble on day one?” “No, sir.” Philip backed away and sat on the bench. “On your feet!” Brackett barked. Clutching our suitcases, we walked outside and followed the colonel up a trail to a grassy field where a group of cadets marched in formation. “’Tention!” cried the soldier leading the troops. The cadets stopped, arms tucked to their sides, thumbs in a fist, flush with the seam of their pants and pointing to the ground. Brackett and the soldier exchanged salutes and spoke in hushed tones as we, the three soon-to-be cadets, stood quietly. I was embarrassed by the many unfamiliar eyes boring through me. Brackett saluted and walked off. He raised an eyebrow in warning as he passed us. The soldier, a stocky man with thick-lensed glasses and dark, curly hair, said curtly, “What you waitin’ for?” We rushed to stand beside him, now facing the cadets.

21 “State your name,” the soldier snapped and pointed to me. He had a lisp in his speech, S’s tinged with an underlying Th. “Jacob Schmidt,” I said. “I can’t heeear you!” “Jacob Schmidt,” I said louder. “Jacob Schmidt, what!” “Jacob Schmidt, sir,” I complied, feeling I was taking part in a bad comic sketch. Sergeant Fillmore, as he informed us of his name, then put Philip and Benji through a similar routine. As he did, I looked over the group of cadets now part of my life. Tall and short, skinny and fat, dark-skinned and fair-skinned, some ignored me, but most snickered. Dressed in brown uniforms, their pants were tucked into black boots that came up to their lower calves. Their hair was crew cut. They were a group of boys to be reckoned with. Sergeant Fillmore pointed to a lanky cadet with a bad case of acne. “Show them to the barracks, Cadet Maurice. They’re assigned to room nine.” The boy saluted and clipped, “Yes, sir!”

Led by the fast-paced Maurice, we walked to the far side of the school. My arms and shoulders ached; the suitcase grew heavier by the second; it seemed my mom had packed it with rocks and metal bars. “Stop,” I cried, “I need a break.” I let the suitcase drop to the ground and sat on it. Philip and Benji did the same. Maurice shrugged. “Go ahead. Less marching practice for me.”

22 A squirrel rushed through the grass and scaled a tree where it sat watching us. Maurice grabbed a stone and threw it at the squirrel. The stone hit the spot where the rodent once crouched, as it disappeared into the higher branches. The lanky cadet sneered. “Quick little bastards, but a beebee gun gets’em just fine.” “Why do you need to hurt a squirrel?” Benji said in his high-pitched, nervous voice. Maurice walked up to the skinny blonde kid who stood up to meet him. Almost a foot taller than Benji, the acne-riddled Maurice leaned over the new cadet. Forefinger poking Benji’s chest, he said, “For your information, after I kill’em, I eats ’em.” Almost as tall as Maurice, but wider, Philip rose from his suitcase. “Leave my buddy alone or you deal with me,” he said in a tempered voice. “I don’t need your help,” Benji squeaked, though he did sit back down. Maurice and Philip glared at each other. No one blinked. Then Maurice said, “I’ll deal with you later. Now I have a job to do,” and strode toward the barracks. We picked up our suitcases and labored to catch up with the lanky cadet who ignored us until we reached three rectangular flat-roofed wooden houses, walls painted white, doors painted light blue. The barracks were centered by a concrete courtyard and a flagpole flying a white flag with a golden sword and a black-covered book crisscrossing each other. Maurice walked up to one of the doors and stood waiting for us, short of breath, and sore of arms, to join him. He pointed to the open door that had a brass 9 on it. “That’s your room,” he said with a frown, and walked off.

23

Philip chuckled. “What a jerk.” Then he raised his beefy arms and cried, “Welcome to the neighborhood,” and marched into the room. Benji and I followed. Room nine was about fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. In it were three narrow beds, headboards flush against the right wall. Three small wooden desks lined up the opposite wall. A tall cupboard faced the doorway. On the far side, a window with a rusty screen overlooked a grassy slope. Orange sunrays filtered through the window screen and lit up dust particles that floated and settled on the wood floor. “I’m taking this one,” Philip said and rushed to the bed by the window. Benji chose the middle bed. I figured he preferred being closer to Philip, now his official protector. I pushed my suitcase to my bed and reclined on the thin, uneven mattress. The springs on the metal bed frame squeaked. I placed my palms under my neck and rested on the rough, olive-green blanket that covered beige sheets and a flat pillow. Benji opened his suitcase and started to unpack. “How come you guys ended up here?” Philip asked. “Ain’t none of your business,” Benji said. Philip widened his eyes. “Excuse the crap outta me.” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “My mom and I weren’t gettin’ along, and I was cuttin’ school, so my dad, who used to be in the army, thought this place will be good for me.” I tried to sound casual. “Moms are a pain in the butt,” Philip said and held up his middle finger. “Why are you here?” I asked. “They caught me stealin’ a car, no big deal.”

24 “You can drive?” I cried. Philip puffed his cheeks and exhaled noisily. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

Moments later, the cadets returned and the compound hummed with boys dashing in and out of rooms, voices loud with laughter, language foul with cusswords. The winter sun vanished behind the hills to the west, leaving a chill in the air. We stayed in our room and were unpacking, when a short and rotund, bespectacled boy came to the door. “I’m Moses.” He had a deep voice that defied his baby-faced appearance. “Where’s your Ten Commandments?” Philip asked. “Funny stuff,” Moses said and rolled his eyes. “My job’s to show you the bathrooms and showers and take you to the mess hall.” Philip turned to Benji and me. “I like this guy,” he said and smacked Moses on the shoulder. The cadet lurched forward—a woozy barrel—but managed not to tip over. “Can we go now?” he said and rolled his eyes again. “There’s too much love in this room.” We followed him up a path that led to a concrete building with a large room fogged up with steam from showers dousing naked boys. Beside the showers stood mustard-colored benches laden with towels and bathroom bags. Waiting for the boys to finish their shower, were more boys, and more boys yet, finished with their showers, stood in front of mirrors, grooming themselves and getting dressed. Unprepared for the communal nudity, I blushed. I’d never seen such a sight—my exposure limited to sleepovers with close friends. Philip grinned. Benji remained his

25 laconic self. I couldn’t keep my eyes from shifting to study the many penises. A few of the boys had privates like grown men, covered with hair. “Can we leave?” I asked. We walked out and continued up the hill to the latrines—a wooden shack with eight toilets set with open stalls. “Latrine duty is once a month for each cadet,” Moses said and plugged his nose. Philip let out a protracted fart. I considered farts a good way to break the ice, so I let one fly too, as did Moses. Benji shook his head. “Mine are too lethal for amateurs like you.” “He cracked a joke!” Philip cried. “There’s hope for him.” Moses glanced at his wristwatch. “Dinnertime.” We followed him to a large concrete building, where the whole school—three hundred and fifty cadets and one hundred staff—dined three times a day. In two long lines, carrying trays and utensils, the cadets received their meals cafeteria style. We sat at a long rectangular table. A dozen mouth-stuffing, loud-chewing, noisy cadets grew silent when we joined. There was a dark-skinned boy with a hooked nose; another was brown-skinned with blue eyes and a square jaw. Another boy had high cheekbones and slanted eyes, maybe of European and Asian heritage. The boys offered curious glances and nods. We did the same. Then I buried my face in the tray and ate the fried chicken, French fries, and coleslaw. I was hungry and the food tasted great. We disposed of our plates in sinks where cadets cloaked in black rubber aprons stood washing dishes. We walked out and down a trail. Moses pointed to a drab-looking

26 shack. “That’s the commissary, open from three to four. They sell bathroom stuff, candy, school stuff.” “What kinda candy?” Benji asked. “Candy with sugar and chocolate. You could probably eat a hundred candy bars and stay skinny, but me,” Moses slapped his sloping waist. “I gotta keep my handsome figure.” “You’re a Greek God in the making,” Philip said. Moses snickered. “Look who’s talkin.’” We visited the clothing room and received our civilian school uniform: khaki pants and shirt, and a blue blazer with the school logo—a pyramid—sewn on its breast pocket. We also received our military uniform: dark olive-green pants and shirt, black boots, and a black beret. The crisply ironed fabric offered an orderly antidote to the otherwise confusing day. I thought about my parents. How would they get through the first evening without me? Was the sudden silence welcomed? I imagined my mom crying, while my dad watched on and said, “Jacob will be fine.” Philip interrupted my thoughts. “I’m gettin’ me some hot babes wearing this uniform.” “Ain’t no uniform gonna help you,” Moses said. Philip snorted. “Whatever you say, Casanova.” “Better enjoy your hair,” Moses said and pointed to his crew cut. “The barber’s done for today, but tomorrow,” his fingers imitated scissors, “Zip zoom zap!” Philip laughed. “Zip zoom zap? What’re you, Batman?”

27 We bid Moses farewell and returned to the welcome familiar of room nine. Across from us was room eight and three bookish boys who ignored us. Lights out time was nine, or, in military speak, twenty-one hundred hours. I spent the rest of the evening lying on my bed and reading Hermann Hesse’s, Steppenwolf. I loved the opening paragraphs, when the narrator wakes up to stare at his tired reflection in the bathroom mirror and wonders if it’s time to use his razor in morbidly creative ways. Philip said, “I’m gonna take a walk,” and was gone. Benji got in bed and fell asleep. At five minutes to nine, Sergeant Fillmore stood in the doorway. “Lights out,” he said. “Morning call for calisthenics at five o’clock.” His lisp, when he said “calisthenics,” was classic Daffy Duck. I decided that was a good nickname. I’m proud to say that, within days, the nickname I came up with reverberated well and was adopted by all seventy-five cadets. Daffy pointed to Philip’s empty bed. “Where’s the third one?” “I don’t know,” I said. Just then, Philip, short of breath, ran in. Daffy eyed him with suspicion, but said nothing. He turned off the light and disappeared into the night. With a dog’s ear, I marked my place in the book, which I placed on the floor beside me. “Good night,” I said. I was tired but didn’t think I could fall asleep. Looking out the window, his back turned on me, Philip grunted in reply.

28 Loud voices woke me up—intruders shrouded by ski masks. They howled like rabid wolves and wielded plastic pipes. I scrambled to run outside but the entrance was blocked by a tall intruder. I decided to fight, but my knees shook. I cowered on the bed when I heard Benji scream, “Screw you bastards.” He rushed one of the attackers. The muscular boy swung his plastic pipe and whacked skinny Benji on his stomach. My roommate doubled over and hit the floor. My fear vanished. I rose to defend him, when two boys swung their pipes at me. Then a third attacker struck the back of my head. I crashed to the floor. The enemy pummeled me while I lay on my back and tried to fend them off with my kicking. “Where’s your mommy?” one of them cried and struck my bare feet. “Who’s gonna save your ass now?” another snickered and aimed for my crotch. A big boy wielding a plastic pipe, his face masked, rushed into the room and attacked the intruders. The plastic pipe belched low-sounding thwacks as he pounded their bodies. Benji and I joined in kicking and punching as best we could. Cussing and tripping over each other, the enemy escaped the room. Our savior switched on the light and unmasked his face—a beaming Philip. “Suckers!” he cried after the fleeing boys, and broke out in a hearty laugh. “How’d you know they were coming?” I asked, my heart thumping inside my ears. “I just knew,” Philip said and didn’t elaborate. Then he launched into a cheer, “Room nine’s one of a kind!” We joined him, chanting and dancing in a circle, “Room nine’s one of a kind!”

29 A boy from room eight, rubbing his tired eyes, came in and threatened to report us to Sergeant Fillmore if we didn’t stop the racket.

We lay back on our beds, whispering with excitement in the dark, when Philip said, “Let’s jerk off.” “What?” I asked. Voice shrill with glee, Benji cried, “I’ll get the soap.”

I’d heard about masturbation, but never attempted it. Gabi, the redhead who managed the pool hall, had once described stroking his penis while fantasizing about his math teacher’s stocking-clad thighs. I thought he was kidding. Tense and confused, I bit my tongue and waited for Benji to prepare the concoction—a piece of soap stirred into a soap dish filled with warm water. Sitting on his bed, Philip already had his pants down. He dipped his fingers in the soap dish, rubbed his privates, and sighed, “Nice and slippery.” Masking my ignorance, I pulled down my pants, and dipped my fingers in the soapy water. Benji did the same, and the three of us lay on our beds. “I’m fucking Marilyn Monroe,” Philip cried out. “And I’m getting some from Audrey Hepburn,” Benji declared. “Greta Garbo,” I blurted the first name that came to mind. “Garbo?” Philip cried. “She’s an old hag.” “Sofia Loren,” I tried to redeem myself. “Yeah, I like her,” Benji said and groaned.

30 From the corner of my eye, I mimicked Philip’s stroking motions, and Benji’s groaning voracity. Busy in their pleasure, they ignored me, and I figured I’d pretend to be gratified when, unexpectedly, my little buddy pulsated and grew in my hand. My groin tingled with an intensely pleasurable sensation that worked its way from my groin and up my penis, which erupted in warm spurts of liquid that covered my stomach and stained the sheets. I gawked at my member. It stared back at me and, if it could wink, it probably would have. Submerged in a tingly calm, I let out a deep sigh. Amazed by my newfound powers, I lay breathless, a satisfied smile on my lips. My friends completed their deed shortly after. Soft, lingering silence replaced the moans and groans. Then Philip pulled up his pants and said, “G’night fellas.” He read the time on his wristwatch. “Crap! It’s two in the morning. We need to wake up in three hours.”