Nightmare Academy Page 11

  It took a lot of class time to collect fines from so many lawbreakers, but this was Booker's way. He seemed to enjoy punishing people as much as teaching them. The KMs jingled into Booker's wooden “penalty bowl” like doubloons into a pirate's treasure chest.

  “You will replace whatever you are missing by purchasing it at the Campus Exchange, using, of course, your KMs.” He gave the penalty bowl a knowing look as he added, “If you have no KMs, the cafeteria will issue a ten KM credit for skipping a meal.”

  The kids would have moaned, but that would have cost them.

  “And, of course, you will abandon all thoughts of protest or appealing to fairness. I require uniforms and I exact penalties because I rule your lives. Period. Are there any questions?”

  The room was silent.

  “Of course not.”

  Then Rory Tom, Jamal, and Clay returned, bursting through the door with Alex walking—sometimes—between them, some bruises on his face and some blood on his forearm. He wasn't dressed for class. As a matter of fact, he was hardly dressed at all, wearing only a tee shirt and jogging shorts. The four big bruisers dropped him in his desk and then stood there, defying him to get up. He'd learned better than that and chose not to, but sat there glowering, huffing through clenched teeth, holding the wound on his arm.

  Booker saw the blood and tossed a box of tissues to Rory, who gave them to Alex. Alex dabbed the wound but didn't say thank you.

  “Things got a little rough. He hit the corner of a table,” Rory explained.

  Booker extended his open palm, and Rory tossed him Alex's bag of KMs. The bag was full and heavy, landing in Booker's hand with an audible chink! "You will never avoid my class again. None of you will avoid my class—ever!”

  Alex's voice was hissing, almost weeping, with anger. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

  “ARE YOU BLIND!?” Booker's voice was so loud, so intimidating, that everyone in the room flinched. “You have just experienced the answer to your question, Alex! How many different ways must I demonstrate it?”

  Booker tossed the bag of KMs back to Rory. “Divide it amongst yourselves.”

  As Alex watched his KMs counted out and tossed from hand to hand right over his head, he nearly spit the words at Clay, “You traitor!”

  Clay only shrugged and jingled the coins around in his hand.

  A chuckle from across the room turned Alex's head.

  It was Brett, smiling, gloating, in full uniform, nice and neat, enjoying every moment. He even produced an extra tie from his pocket. “Missing something?”

  “You think it's over?” Alex asked him.

  Brett just wagged his head slowly. He knew where Alex was going.

  “You and me,” said Alex.

  “Anytime, anywhere,” said Brett.

  Booker stood there listening, observing. “We appear to have some ongoing, irresolvable issues here.”

  Just then, the door opened, and Mr. Easley stuck his head in. “Excuse me, Mr. Booker. Don't mean to interrupt. I was wondering—”

  Booker was jubilant. “Mr. Easley! Just the man we need!” He indicated the two seething combatants. “We have two kings here, two nations at war. Perhaps you can help them resolve their differences without killing each other.”

  Easley eyed the two boys knowingly and said, “I guess it's about that time, isn't it?”

  “You may as well take them off my hands, Mr. Easley Take them all. They're useless to me today.”

  Easley took charge. “Okay, everyone. Let's gather outside, on the fifty-yard line. Form a wide circle and wait 'til I get there. Brett, better swing by your room and get out of that suit. Let's go.”

  The class rose hurriedly to their feet.

  “This is gonna be good!” said Clay.

  9

  THE STUDENT

  KING

  THEY MOVED INTO THE FIELD , scattered clusters of concern and anticipation, whispering, bantering, wondering.

  “What's happening?”

  “You mean they're going to fight?”

  “You think Brett can take this guy?”

  “You're the man, Alex.”

  “Does this mean we get our stuff back?”

  “Where do we go?”

  “The football field, fifty-yard line.”

  Mr. Easley arrived in time to direct traffic. “Okay, back up, back up. Form a circle. Back up a little more, make some room so everyone can see. Alex, you stand over on this side.” Brett arrived, in jogging shorts and tee shirt, ready “Okay, come over here; Brett, you and your group stand over on that side.”

  Mr. Easley was carrying two pairs of boxing gloves. He handed one pair to Alex, one pair to Brett.

  The smirk on Alex's face just stayed there as he clustered with his closest buddies from dorm B and put on the gloves. Brett maintained a stony face, continually sizing up his opponent, as Rory and Jamal tied his glove laces. All around the circle, guys were muttering, bragging, placing bets; girls were bickering, giggling, scolding, choosing sides. Elijah and Elisha just tried to appear as neutral as possible. They didn't care at all who won; they didn't want to see this ridiculous fight in the first place.

  “Okay, everybody, listen up,” said Easley, standing in the center of the circle. “I want you all to understand, you're looking at two different realities, two different ways of seeing things, and it's very normal. It's the way history has always flowed and mankind has always evolved from one way of thinking to a better way of thinking. This is one way we keep getting better and better.” He beckoned to Alex and Brett, bringing them into the center of the circle where they faced each other like two heavyweights before a bout. “There isn't going to be a winner or a loser. This isn't going to be one man's viewpoint prevailing over the other man's viewpoint. It's going to be the melting together of two viewpoints to form a new one. After today, we're all going to see things differently, and we're going to have peace, so keep that in mind during this process.” He stepped back. “Okay. Let's go.”

  Alex and Brett approached each other, gloves raised, circling, eyes mean. The crowd began to holler, cheer, shriek. Alex threw the first punch, and it landed squarely in Brett's face. He stumbled backward. Half the crowd cheered, half jeered. Brett stepped in again, got punched again, but landed one himself. They went toe-to-toe, no strategy, no skill, just a brawl. Alex connected with Brett's face again, then sent a haymaker into Brett's stomach. Brett doubled over, lost his balance, and fell.

  Easley motioned Alex back, motioned for quiet, then spoke to Brett, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Brett, have you thought about how you'd like to end this?”

  Brett was furious, stumbling to his feet. “By caving his face in!”

  “Come on and do it,” said Alex, waving him on.

  Easley stepped back and let them go at it again.

  Alex was simply a better fighter. Brett went down again, this time with a nosebleed.

  Easley stepped in again, this time with a suggestion. “What about all the stuff you took from dorm B? Maybe you could reach an agreement of some kind.”

  Brett only pushed Easley away as blood ran down his face. “What about all the stuff they took?”

  Easley looked to Alex for a reply.

  Alex just smirked, as usual. “You want it, come and get it.”

  Easley stepped back and let Brett charge.

  Brett did land a few punches, mainly to Alex's body, and mainly because Alex let him. Then Alex chose his moment and hammered Brett's head with a volley of punches, sending him to the ground a bleeding, dazed mess.

  “Get up!” someone yelled.

  “Don't get up!” yelled others.

  They went toe-to-toe, no strategy,

  no skill, just a brawl.

  Brett was trying to get up, but he had neither strength nor balance and rose repeatedly only to crumble to the ground again.

  Easley approached Alex this time. “Alex, perhaps you'd like to offer some terms of surrender?”

  Alex ap
proached Brett, standing over him like a conqueror.

  “You give us back all our stuff—starting with my tie.”

  “You could make it work both ways,” Easley suggested. “Everybody give everything back, but let Alex be the king. He's earned it.”

  Alex liked that a lot. Half the crowd was undecided.

  Brett couldn't decide, either, but silently wiped blood from his face with the back of his glove.

  Easley put a hand on Alex's shoulder. “You can be a benevolent king. Think of it. With one ruler, one boss in charge, everybody can live by the rules you make; and you can make sure we're all safe and cared for.” He turned to the crowd surrounding them. “How about it? We could join together under one new viewpoint and have one big family. No more raids, no more fights, just one big, peaceful world.”

  The kids picked up on that idea quickly. “Yeah! One family!” “King Alex!” “We can get our stuff back!” “No more raids! Cool!”

  Easley spoke to Alex, knowing Brett would hear him. “And Brett could be your lieutenant. He was pretty brave to take you on. 1 know he could serve you well. Couldn't you, Brett?”

  Brett propped himself up on his elbows and looked to the crowd all around him.

  “One world!” they cheered. “One world! One world!”

  Brett looked up at Alex, searching his face.

  Alex dropped the smirk and actually looked kind. “Hey. You give me respect, then I'll respect you and we'll put everything back together. You get your stuff, we get ours, we stand together. Sound good?”

  Brett thought, listened to the crowd, and finally smiled con-cedingly. “Okay.”

  Alex helped Brett to his feet, and with their arms around each other's shoulders, they raised their free hands to the crowd.

  The cheer from the kids echoed across the campus. The war was over. They were getting better and better.

  Alex winked at Elisha. She smiled politely.

  He smiled gloatingly at Elijah. Elijah tried to smile but couldn't find a reason to do so.

  Ms. Jennifer Whitman, principal of Smithson High School in Denver, had met Kathy Simons. “She's one little ball of energy, let me tell you! I think she covered just about every high school in greater Denver.”

  “What did she do?” Sarah asked.

  “She was a recruiter. She presented the program to us, we recommended some candidates, and then she did the final screening. Three of our kids qualified, so we're proud of that.”

  “So what can you tell us about the academy?” asked Nate. “We have two kids who are interested.”

  Ms. Whitman gave them a consoling look. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think the program's been discontinued.”

  Sarah didn't have to pretend surprise. “Really?”

  “The government gave it a test run, I guess, and decided to scrap it. That's a shame because I think it was definitely time for such a project.”

  “Well, what was it?” Nate asked.

  Ms. Whitman reached into a desk drawer and pulled out three brochures, all similar in size and style, but different in one strange way: The photographs in each brochure were of a different academy; different buildings, different setting, and different address on the back. “The Knight-Moore Academy was a two-week program offered for four summers in four different locations around the country. We got involved in the academy held in Borland three years ago. It wasn't for everybody. It was experimental, and all the students went into it fully aware of that.”

  “What kind of experiment?” Sarah asked.

  “A team of educators wanted to explore new techniques in education from a global perspective, and I think it worked. The kids came back with a wider, fresher, well, global understanding. I think they came to realize that there is definitely more than one way to look at things. There are many different truths out there.”

  Nate read the different locations on the brochures. “So there was one in Illinois two years ago, one in Virginia a year ago, and the one in Colorado three years ago.”

  “And the very first one was, I believe, in Southern California. I don't have any information about that.”

  “Could we make some photocopies of these brochures?” Nate asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “And, uh, you don't have any current address or phone number for Kathy Simons, do you?”

  “Just the information on the back of the brochure.”

  As they drove back to the airport in their rented car, Nate spouted a question bothering him. “If the Knight-Moore Academy is a government project, why doesn't Morgan know about it? Why doesn't the president know about it?”

  Sarah leafed through the photocopies of the brochures. “So far we've seen a youth shelter and an entire campus disappear. What if these other campuses aren't there anymore?”

  “We'd better hope they are.” She looked at him for a further explanation, and he responded, “Because if they aren't there anymore, then wherever the kids were taken . . .”

  “Okay. No need to say it.” She sorted through the photocopies and the scanned photograph of the mysterious redhead. “I'll fax all this stuff to Morgan.”

  The music from the Rec Center could be heard anywhere on campus. Elijah could hear the thumping bass notes even from behind the library where he'd returned to his secluded little spot by the lonely fence post. This time, he had a length of thread he'd pulled painstakingly from the edge of his bedsheet, his official KM flashlight, and a small, six-foot tape measure he'd purchased at the Campus Exchange.

  It was a clear, beautiful night. The stars were out. Perfect. He immediately found the Big Dipper and, from there, the North Star. Now all he had to do was use the post, the thread, and the tape measure to answer the big question of the evening: Exactly how high in the sky, in degrees, was the North Star?

  The Rec Center was hopping again. Everyone was back, feeling safe, having a great time, and actually celebrating having a Student King on Campus. In the lounge area near the vending machines, Alex sat on a picnic table, presiding over the restoration of all stolen—or rather, shared—goods, wearing his recently recovered tie around his head like a victor's wreath, a token of the new peace accord. Tonya had her blouse again, Samuel had his white shirt and tie, and Marvin had just received his shoes. Melinda was moping a bit; she'd returned the Walkman she'd taken, but was still “sharing” a Walkman with Charlene, who didn't respect her very much.

  Mr. Easley happened to be there that night, smiling as broadly as ever, patting backs and giving hugs. “I think it's going to work.”

  “We're getting better and better,” said Britney, groping in her pockets. She turned to Madonna. “Can I borrow a KM?”

  “Get your own,” said Madonna, in a mood.

  “C'mon, I want to buy a Coke.”

  “Yeah, and maybe I'm tired of you mooching all my KMs. Try earning a few.”

  Easley overheard them and called out, “Hey, we're celebrating!”

  They only pouted at him.

  “Okay, tell you what.” He went to the pop machine, used a key from his pocket, and swung the machine open. “Nobody owns this pop, anyway We have all things in common. Let's pass the drinks around and celebrate our new unity!”

  Now, that drew a crowd! A happy riot gathered instantly and the machine was empty in a matter of minutes.

  Alex held his pop can high. “Three cheers for Mr. Easley! Hip hip!”

  They all hoorayed the three cheers, cans high in the air.

  Easley waved to them all. “Gotta go. Have fun.” He went out the door as they cheered after him.

  “Better and better!” Cher, formerly Marcy, cheered, holding her pop can high.

  Elisha, sitting on the bench next to Cher, looked glumly at her can of pop and just shook her head.

  “Now what's the matter?” Cher asked.

  “Better and better. I get so sick of hearing that.”

  “What's the matter with better and better?”

  “You're not thinking, Marcy—I mean,
Cher. If there's no truth, then how can we know we're getting better? Better than what? How can we know the difference?”

  “It feels better.”

  “Just like 'Cher' feels better than 'Marcy.' But can't you see? Both those names are a fantasy. This whole place, this whole thing is just one big lie.”

  Cher thought about that only a moment, then asked, “So who are you really?”

  “Sally!” Alex called from his perch on the picnic table. “Hey, Sally!”

  Elisha didn't realize he was calling her.

  “Hey,” said Britney, “the king's calling you.”

  Elisha remembered her assumed name. “Oh. What?”

  Alex came striding over, pop can in hand, makeshift tie-crown around his head. “What'd I tell you? I said we were going to even things up. Well, it's starting to look that way.”

  She looked up at him, unable to find anything about him that she liked. “Congratulations.”

  “Wanna go for a walk?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Britney was shocked. “Sally, I don't believe you!”

  Madonna threw in her two bits. “If he was asking me . . . whoa!"

  “Better listen to 'em,” said Alex, reaching out his hand. “Things are changing and I'm worth knowing.” He took her by her wrist and tugged her to her feet.

  “No, please.”

  He responded, only half jokingly, “Hey, you don't say no to the king.”

  With a quick and simple defensive move, Elisha broke his grip on her wrist.

  There was a hush. The party stopped. No one moved.

  “Whoooa . . . ,” came a murmur in the crowd.

  Elisha stood her ground, looking Alex in the eye, hoping she had made herself clear.

  He leaned forward, raised a hand, about to say something—

  “Alex.” It was Warren, stepping forward. “Come on. She's

  Jerry's girl—”

  Alex planted one huge hand in Warren's chest and shoved him violently into the guys behind him. “That's your opinion.

  But if you think we have two different viewpoints, then maybe you and me better get together and see if we can come up with a new one.”