Boot Camp Read Free

bright-green leaves. A few have small white or pink flowers. We walk across a grassy yard. Fifty yards away, a woman wearing a white polo shirt marches asingle-file line of girls between buildings. The girls are dressed in red polo shirts, jeans, and flip-flops. They march with silent military precision, roughly three feet apart, eyes forward.
    We go into an old brick building with round, castlelike turrets. Inside is a small lobby with two couches and a table with some flowers, magazines, and brochures about Lake Harmony, “a highly structured boarding school specializing in intensive behavior modification.” On the walls are framed “class pictures”: smiling young people in rows, just like you might find in a small private school. At the far end of the room is a dark wooden door. The white letters on the rectangular black plaque read: DIRECTOR.
    â€œGo on,” the black polo shirt orders.
    I cross the lobby to the door, then stop and look back at him.
    â€œKnock.”
    I do as I’m told, and a gruff voice from inside says, “Come in.”
    I push open the door. A stocky man sits at a desk, staring down at some papers through thin half-glasses, forehead wrinkled as if the act of reading takes intense concentration. His gray hair is cut short, and his nose is crooked, probably broken a long time ago. A small gold hoop pierces one earlobe. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt reveal muscular forearms, and his hands are rough and faintly scarred, his fingers stubby and thick. He looks like someone who is used to working with those hands rather than sitting at a desk.
    I wait while he reads. My head has begun to hurt.Craving coffee, I glance around the office, hoping there might be a pot brewing in some corner, but there isn’t. Instead there are dark-green file cabinets, some wooden chairs, a megaphone, and a wall map of the United States with different colored pins stuck into it.
    Finally, he stacks the papers and places them in a folder. Looking at me for the first time, he holds the folder with both hands and wags it. “Kid hit his mother so hard, he broke her jaw.” He sighs as he says this. As if he’s never heard of such a thing before. “Tell me, Garrett, you ever hit your mother?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo, sir,” he corrects, and gestures to a chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit down.”
    I sit. His eyes are a washed-out gray, the color of hazy rain clouds. He makes a tent with his stubby fingers. “Welcome to Lake Harmony, Garrett. I’m Mr. Z, and I am the director of this facility. I assume by now you’ve figured out why you’re here. Your parents are paying a substantial amount of money because they are seriously concerned about your welfare. They want you to return home as soon as possible. How long you stay is up to you. I’ve seen students graduate after six months. Others have taken three years or longer. The choice is yours.”
    He opens a desk drawer, takes out a thick, stapled document, and hands it to me. “This is your bible. Read it carefully. Study it. When you feel you’ve learned it completely, you may request a test. Once you have passed the test, you will be ready to join your fellow students.”
    He pauses and gazes steadily into my eyes. “Any questions?”
    â€œCan I get a cup of coffee … uh, sir?” I ask.
    â€œYou’ll be forgoing all caffeinated drinks during your stay here,” Mr. Z informs me. Hearing those words hurts almost as much as my headache. “Any other questions?”
    â€œSir, is it possible that someone could be sent here for the wrong reason?” I ask.
    Those gray eyes don’t waver. Once again I have the feeling that this is a question he’s heard a thousand times before. Mr. Z shakes his head. “Children are sent here by their parents, Garrett.”
    â€œAnd … parents are always right, sir?”
    â€œThat is the