Boot Camp Read Free Page A

principle under which we operate. At least until a child reaches the age of emancipation,” Mr. Z replies.
    â€œEighteen?”
    â€œSorry?” he snaps.
    â€œEighteen … sir?”
    â€œIn most states.”
    Another silence. I glance at the wall map. The densest collections of pins are near the large metropolitan areas on both coasts. Mr. Z knows what I’m looking at, but he makes no effort to explain its meaning. Instead, he asks, “Any other questions?”
    â€œNo … sir.”
    â€œVery good. You can go.”
    Back outside, the man in the black polo shirt takes me to yet another building. This one has classrooms. Inside, students sit at carrels working silently atcomputers. The walls of the carrels prevent them from seeing the other students. Men and women in black or white polo shirts sit at the backs of the rooms and watch.
    I am taken to an empty classroom and shown to a carrel. “Study it,” the black shirt orders, nodding at the “bible” Mr. Z gave me. The introduction begins like this:
    You are now a member of the Lake Harmony community. You will be released when you are judged to be respectful, polite, and obedient enough to return to your family. During your stay here you will have no communication with the outside world, except for letters to your parents. After six months your parents may visit you for a day if they choose.
    Despite having had only a few hours’ sleep, not to mention the thumping caffeine headache, I manage to quickly read through the sixty-one-page document. It lists the rules: no talking, no touching, no disrespectful looks, etc. It describes the six levels one must rise through in order to be considered a candidate for “graduation.” It explains the system of points one must earn to climb from one level to the next.
    After about forty minutes I raise my hand.
    â€œBathroom?” the black shirt asks.
    â€œI’m ready for the test, sir.”
    Black shirt frowns. “In less than an hour? No way. No one’s ready that fast. Read it again.”
    I skim the bible again, then glance up. Black shirt doesn’t look happy. “You’re wasting my time,” he mumbles, placing some photocopied sheets on my desk. The sheets have been copied so many times, the black letters have blurred and run together. There are fifteen questions, with room for one- or two-sentence answers.
    Why have you been sent to Lake Harmony?
What does manipulation mean?
What must you do to graduate?
    It takes about twenty minutes to complete the test.
    Black shirt gazes doubtfully when I motion that I’m finished, as if not only is it impossible to learn the whole bible as fast as I claim, but even more impossible to complete the test. The frown on his face only deepens when he reads my answers, pausing now and then to refer back to the bible to make sure they are correct.
    He finishes marking the test and pauses, drumming his fingertips rhythmically against the table. He checks his watch, looks down at the test again, then goes to a phone on the wall and makes a call. After a while there’s a knock, and another black shirt sticks his head into the room. The two black shirts whisper, then come to a decision.
    With one in front of me and the other behind, I’m escorted back to the windowless room with the metal bed. The black shirts sit in the chairs, while I remain standing, waiting for the next order.
My parents have signed all the necessary legal documents …
I’m here for a minimum of six months …
    â€œTake a nap,” one black shirt tells me. “You must be tired.”
    â€œNot really.” I should be tired, but I’m too wound up. And my head hurts too much.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNot really … sir.”
    â€œThen sit down and shut up.”
    This can’t be real…
    My parents say I began sounding out words in picture books around the age of two and a half. At four I scored off