Academic Assassins by Clay McLeod Chapman

against the glass.
    There was no way she could get away with something like that.
    There’s just no way….
    Buttercup turned back to me and beamed like a girl who’d just won first place at the spelling bee. “Merridew wants to make sure you have everything you need for a comfortable
transition to your new home.”
    The basement door screeched open and Grayson waltzed back in. Buttercup immediately stood at attention.
    I bolted for the dryer and yanked on the door. Babyface tumbled out, gasping for air, his cheeks flushed red. “What was that?” he coughed. “What just happened?”
    â€œAll good here?” Grayson asked behind my back, as if he were testing Buttercup.
    â€œThe little one had an accident, sir,” Buttercup responded.
    Grayson hadn’t seen anything. What did it matter to him if a few feathers got ruffled while he looked the other way?
    â€œWhy don’t you show these two to the residential ward?” Grayson suggested. “Introduce them to their new friends.”
    â€œYes sir,” Buttercup said. Then, to us—“Whatever I can do to help welcome you to Kesey, please—do not hesitate to ask. I’m here for you!”
    I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think she winked at me.

R esidents don’t dwell in cells,” Buttercup cheerfully explained as she escorted Babyface and me down the Yellow Brick Road. “You
will each be living in your own
cohabitation pods
.”
    The hallway narrowed. I looked up and spotted yet another surveillance camera zeroing in on me, like a vulture hovering above a bit of carrion, biding its time before swooping down and pecking
out my eyeballs with its autofocus beak.
    Buttercup stood before a pair of doors and nodded at the camera. As soon as she heard an electronic buzz emanate from within the doors, she pushed them open.
    I winced at the brightly lit, antiseptic, whitewashed walls. My nostrils began to burn at the whiff of disinfectant lingering in the air.
    â€œWelcome to the Ant Farm,” Buttercup said over her shoulder. The two of us shuffled after her, entering a cavernous hive of exposed chambers.
    There were no bars separating the prisoners—sorry, I mean “residents”—from the starch-uniformed Men in White. Six-by-eight feet, these cinder block stalls should have
been called
Port-o-Pods
. There was more elbow room in a lavatory. The walls were painted in a blindingly sterile white, while the floors were the sickly greenish color of frozen baby
upchuck. Each had a cot bolted to the floor. A single stainless steel sink jutted out from the wall, along with a toilet.
    â€œThis is your pod.” Buttercup nodded at me. “Go ahead. Step on in.”
    I obliged, turning around and putting one foot forward.
    THWONK
.
    I was suddenly puckering up to an invisible wall. Stepping back, I could see the vague imprint of my lips hovering in the air just a few inches in front of my face.
    My eyes slowly focused on the imperceptible partition directly in front of me.
    Three inches of see-through Plexiglas. We were ants living within our own personalized transparent plastic habitat.
    â€œKesey has two housing units,” Buttercup said. “Each ward holds fifty residents. Girls are in the Hive, while you gents are here. Pretty cool, huh?”
    â€œCool” wasn’t the first word that came to my mind.
    Behind each Plexiglas pane, I could see a resident isolated inside.
    Curled up in a ball on his cot.
    Perched on top of his sink.
    Walking in circles.
    Playing patty-cake with an invisible pod-mate.
    These kids were on permanent display: in a museum of horrors, each exhibit a different diorama of juvenile delinquency.
    How did I get myself stranded in this savage reservation?
    â€œFrom six A.M. to ten P.M .,” Buttercup said, “residents are free to roam the gallery. But whenever you hear…” She
glanced at the wire-encased clock hanging over