lunges toward me, the bowl aimed at my head. I roll out of the way, then shoot into the air and kick him in the chin. He slams into the wall. I swoop toward him and smash him with my fists, and he sinks to the floor. I land on top of him and kneel on his arms. He struggles beneath me, thrashing around, but I’ve got him pinned. I put my hands around neck. His eyes widen.
“Please, don’t kill me,” he hisses.
I breathe hard. My fingers tremble. I know what I’ve got to do, if I don’t want to get sent back to the white place.
“Please,” he hisses again.
I fling myself off of him and curl into a ball near the ceiling. Gasping, Ronnie sits up and bolts into the other room.
I press my face into my knees. This is the end. I’ve...I’ve —
“Failed.”
I whip my head up. Lederman marches into the room, a cruel glint in his eye. Behind him, several men trail. Each of them packs a gun. I launch toward the screened back door and am about to blow straight through it when a man steps into the frame. I scream.
It’s the boss.
He whacks open the door and grabs hold of me, wrenching me to the ground. I get one look at his face — a square jaw, wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, gray hair trimmed to a buzz — before someone puts a bag over my head.
Damien
I wake because the delicate feet of a butterfly alight on my arm, its black and orange wings lit from behind by sunlight. I remain as still as I can, fascinated by the butterfly’s wiry black body and long antennas. I turn to show Sammie, and that’s when I realize she’s gone. I sigh. The butterfly jerks into the air and flies out the window.
I climb into the shower and let the water run cool. I think about Sammie’s face last night, the way it was filled with fear as she told me she didn’t know when she’d be back. What will she be doing between now and the next time she soars through my window? Will she return with bruises, or broken bones, or a cut across her neck? I dump shampoo into my hair. Something in my bones — something deep and urgent — tells me she is simply not coming back. I scrub my scalp and try to ignore this feeling.
School is fairly typical. There is a physics exam during second block, and my blood runs hot as I swirl the (certainly correct) answers into the sheet of blank bubbles. In the afternoon, as I walk to fourth block, two of the Leslies pin me to a wall while Joe Butt punches me in the gut. I’m beginning to wish I had the ability to vomit on command.
That night, Sammie does not return. I sit at my desk, examining my laminated sheet of practice questions for my GLOBE interview, telling myself this is completely normal. She doesn’t come by every night, after all. Just most nights. I’m sure she’s fine. (Except I’m not.)
The next few days are an exercise in torture. Each night, I sit at my desk, paging through my science textbooks, but glancing out the window three times a minute. My mind floods with horrendous scenarios of what has happened to her. Is she lying facedown in an alleyway somewhere? Has she been captured by someone awful? Is she cold, or hungry, or thirsty, or hurt? All of these questions have run through my mind every day since I first met Sammie, but now, with her missing, I am consumed by them. I can’t get through my study materials, because I cannot concentrate. I tighten my belt an extra loop, because I cannot eat. My face hits the desk during microbiology, because I cannot sleep. If Sammie does not return soon, it’s possible that my body will simply resign.
The only thing that holds my attention is my GLOBE interview, closer with each excruciating day. Though illogical, I seem to have concluded that if I can just conduct the interview excellently — prove to the GLOBE people that I am worthy of admission — Sammie will come back. Again, I acknowledge that this lacks
“Please, don’t kill me,” he hisses.
I breathe hard. My fingers tremble. I know what I’ve got to do, if I don’t want to get sent back to the white place.
“Please,” he hisses again.
I fling myself off of him and curl into a ball near the ceiling. Gasping, Ronnie sits up and bolts into the other room.
I press my face into my knees. This is the end. I’ve...I’ve —
“Failed.”
I whip my head up. Lederman marches into the room, a cruel glint in his eye. Behind him, several men trail. Each of them packs a gun. I launch toward the screened back door and am about to blow straight through it when a man steps into the frame. I scream.
It’s the boss.
He whacks open the door and grabs hold of me, wrenching me to the ground. I get one look at his face — a square jaw, wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, gray hair trimmed to a buzz — before someone puts a bag over my head.
Damien
I wake because the delicate feet of a butterfly alight on my arm, its black and orange wings lit from behind by sunlight. I remain as still as I can, fascinated by the butterfly’s wiry black body and long antennas. I turn to show Sammie, and that’s when I realize she’s gone. I sigh. The butterfly jerks into the air and flies out the window.
I climb into the shower and let the water run cool. I think about Sammie’s face last night, the way it was filled with fear as she told me she didn’t know when she’d be back. What will she be doing between now and the next time she soars through my window? Will she return with bruises, or broken bones, or a cut across her neck? I dump shampoo into my hair. Something in my bones — something deep and urgent — tells me she is simply not coming back. I scrub my scalp and try to ignore this feeling.
School is fairly typical. There is a physics exam during second block, and my blood runs hot as I swirl the (certainly correct) answers into the sheet of blank bubbles. In the afternoon, as I walk to fourth block, two of the Leslies pin me to a wall while Joe Butt punches me in the gut. I’m beginning to wish I had the ability to vomit on command.
That night, Sammie does not return. I sit at my desk, examining my laminated sheet of practice questions for my GLOBE interview, telling myself this is completely normal. She doesn’t come by every night, after all. Just most nights. I’m sure she’s fine. (Except I’m not.)
The next few days are an exercise in torture. Each night, I sit at my desk, paging through my science textbooks, but glancing out the window three times a minute. My mind floods with horrendous scenarios of what has happened to her. Is she lying facedown in an alleyway somewhere? Has she been captured by someone awful? Is she cold, or hungry, or thirsty, or hurt? All of these questions have run through my mind every day since I first met Sammie, but now, with her missing, I am consumed by them. I can’t get through my study materials, because I cannot concentrate. I tighten my belt an extra loop, because I cannot eat. My face hits the desk during microbiology, because I cannot sleep. If Sammie does not return soon, it’s possible that my body will simply resign.
The only thing that holds my attention is my GLOBE interview, closer with each excruciating day. Though illogical, I seem to have concluded that if I can just conduct the interview excellently — prove to the GLOBE people that I am worthy of admission — Sammie will come back. Again, I acknowledge that this lacks
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