The Boys from Santa Cruz by Jonathan Nasaw

of some kind, followed by a lecture, but all they checked was our boots, to make sure we’d picked out ones that fit. Then it was back outside and into a van. In the front of the van were two more counselors, which was what we were supposed to call them, like it was fucking summercamp or something. Gary and Diane looked fit and tanned and disgustingly full of energy for that time of night.
    In the back of the van were three more kids, two boys and a girl, dressed like me and Dusty in Mountain Project T-shirts and khaki hiking pants. From the way they glared at us, I guessed they’d probably been waiting for us a long time. The fat white boy was Brent, the tall black kid was Stephen, and the girl’s name was Cindra. Cindra’s head was shaved, and if her boobs had been any bigger she’d have had a hard time standing up.
    The van took off down a dirt trail. After that first exchange of glares, nobody made much eye contact. Mostly we looked out the windows, not that there was anything to see in the darkness. After a few minutes the trail started climbing and climbing. Halfway up the mountain it petered out at a small campground with a couple port-a-potties and a water fountain. When Dr. O ordered us to unpack the van, I assumed we were going to set upcamp for the night. Wrong again.
    “Drain your bladders over there, fill your canteens over there, and get your packs on your backs,” called Gary. “For we have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep.”
    “It’s cold,” complained Brent.
    “It’ll warm up once we get going,” Gary told him.
    Brent sat down heavily on a log. “Fuck dat,” he mumbled, trying to talk like a black kid, or what he thought a black kid talked like. “I didn’t sign up to climb no fuckin’ mountain in da middle of no fuckin’ night.”
    “Suit yourself,” said Kara cheerfully, and a few minutes later, we set off in a column. Dr. O was in the lead, followed by Stephen and me. Then came Kara, Cindra, and Dusty, with Diane and Gary bringing up the rear. The Death March had begun. A few minutes later we heard Brent crashing through the underbrush bellowing “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” as he blundered up the trail in the darkness. I have to admit, I thought that was so cold it was cool, leaving the fat slob behind like that, alone in the dark, to deal with the consequences of his stupidity. I didn’t learn from Dusty until later, after we’d finally stopped to set up camp for the night, that right after we’d started out, Gary had peeled off and doubled back to keep an eye on Brent.
    By the end of that first night’s march, I had the game figured out. Bottom line: all this nature and survival crap aside, they meant to wear us down physically in order to break us down emotionally. So, exhausted as we were, once we had our tents set up (and what a drawn-out slapstick farce that was), they put us through a grueling group therapy session around the campfire.
    Group whining session was more like it. Listening to my fellow campers bitching and moaning, I quickly lost what little sympathy I had for them. Their parents didn’t understand them. Boo fucking hoo. Society was phony, everything was bullshit, and everybody but them was a hypocrite. Big fucking news, Holden fucking Caulfield. You want parents who don’t understand you, I wanted to tell them, try asking Big Luke or Teddy for lunch money when they’re tweaking. You’ll get more than your feelings hurt.
    I didn’t say anything, though. When it came my turn to talk, I told the group that as far as I was concerned, I was still in jail, even if it was a jail without walls. And in jail, my father had taught me, you don’t put your personal business out into the population, so I would pass on the soul baring.
    “Passing is not an option,” said Dr. O.
    “You can’t make me share,” I replied.
Share
was their word for whine.
    “No,” he said. “But I can make sure nobody eats or sleeps until you do.”
    I looked