My dad never saw what killed him—leastways, that’s what the cops said. Not that they ever said it to my face. I heard them talking when I was lying in the hospital bed. When they figured I was still knocked out. In fact it’s the first thing I can remember after the accident—those cops talking. One minute I’m in the backseat of the car, my forehead cool against the window, watching the broken yellow lines flash past. The next, there’s those two cops talking in the hallway, yanking me up outta somewhere gray and soft.
“Never seen what he hit,” says one.
“Never do,” says the other. “Not at night. Just come outta the woods and bang—you’re on top of ’em.”
“Come through the windshield—nearly tore him in half— then sailed right over the kid sleeping in the back.”
“No, the dad.”
“Barely. Hasn’t said a word, hasn’t opened his eyes. Nothing.”
The one cop didn’t say anything to that, so I figured he musta just shook his head.
“Next of kin?” one asked the other.
“Don’t know. Dad can’t tell us, kid is still unconscious, nothing in the car.”
“Nope. No papers, no permit, no insurance.”
They laugh at that. Which is when I decide to say something. Or try to say something. Only nothing comes out except a moan—loud enough, though, for them cops to hear. I open my eyes but can’t see much—just shadows. But I can hear plenty.
“Doc,” one of the cops yells. “Doc—kid’s awake.”
The shadows move toward me, hands on my head and my wrist; then it all goes blank, till there’s a new voice calling out, “Son, son.”
It could be my dad, so I work hard to open my eyes. But it’s not my dad. It’s some doctor, all blurry white coat and gold glasses. He’s leaning over me with his face as big and white as the sun up in the summer sky when you lie on the grass looking up. Except you can’t look at the sun for a long time, ’cause it’ll burn the retinas right outta your head in about two seconds. I blink a few times, and slowly my head starts to clear. I can tell the little beep I hear is coming from a machine by my head, and I can smell the nurse’s shampoo when she bends close to me to read something on it. Then I can see the doctor’s got little bumps of black on his chin, like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. And I can tell what he’s saying.
“Son,” he says, “you’ve been in an accident. You’ve been unconscious for a couple of hours. Do you understand?”
I start to nod but stop real quick since it makes me feel like I got kicked in the back of my head.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says, “but the other person in the car, the driver…”
“Your dad. He’s been injured. Badly. Would you like to see him?”
I nod again, even though I know it’ll hurt.
“Okay,” says the doctor. He nods to a nurse and she goes off to the hall, coming back a sec later with a wheelchair.
“Before we go up,” the doctor says, “we’d like to call your mom. Can you tell me her name? Give me her phone number?”
“I don’t got a mom.”
The doctor looks at the cops, then back to me. “A sister or brother or a grandma?”
“It’s just me and my dad.”
One of the cops starts to say something, but the other one gives him a jab. Then it’s just that monitor beeping and the nurse poking at some stuff till the doctor talks again.
“Okay,” he says. “So let’s take you up to see your dad. What’s your name?”
One of the cops pulls a notepad outta his shirt pocket.
“Charlie,” I say. “Charlie Sykes.”
“Sykes?” says the cop. He’s looking at his buddy, then at me. “Sykes?” he says again, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.
“All right,” the doctor says to them, angry, like he’s breaking up a fight at recess. He turns back to me.
“Okay, Charlie. And what’s your father’s name?”
“Michael,” I say, which gets the cop yapping again, louder this time.
“Jesus,” the cop says. “Mikey Sykes.”
“Enough,” says the doctor, turning round to look at the cops. “You’ll have to be quiet or I’ll ask you to leave.”
One cop—older, fatter—shakes his head. “Ask away, Doc, but we’re staying.”
The doctor gets ready to say something else, but the cop holds up a hand and waves it in his face.
“We,” he says, slow and quiet, still waving his fat fingers. “Are. Staying.”
The doctor lets out a sigh.
“All right,” he says. Then he and the nurse leave the room. A couple a minutes later they’re back, with the nurse bending close to help me into the chair. She’s soft and smells good, and it’s nice, that feeling, when she puts her arms around me to help me into the seat—nice and so warm that I get a bit cold and shivery when she lets go.
“Okay, Charlie,” she says, getting behind me to push the chair. “Let’s go see your dad.”
We head down a hallway to the elevator, the cops right behind us. The doors rattle open and I get pushed in first, a couple of old folks moving back to make room for me. The doctor comes aboard behind the nurse and turns to the cops as soon as he’s in. He holds up his hand and waves his fingers right in the fat cop’s face.
“Get the next one,” he says.
The cop puts his arm between the doors when they start to close—the doors are ugly green and chipped from where stuff has banged into them—but he yanks it out just before they shut, which I don’t blame him for doing, ’cause I’d a pulled my hand outta there too. We go up two floors and the cops are there waiting when the doors open, the fat one bent over, puffing.
“We’re coming with you,” his partner says, while the fat guy’s head bobs up and down, his red chins bouncing off his blue shirt. The doctor doesn’t say anything, just heads through a door marked icu, with me and the nurse and the cops all following along. I thought maybe my dad would be in a quiet room, a dark room, since he was hurt so bad, but this room is all lit up and full of noise and machines. We stop at the end of a bed that’s covered with electric cords and plastic tubes. It stinks in here, like that corner in the boys’ locker room where Randy Simms peed after Mr. Connors yelled at him for doing sit-ups wrong. I guess it must stink like that in here all the time, ’cause no one else wrinkles their nose or anything. Instead, the doctor bends down to talk to me. His knee makes a pop when he squats.
“Charlie,” he says, “you and your dad…your car hit a moose on the highway. It did a lot of damage, and your dad is in a coma. But he might be able to hear. So you could talk to him. Do you want to do that?”
But I’m not listening to the doctor; I’m more just looking at the guy in the bed, thinking there must be a mistake.
“That’s my dad?” I ask after a minute. “’Cause that doesn’t look like my dad.”
It’s true. It doesn’t. My dad has wavy black hair that curls on the sides and the sorta face that a tough guy on TV might have—where you can see his jaw muscles bulge out when he gets angry. The guy in this bed has got his head shaved, and his face is all soft and puffy. There’s a tube coming out his mouth. He looks like a sick Pillsbury Dough Boy, not like my dad. No way.
“This is your dad,” says the doctor. He’s looking between me and the nurse. Up to her, down to me.
“Charlie,” he says, up to the nurse, down to me, “he’s very sick. And you should try and talk to him. C’mon.”
He holds out his hand and I take it, which even right then I think is funny, ’cause I’ve only ever held my dad’s hand before, and it’s been a long time since I did that—not since I was little and I almost ran out into the street outside the clinic in Edmonton, before my dad grabbed my arm and yanked me back.
“Here,” the doctor says. “Sit beside him, up here on the bed. It’s okay.”
Now I see maybe it is my dad. He’s got that scar on his chin, and his nose has that bump where it got broke. I look for his watch—the one we said could come from me at Christmas—but it’s not there.
“He has a watch,” I say.
“We had to take it off,” says the doctor. “Because of the edema.”
“The swelling,” says the nurse. “That’s making him puffy. You’ll get it back…”
She doesn’t finish what she’s saying, but I guess what it is, and that’s the first time I feel myself getting soft inside, feel stuff coming up to my eyes and that soft sizzling in my nose. And right then the doctor and the nurse and the cops and the noise all kinda disappear and it’s just me and my dad, and it is my dad, I see now. There’s that scar, and the white hair poking straight up in his eyebrow, and a dent where his watch was. I can feel it when I put my hand on his.
“Dad,” I say, leaning down close to whisper to him, even though it hurts my head to bend over. “Dad, it’s me. Charlie.”
He doesn’t say anything. I knew he wouldn’t, but he might have. Maybe. But he doesn’t. Just lays there, still, warm. Then I feel his hand twitch and twitch again. I put both my hands around his. And then, just a tiny bit, it opens. Then a bit more, and I feel something drop out of it, small, hard, hot in my palm. A key. I can tell without even looking.
And as soon as I feel it, all the noise and voices and other people in the room come flooding back—the beep and swish-schonk of the machine by my dad’s bed. And especially the looks on the faces of those two cops, all pinched and pointy and looking right at me and my dad. Something about how they’re looking at me makes me keep my mouth shut, makes me clamp down on that key and decide, right then, not to say a word about it. I don’t know what it’s for or what it opens, but I know I’m going to keep it. I’m not going to give anybody a chance to take it away, like they took away his watch, and then have to depend on them to give it back. Back to me, a kid without a mom. Or a dad.
Because I know, as soon as it happens. Some buzzer goes off, and the doctor all of a sudden pulls me off the bed and puts me back in the wheelchair, and the nurse pushes me outta the room. But I already know: my dad is gone and I’m alone. I knew it as soon as that key hit my hand.
I sleep a lot the next day, or I think I do—I can’t remember much, except that every time I wake up, that fat cop is sitting in the hallway outside my room. He’s mostly outta sight, but whenever I look that way, I can see the tips of his boots and his gut and his hat.
“Why’s he sitting there?” I ask the nurse, but she just smiles and tells me not to worry—he’s just making sure I’m okay. Which doesn’t make me feel any more okay. Why would I need a cop sitting outside my door? Maybe somebody is out to get me? Maybe my dad didn’t hit a moose—maybe he hit a car, or a kid? Maybe killed somebody? Maybe there’s a family all enraged, with axes and rifles, sitting downstairs in the lobby—or whatever you call the place you sit in a hospital—waiting to come up and get their revenge? Like those crazy old villagers out to chop up the ogre. And one fat cop isn’t going to be much help against a bunch of wild men out to chop up the kid whose dad killed their kid.
It’s all I can think about—that cop and why he’s out there. And my dad. I think about him too. It doesn’t seem real that he’s not here. Truth is, nothing does. Half the time it seems like I’m somebody else, floating up by the ceiling, looking down at some other poor kid lying in a bed in a hospital, who’s thinking about his dad being dead. It’s not me—I’m not even really here.
It’s worst when I wake up at night and don’t know where I am. Am I home? Then I see a railing on the bed. Is that real? I reach out to touch it. It’s steel and cold. The cold feels good on my fingers ’cause it’s so hot under the covers. Then it feels bad because I know this is real. My dad really is dead and won’t come back. And then the cold sorta gets into my chest and gives me an ache so bad it makes me cry, but not loud enough for that cop to hear.
My biggest problem, besides thinking about the cop and my dad and the gang of people out to get me, is what to do with the key. It’s not like any key I ever saw before. It’s long and thin and brass, and it’s got a number stamped at the top: 158. Maybe it’s for a locker? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve gotta find a place to hide it, because it keeps slipping outta my hand when I fall asleep. But I don’t have any pockets in this crazy gown, and my clothes aren’t anywhere around the room, so where can I put it? Then I remember some old movie I saw.
“Nurse,” I say, “could I have a Bible? Just to have beside me?”
“Sure. There’s one in the table right beside you, my luv,” she says, pulling it out of a drawer. “Do you want it open to any particular passage?”
I panic a bit, not knowing any particular passages. So I just say, “No—any old place,” which isn’t very religious-sounding. The nurse doesn’t mind though, and she gives me a smile when she leaves, like she’s thinking what a sweet kid I am. Soon as her back’s turned, I get the key out and start prying up the thick paper inside the cover. Bit by bit I work the whole key inside, till just a bit of brass shows, which nobody would notice but me. For the rest of my time in the hospital I keep it right beside me—even the next day when the lady from Social Services shows up, with the fat cop right behind her.
He gives a snort when he sees me with the Bible.
“Sykes with a Bible—that’s a first, wha?” he says with a mean kind of a laugh.
“Constable,” the lady says, “if you have to be here, then you’ll have to be quiet.”
She sits down and gets out a big binder. She digs out a pen from a black bag on the floor, then lets out a big sigh and says, “Now, Charlie. My name is Kathleen Puddister, and I work with the provincial Child Services Department. We’ll help look after you, now that your dad’s…gone. To do that we need to know a little more about you.”
“Like where you live, for a start.”
“Apartment 6B, 2719 West Third Street, Fort McMurray, Alberta, T9H 1B0.”
“Very good” she says. “Not many boys as young as you would know their postal codes.”
“I’m not young,” I say. “I’m thirteen.”
“Sorry. You look younger.”
“Because I’m small,” I say, which I know is true—smallest one in my class, every picture, until last year when that new kid moved in from India or somewheres they don’t have enough food to get big. Or that’s what my friend Robert says.
“So,” she says, “you were born in Alberta?”
“Guess so. I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”
“No one remembers being born, Charlie.”
“I mean later, like—I can’t remember my mom or anything.”
“And your dad didn’t talk to you about your mother? What she was like?”
I shake my head.
“He didn’t like to talk about her, because of what happened.”
“And what did happen?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t like to talk about it, only to tell me she died.”
“When you were a baby?”
“When I was a tiny baby, just born.”
“All right,” she says, smiling like she doesn’t want to upset me with questions about my mom dying.
“And what about your dad—where was he born?”
“Out east, I guess. Out here.”
“In Newfoundland?” she asks, which makes me want to ask a question myself.
“Mrs. Puddister,” I say.
“Ms.,” she says.
“Miz,” I say. “Do you know where my father was born?”
The cop gives another laugh and gets a mean look from Miz.
“We’re just verifying some things about your dad now, Charlie. We want to be sure just who you and your dad are.”
“And who could we be?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, slow, and seeming a bit confused herself. “It’s just that it’s important that we know exactly who people are when there’s an accident like this. So we know who to contact, and what to tell them.”
I don’t say anything, so she goes on.
“You see, there were no documents in your car—no insurance papers, no registration. Which brings me to a few more questions about this trip you and your father were on. What can you tell me about it?”
Right away the cop gets his notebook out, and a funny thing happens. Everything slows down, like it does when you’re in a fight at school. You see the other kid’s stronger and that he’s gonna smack you hard in the face, and all you can do is wait for the punch. Except I’m not waiting for a punch now. I’m waiting to decide what to say next. Whether I’ll tell the truth.
The cop’s just getting his pen out when I decide.
“Nothing to tell,” I say.
“Was it a holiday, a vacation?” asks Miz.
“Did your dad say why he was going to Newfoundland? To meet someone? A friend, maybe, or a relative?”
“Have you ever been here before?”
“So this was just a…a family vacation. No big deal?”
This second lie is easier—like the second time you jump off the high board.
“No big deal,” I say, which is not the truth. The truth is my dad got a phone call just before we started on the trip. Late at night, when I was supposed to be in bed. Which I was, but I wasn’t sleeping. At least not after the phone rang about twenty times. That’s how I came to be listening when my dad talked to whoever was on the other end—just saying a few words, like “Okay” and “When?” and “Where?”
I could have told them about that, I guess. And about how I opened my door a crack to see if my dad was okay, ’cause he shut off the TV soon as he hung up. I could have told them about how he saw me looking at him and how his hands were shaking. And how he was all white, white like when you gotta stay home from school with the flu. And how he said to me, soon as he saw me, “Jesus, Charlie. We gotta go. We gotta start tomorrow. He’s gettin’ out…”
I first think about running away a couple a nights after they move me to the ward. The worst part of the ward isn’t the noise—there’s a lot of it, including a kid right next to me who pukes his guts up every couple of hours. Or the light out in the hallway, which shines just bright enough to creep in behind my eyelids when I almost fall asleep. The worst part is that my bed doesn’t have a railing. Which is funny, because I never slept in a bed with a railing before. But that railing being there in the other bed, after my dad died, sorta made me feel safer somehow, once I got used to it— specially when I reached out to touch it. At night the moon came in just right to make it shine, and I could see fingerprints on it from where the doctors and nurses touched it. I’d rub ’em all off with my blanket and then see if I could make one perfect fingerprint, all the lines clear and sharp, like on those special maps—the topographic ones my dad used at work. But in the ward those railings were gone, and twice I almost fell outta bed. Or I dreamed I fell outta bed, which feels like the same thing when it wakes you up at some stupid time like 3:30 AM.
I know it’s 3:30 because I can see the clock in the hallway, a big old one with black hands—same as the one outside the principal’s office at school. That’s what time it is when I hear them talking about me.
“He can’t stay here,” says one voice. He’s just down the hall, outta sight. Gee, I think, lifting my head off the pillow so I can use both ears, don’t those guys know I can hear them plain as anything? That I can hear the janitor squeeze out his mop two floors away at 3:33 AM?
“We’ll need the bed on the weekend for sure,” the voice goes on.
“They’re looking,” comes another voice, a nurse. “But it’s not easy.”
“Who’s up on the foster list?”
“Well, The Hollow then.”
“He’s a kid, not a criminal.”
A laugh from the man. “Well,” he says, “we don’t know that, do we? He’s a Sykes. Anyway, they take overflow out there, don’t they? In an emergency?”
“Well, leave a note for the day staff. I need the bed.”
And that’s the first time I think about running away. Not real serious, like thinking how I would do it, exactly, but more like realizing it was possible, you know? I mean, I don’t even have a pair of pants. What would I do? Run down the road in a gown with my bum showing? No way. But I could.
Anyways, before I can plan anything out, Miz shows up next day to tell me I’m being moved. The fat cop’s with her when she comes onto the ward, puffing away like he’s just run up a mountain. Tubby would be a good name for him, I think. Constable Tubby.
“Charlie,” says Miz, “we’re moving you.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Don’t you want to know where?” she asks, her eyebrows up.
“No,” I say. “I don’t know a good place from a bad place in Newfoundland.”
“Well, the place we’re sending you is a good place. And it’s just for a bit, until we find you a place to live full-time. Usually we’d place you with a foster family for a few weeks while we found you a more permanent home. But our list of fosters is full, so we’ve got a spot for you at a provincial facility, the White Hills Training School.”
“The Hollow?” I ask.
Miz drops her pen on the floor. I can see her look at Tubby when she bends over to pick it up. He’s already got his notebook out.
“How do you know that name, Charlie?”
“That’s what they call the place you’re taking me, isn’t it?”
She gives a nod. “That’s what some of the children call it. But how do you know that name?”
“I just heard some of the…some of the kids talking about it.”
“Children? In this ward?” Miz sounds like she doesn’t quite believe me.
“Yeah,” I say. “They—we—talk about all kinds of things. Hockey, movies, the place they put bad kids.”
“But this is not a place for bad kids,” says Miz, taking a minute to shoot a look at Tubby, who turns a laugh into a cough when he sees the glare on her face.
“It’s a special school, with teachers trained to help children having…difficulties…getting along.”
I don’t nod or anything, just keep my face blank, like I do when I figure someone is lying to me. It’s a good way to handle someone you think is maybe lying to you. That way they don’t know if you believe them or not. And that makes them keep talking. And when they keep talking, they say the sorta thing that lets you know for sure if they’re lying.
“It really is quite a lovely spot,” she says. “Really. I think you’ll like it there.”
See? Now I know. So I can ask a question.
“Miz,” I say, “why do they call it The Hollow?”
“Well,” she says, putting her papers back in the binder, being real busy so she doesn’t have to look at me, “I think it’s because of its setting. It’s tucked away in the White Hills, in a little valley—sort of a hollow.”
The cop lets out that cough again.
“The van will be here tomorrow at noon to pick you up,” she says, heading for the door, Tubby behind her.
“It’s a dark blue van with white writing on the side,” he says before he follows her out. Then, quieter, to me, “It’s got metal screens on the windows. Just so you know what to look for.”
The van pulls up right on time the next morning. I know because I’m wearing my dad’s watch, which they gave to me when I signed out of the hospital. They gave me my clothes back, too, and my backpack. I can get the rest of my dad’s stuff after the funeral, they said. But they say they don’t know when that’ll be, since they’re still trying to talk to people in Fort McMurray. I also got the Bible, without even having to ask for it.
“It’ll be a comfort,” the nurse said when she handed it to me, which is true, since it means I don’t have to find another place to hide the key.
The van is blue, just like Tubby said it would be. And it really does have metal screens on the windows, but there’s no writing on it. Which seems funny to me. I mean, why not put writing on it? I guess they’re trying to make it not stand out so much—make it look more like a bunch of kids out on a field trip. Except having metal screens around all the windows kind of spoils that, so why not write up what everyone can see? Put it in big letters: Bus for Boys So Bad They Gotta Be Kept in a Cage.
Miz stands with me at the curb when the van pulls into the parking lot and heads straight for us. Guess I might as well have writing on me too: Orphan Kid Nobody Wants. A second before the driver pulls up, Miz puts her hand on my shoulder, like I’m going to jump in front of it or something. You might think I’d yank myself away from her, but it feels kinda nice, and outta nowhere I almost start to cry, my eyes getting full. The weather isn’t helping any since there’s a wind blowing in my face; I haven’t been outside in about a week, so I’m tearing up pretty good. I clamp my eyes shut real tight and turn my face while I mop up any water on my cheeks. I don’t know much about Buses for Boys So Bad They Gotta Be Kept in a Cage, but I know you shouldn’t get on one snot-nosed.
Tubby comes over to talk to the driver, who’s outta the van, lighting up a cigarette.
“Mr. Rogers,” a voice shouts from the van—a shout at the driver. “Billy Rogers! Give us one a them smokes.”
More shouts: “Give us a drag, Billy.” “Let’s all of us have a pull, now!” “If ya don’t got enough to share with everyone, don’t be bringing ’em out at all.”
The shouts shift to Miz when the boys spot her.
“Who’s yer girlfriend, Billy?” comes a call. Then another one, “Miss, miss, show us yer—”
“Enough,” the driver snaps. “Little shits,” he says, real quiet. He gives the van a glare, then seeing Miz pawing around the bottom of her bag for a pen, he tosses a quick finger back at the boys. And it’s like something explodes far off, behind a closed door. Yells, shouts, laughing, the van rocking side to side.
“Jesus,” Tubby says to the driver. “Better you than me.”
“Three more years, b’y. Then I’m done and off to the country.”
The driver looks at me for the first time. “Better get you aboard,” he says, unlocking the back door. “Find a seat and sit down. I’ll do roll call in a minute.”
The hollering stops soon as I get aboard, with everyone turning to look at me. It stinks inside—sweat from big boys and something else I don’t want to think about. There’s one seat left, on the aisle at the very front, where a fat kid’s scrunched up against the window. All the eyes go from me up to the empty seat when I head for it. Then I see what stinks: puke, all over that one seat. I swallow hard just looking at it; no way I’m sitting there.
“Better sit down,” a kid calls out from the back. “Billy can’t move this thing till everyone’s sat down.”
“That’s right,” says a kid across the aisle in the other front window seat—the one who called for the cigarette. “Little runt like you don’t want to get Billy pissed at him.”
“Too late,” says a third kid. “Here he comes, and he’s got that look.”
A minute later the driver’s in his seat, turning round to slide open a plastic panel between the front and back of the van.
“Jesus,” he says. “What died back there?”
There’s a burst of noise as the boys all call out an answer.
“All right, shut up!” he shouts. “If ye crowd aren’t quiet in five seconds, I’ll take the shore road back, and it won’t just be Pillsbury here pukin’ his guts up.
“Now,” he says once they settle down, “I’ll do the roll. Butt, Corey?”
“Yup,” says a skinny kid who’s holding up a booger he just slid outta his nose.
“What’re ya at?” comes a call back.
It goes on, down to Walsh, Frankie.
No answer. I see the driver turn his head to look at the kid in the front seat, the one across the aisle. Walsh, Frankie turns toward the driver and they stare at each other. The kid is chewing something, his mouth scrinched up in a rat nibble, like when you got a hangnail between your teeth. He tilts his head, pokes the tip of his tongue out and gives a spit—a little pop.
“Present,” he says.
The driver checks off his name.
“And you, new kid,” he says to me. “Sykes, Charlie.”
“Here,” I say. I expect more hoots, but instead there’s just a bunch of whispers.
“Sykes,” says Walsh, Frankie once Billy slides the little window shut. “You really a Sykes?”
“I ain’t never heard of a Charlie Sykes.”
“I’m not from here. I’m from Alberta.”
“You’re the kid in that accident—the orphan kid whose old man got killed by the moose. I seen it on the news.”
He nods to himself.
“Gameboy,” he says, turning round to a kid behind him wearing a big pair of glasses on even bigger ears. “Switch seats with him.”
“No way,” says Gameboy. “I ain’t sitting in Pillsbury puke.”
Walsh, Frankie turns all the way round in his seat and grabs Gameboy’s ear, pinching the bottom tight. I look to see what the driver’s going to do, but he’s turned the other way, signing some papers. Walsh, Frankie’s got Gameboy pulled close to him now, close enough to whisper something in his ear. Then he pushes him away and swats him in the head, knocking his glasses onto the floor.
“Next time I’ll tear it right off,” he says, turning round to face forward. Gameboy bends over to feel for his glasses, patting the floor till he finds them, then gets up and shoves past me toward the puke seat, where he sits, as close to the edge as he can.
“You’re a real prick, you know that, Walsh?” Gameboy says across the aisle. He just whispers it, in a hiss. Walsh, Frankie doesn’t say anything back. He just nods as I sit in the seat behind him. I figure he knows what he is.
I get my first look at The Hollow just after one o’clock that afternoon. It doesn’t seem too bad. Flat roof, red and brown bricks, lots of windows—all of them long, tall and narrow, sorta like a castle with the top chopped off. And lots of lawn running up to it, cut nice, with some flowers and stuff. It looks sorta like a golf course, except for the big chain-link fence around everything. It’s like those screens on the bus: normal, wrapped in steel.
I don’t like it.
At least I won’t have to be here long, I think, as I watch the other kids pile outta the van. Gameboy first, puking on the grass soon as he hits fresh air. Pillsbury’s the last one out, and he flops on the lawn while the other kids line up at the door.
“Serves ya right for eatin’ all a them pancakes,” says Nose Picker. “Disgusting what you shoves in yer face.”
“That’s enough,” says the driver, pressing a button by the door that sets off a buzzer. “You got an hour of class left, so drop your court documents at the office and get to class. Except you, Sykes. You come with me.”
We go down a long hallway that ends at an office with glass walls—I can see right inside to where a guy’s sitting at a big desk. He waves us in.
“Have a seat,” he says to me. Then to the driver, “That’s all, Billy. Thanks.”
He swivels his chair toward me.
“I’ve just been reading your file,” he says, taking off his glasses. “Sorry about your dad. That can’t be easy. And it can’t be easy ending up here, not that here’s such a bad place.”
“Got a nice lawn,” I say.
“Nicer than mine. The boys mow it, weed it. Not that you’ll be doing that.