Robison Wells: Variant

“So, like a union.” My foster dad two families ago—Mr. Bedke—had been a union organizer, and he was always on the phone trying to get the members to agree on something or other.

“I guess,” Becky said. “I don’t know much about unions. But in the last year or so we’ve been pretty formalized. All the jobs are split up between three groups now. We don’t bid on each other’s stuff, and that means that we all earn a lot of points.”

“I’ll probably have to join one of those three groups, right?”

“Yep,” she said. “Unfortunately, there’s a new rule”—she pointed at the security camera—“and I’m not allowed to tell you which group I’m in. But, like I said, my group has the administration contracts. You can ask around. It’d be great if you joined up.” She was smiling warmly, and I almost thought she was flirting with me—flirting with me to get me to join her weird union. And after what I’d just done to her. How did I end up here?

I leaned back in the sofa, my legs sore from traveling all day. I tried to think of something I could say or do that would get me out of this school, or at least make things a little more normal, but nothing came to mind.

“Any more rules?” I finally asked.

She shrugged. “Don’t be tardy. Wear your uniform during class and meals. No drugs or alcohol, not that you could get them in here. Don’t destroy property. You know—common sense stuff. There’s a full list in your manual.”

Becky stood up. She seemed a little disappointed, but I didn’t know why. Was I supposed to try to talk her into spilling the name of her stupid job club?

“Do you want to see your dorm?” she asked.

I sighed. “No, but I guess I don’t have a choice.”

Becky didn’t answer, but her eyes said it all. I was stuck here.

We left her small office, and she made sure the door closed behind her.

“If you need anything,” she said, “you can always talk to me.” She pointed at a small call button next to her door. “If I’m not here, this will page me. It’s part of my contract.”

I nodded, but I didn’t have any intention of coming back down here. I was going to find normal people. Something told me that any help Becky had to offer was help I didn’t want.

We headed upstairs, passing carved wood, huge old paintings, and delicate moldings.

I suddenly realized there were no students in the halls.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“They’re in the dorms,” she said. “It’s against the rules to go down and wait for new students to arrive. Curtis and Carrie will get punished for that.”

“So they’re all locked in their dorms, locked in the building, locked in the wall, locked in the fence.”

Becky laughed. “Benson, I get the feeling you’re not happy. But, yes, they’re all in the dorms. Well, most of them. The group that has the cafeteria jobs will be down there making dinner. You can thank your lucky stars for that.”

“Why?”

“When you get into the dorms, everyone is going to ask you to join their group. You don’t want to join that one.”

I smiled. “I assume that’s not yours, then?”

“Ugh, no.”

We turned a corner and went up another set of stairs to the fourth floor.

“Here we are,” Becky said, stopping at a large wooden door. I heard a buzz. She pointed up at the ceiling, and I saw a round black device. “It sensed your chip. This door will open for all the boys, but not the girls. The buzz means it’s unlocked. You’ll be in room four twenty-one.”

I reached to try the knob, but her hand stopped mine.

“Benson,” she said, her voice low. She looked up into my eyes. “I’m serious. Follow the rules.”

Becky paused like she wanted to say more, but then turned on her heel and hurried back the way we’d come.

I opened the door and went inside.

The hallway was packed with guys—maybe about twenty or so. Most were sitting on the floor, presumably waiting for me, and they popped to their feet as I entered the dorm.

They were all smiles and handshakes, greeting me warmly and reminding me more than a little bit of Becky. In the front of the group was a tall guy, with short, curly hair that had been on the receiving end of a huge amount of gel. He wore glasses with thin black frames and looked to be the tallest of the group. Becky had said no one was old enough to graduate, but he had to be.

“Benson,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

There was shouting somewhere down the hall, from behind the crowd. The tall guy directed me into a room.

“It’s quieter in here,” he said. “We can talk.”

I followed, more out of curiosity than anything else. Where else was I going to go?

Inside the room was a set of bunk beds, two desks, and a small sink and mirror. There were no sheets or blankets on the beds—it looked like no one actually lived here. He offered one of the desk chairs to me, and he took the other.

“My name’s Isaiah,” he said.

The guy who’d run after Ms. Vaughn—Curtis, I think—had said not to listen to Isaiah. I had no reason to trust Curtis, other than the fact that he’d tried to run, and that meant he had his head screwed on at least a little bit straighter than anyone else I’d met. Still, Isaiah seemed harmless.

“Becky told you about the gangs?”

Gangs? I’d never been in a gang—never stayed in one place long enough—but I’d spent my life around them. I thought I’d left them when I flew out of Pittsburgh. Even so, looking at Isaiah, he obviously had a different idea of what gangs were. No one here looked violent or the least bit deviant. They were all clean-shaven, with pin-striped pants and starched shirts. And, from what I could tell, these were their casual clothes—none of them were wearing the uniform.

“She told me a little bit about different groups,” I said. “She didn’t say they were gangs, though.”

“They are gangs,” he said. “They’re dangerous and irresponsible. You’ll find, Benson, that there are a lot of kids who view this school as a free pass to do whatever they want. They love that there are no parents or teachers, and they can behave however they want to.”

“Sounds terrible,” I said sarcastically.

“It is terrible. Have you ever read Lord of the Flies?”

I nodded. Reading was one of the few things I was ever good at in school, probably because I spent so much time by myself.

“Good,” Isaiah said, seeming impressed. “Well, here at Maxfield we have a choice of how we want to live. We can either be like the characters in that book—violent and tribal and savage—or we can try to be civilized. I’ve been here for a long time, Benson, and I can assure you that civilization is the only way to go.”

There was sudden yelling from somewhere in the hallway, and Isaiah motioned for one of his friends to close the door.

I looked around at the six guys in the room. They seemed tense, like they were waiting for something—maybe for me to agree to join them. All I really wanted to do was to get back outside and figure out how I could escape this school. Being in foster care was better than being a prisoner. Besides, I only had nine more months until my eighteenth birthday, and then I could be out on my own. No schools, no foster families.

“So,” I said, “let me get this straight. You’re the nice gang? You follow the rules, just like Becky was talking about. Is she one of you?”

“Yes, Becky is one of us. But we’re not a gang. That’s my point. We’re not like the others. They do nothing but fight and wallow. We recognize that there are problems here—don’t think that we love this situation—but we’ve made a decision. We can be miserable and get ourselves killed, or we can thrive. We have chosen to thrive. We are not a gang. We’re the Society.”