Terminal Island

Chapter Eleven

BOHEMIAN PARADISE



“Whew, there it is,” Henry says with a cracked grin. He is trying to ignore the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The school is small and quaint, tucked at the end of a valley and shaded by eucalyptus trees.

“Doesn’t look too sinister,” his wife says, wielding her camera.

“It doesn’t, does it?”



* * *



Henry’s first day at school came off well enough. In what would become a daily ritual, his mother walked him most of the way there, to the little park, and kissed him goodbye well out of sight of any other kids. Then he went on alone.

As he came in sight of the school, Henry slowed a little, armoring himself with a relaxed expression that he did not feel. There was a ring of kids by the bike rack, but Henry was relieved to see that they took no notice of his approach. All their attention was focused on something in their midst—some kind of excitement on the ground. They were laying bets and cheering. Dice? Marbles? The circle was too tight to see.

“What’s going on?” Henry asked of the nearest kid—a chubby boy who was standing outside of the action.

“Mantis fights,” the kid said.

Henry squeezed into the circle as best he could, close enough to see two brown insects grappling like tiny wrestlers.

The jeering poured down from all sides: “Kill him!” “Get him, stupid!” “Rip his head off!” “Yeah!” “Ooh—he’s got him now!” “Whip his ass!” “No way!” “Cream ’im!”

The bugs themselves were not deeply motivated; at short intervals one or the other would lose heart and make a run for it. When this happened, the kids pushed them together again. It was cruel—Henry had made a pet of a praying mantis that lived on his porch—but he was interested in spite of himself. The school-bell rang before there could be a decisive winner. The kids groaned, stomping both insects before going in.

Henry followed as they were ushered to class.

Oh well, he thought, here we go again. He dreaded the scrutiny, the embarrassment of being singled out and introduced as the new kid. It was like painting a big bulls-eye on your back.

But no one seemed to take notice of him. The students were well behaved, quietly preoccupied with each other. The teacher, Miss Graves, did not seem particularly warm, but her brisk, no-nonsense demeanor was reassuring to Henry in that he sensed there would be no spitwad campaigns or other horseplay permitted in her presence.

One thing she said did give him a twinge of anxiety, though:

“Students, now I want you to listen closely. This is very important. You are all fifth-graders, and expected to act as such. That means no tattling, no running to the teacher every time someone hurts your feelings. You are expected to be mature enough to deal with your own peer issues in a responsible way—I don’t want to hear about it. Anyone who comes to me looking for a shoulder to cry on is going to be in for a shock. I’m not your mommy. I’m here for one reason, and that’s to teach you what you need to know in order to graduate from fifth grade. That’s all.”

Great, throw us to the wolves, Henry thought.

On the positive side, there was no bothersome P.E., no enforced sports—the school didn’t even have a gym. Instead, students were graded on their participation in ordinary playground games, and were given extra recess time for this purpose. It was a bohemian paradise.

At one point during the day, a dazzling blond girl passed him a note: Are you new here?

A little reluctantly, Henry wrote back, Yes.

—How do you like it so far?

—Better than my last school.

—What’s your name?

—Henry Cadmus. What’s yours?

—Lisa. O.K. you can stop writing now.