Page 72 of The Reformatory

“Don’t talk about my parents,” Blue said. His voice was a knife. He’d become the Blue from the locker room, all hard edges. “Don’t talk like you know anything about me.”

He and Blue would have to fight, that was all. A certain kind of boy didn’t learn until his nose was bleeding. Robert had been in only one fight: Papa had said if he bloodied Randall Lawrence’s nose, Randall would stop tripping and punching him every chance he got. Randall had still been laughing before Robert stood back up and hit his nose with the side of his fist as hard as he could. Randall didn’t laugh after that. Papa said you fought if there was no other way. Robert wanted to hit Blue so badly that his lips shook.

“Don’t you never come back out here like this,” Robert warned him.

“I came for you, stupid,” Blue said. “You think I’d come if it wasn’t life-or-death?”

Life-or-death. Robert glanced in every direction: Boone was still fussing near the fence, and the graybeard on horseback wasn’t close enough to hear. Redbone had outpaced him by a long way by now.

Robert’s mouth and throat dried out as he held his breath. “What?”

“Never, ever be alone with Haddock,” Blue said.

Robert’s heart shook him. He thought about the old photo of the dead baby in Haddock’s lap when he was a child. He hadn’t liked how proud Haddock had been, bragging how he was the only one with guts enough to hold the dead sister he never wanted.

“That strap?” Robert said.

“Forget the strap,” Blue said. “The whippings ain’t the worst. You don’t even got the brains to think it up yet. You’ve never thought of nothin’ as low as Haddock. You wouldn’t even know how.”

“What, then?”

“He does his worst things at night—after the teachers and workers go home. When it’s only the dorm masters—who do anything he says. Anything. The Funhouse ain’t the worst. You don’t go to Boot Hill from the Funhouse. The Funhouse don’t make you want to curl up and die.”

“Stop trying to scare me,” Robert said, although he knew Blue wasn’t lying. He’d known when he stood naked while Haddock studied him head to foot. The memory shivered his skin.

“He treats the band special,” Blue said. “Likes to win the Christmas parade. So that’s good for you, but there’s bad mixed in. He’ll be watching you. Don’t forget.”

“Did he ever bother you, Blue?” Robert whispered. He remembered Haddock rubbing his shoulder in the Funhouse. Too hard. Too long.

“The worst of the worst of the worst,” Blue said. “That’s what he is. What he’ll do.”

“Stephens—who you talking to?” Boone’s voice boomed.

The sky seemed to veer from daylight to night. Robert turned around fast, trying not to look as surprised and scared as he felt, but his mouth was hanging wide. Boone thrashed past the corn stalks to face him, and Robert blinked, hoping Boone was only in his imagination. But he smelled the stink of Boone’s sweat and the cigar pinned between tight, angry lips.

When Boone reached for his belt as if to grab his strap, Robert said, “What?” Any empty word to try to slow time or turn it back outright.

“You deaf?” Boone said.

Robert glanced back to look toward Blue—but Blue was gone. None of the corn swished or swayed to betray his path. Blue had run off, as quick and quiet as a snake. That meant Boone hadn’t seen him! Robert’s heart hammered with relief. He looked back at Boone, who was still threatening, his hand on his belt. A crow cawed overhead, sounding as angry as Boone.

“I was only singing, Mister Boone. Trying to sing real quiet.”

“Singing?” Boone said, frowning. His hand fell slowly away from his belt buckle.

“Yessir,” Robert said. “My mama used to wash clothes and she would sing to pass the time. I think I musta got it from her, sir. I sing when I work. And I’ve been workin’—see?” He opened his bulging sack to show him.

Boone leaned over to examine his weeds, noting the soil-tangled roots. He nodded, satisfied. Robert knew he’d pulled more weeds than most of the other boys, that he’d been more careful. He had to: the marks on his back were still fresh.

“But I sing it real quiet, so no one can hear,” Robert went on. “So it sounds like talking, I reckon, sir. I’m sorry if I was singing too loud.” He measured his voice: not too easy, not too soft. Then he waited. He’d said enough—maybe too much. Papa said sometimes you had to be quiet to let a man think over what you said.

Boone’s eyes went to the place where Blue had been standing, as if he could still see his shadow. He stared at the place a long time. Robert’s heart quailed again.

“You ever see anybody who don’t belong?” Boone asked him.

“Sir?”

“Ones you ain’t seen before,” Boone said. “Faces you don’t know.”