I arose with no problem the next morning. My eyes opened wide and the sudden feeling of refreshment and rejuvenation. I got ready before heading down stairs, almost excited to go see Elliot and Duke. I was almost to the front door when I heard it.

“Gerard,” a low, dominant voice called from the kitchen.

I stopped midstep and felt my stomach drop a little. I pursed my lips and moved towards the voice, knowing I couldn’t avoid the conversation about to take place.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, leaning on the edge of the doorway to the kitchen. I heard the lack of excitement in my voice.

“Gerard,” he repeated as he slowly closed the morning paper. “We don’t want you to do that case.”

I bit my lip. That was inevitable. I should have seen it coming, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “Well,” I began, “I am doing it. I am eighteen. I am an adult. I decide what I do.” I wasn’t getting angry. I was surely firmer than I usually was with my father and I could almost see him ease back as if he was getting fearful of that truth. That his opinion had little to no effect on my choice.

“Well, your mother and I recognize that,” he creased the edges of the paper with an intense concentration. “So, we came up with this as an ultimatum. You can do that case and wear a suit and sign papers and feel old and independent and edgy. But we are going to ask you to move out.”

I felt my chin near the ground. “Wh-What?”

Dad shrugged. “That’s it. If you think you are so self-sufficient and self-empowered than you can find someplace else to do that.”

I was speechless. How could they do this? Were they seriously challenging me? As if I was going to change my mind despite the insane conditions.

“Obviously, you have a little bit of time to think about it. We were planning for you move out Monday. You have till then to make a decision.” He seemed so nonchalant when he was usually so over the top.

I opened my mouth to say something. What that was I wasn’t so sure. My mind was still sputtering and ticking with confusion and horror. But then I felt my lips lock up and I knew I shouldn’t. I turned away and walking out the door to my car.

----

“Good afternoon, Gerard,” Duke said warmly as I entered the office. He crossed from the bubbling coffee maker to the chair at the desk, where his briefcase was ajar and filled to the brim with legal documents.

I sat down on the couch and smiled. “Good afternoon,” I sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Elliot said from his arm chair. His leg thrown over one of the arms in what I assumed to be his “Saturday” stance. His wardrobe even dictated the day of the week with dark jeans and a sweater. It was almost awkward to watch him in anything less than khakis.

I looked up wide eyed. Not knowing I had given away any indication of my last conversation. I was about to blabber out a forced excuse, but I stopped short and sighed again. “We’ll talk later. Let’s just get on with this.”

“Very good,” Duke spoke out before Elliot could argue. “Okay,” he put his glasses on the end of his nose and sorted through a couple papers. “I have taken the liberty of preparing questions from both sides of the case. They are mostly just easy questions. Recalling certain things that happened. Interpreting your journal entries. Basic stuff. There are a few more heavy ones though, meaning they are pretty… cutting. Emotionally. But we will worry about that later.”

“Okay,” I said, not nearly ready to start doing this.

“Okay,” Duke smiled. “Let’s get started.”

----

I tapped my fingers against the heel of my white sneaker. So pristine and ugly and looking around, all I saw was a sea of the same ones.

Why was I here? I gave a long sigh and searched the room for something worthwhile. Like I could ever find it.

The crowd of boys was beginning to settle. Not that they were that rowdy a crowd. I looked up to see why and saw one of the teachers taking the podium. “Good afternoon, boys. I would like to welcome you to the presentation room and give you a hand for making it this far in the program.”

The applause erupted slowly for no one believed they deserved it. Especially me. A six month resident hiding among the six weeks. None of them knew.

“Now we have a real treat for you today. We have asked one of our good friends to come talk to you guys about the differences of wrong and right. So without further ado, I’d like to introduce Mr. William Thompson.”

An applause simmered through the crowd as a plump, middle aged man came down the aisle and struggled up the stairs. In one hand were his speaking notes and the other a Diet coke that he slurped steadily. He thanked the teacher that introduced him and took the microphone. His forehead already sweating in the lights of the presentation room. He sipped his Diet Coke before clearing his throat and speaking. “Good afternoon, students.”

“Good afternoon,” a few of the boys answered back, but I kept my mouth shut. Waiting for this to be over to I could go back to my room.

“I would like to start with a quote by Ernest Hemingway. He once said, “I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.” Now, I like to get a lot of crowd participation when I give talks so I would like for you all to raise your hand if you felt good after your own encounters that brought you here.”

No one raised their hand. Of course. It was either out of fear or blatant mind washing. They probably didn’t remember what a good feeling was.

“See. There is my point. We all know deep down what is right and what is wrong, but sometimes, as kids, we naturally want to veer off that path momentarily. Society these days teaches us that the only ones who can have fun are the ones who flirt with danger, when that is very much not true. In fact, very often danger quite willingly flirts back and finds its own way to draw you in deeper than you ever wanted to go. It’s almost like when you swim in the ocean and you want to see if you can reach the buoy, just to say you did it. And once you reach that buoy you feel great, until you get swept a little further out than you would have liked and then you find yourself paddling towards the shore like your life depended on it. Luckily, it seems all of you can either swim well or stay away from buoys.”

The forced joke gathered no laughter.

“My point is that you know the difference. Let’s say… stealing something. Right or wrong? You.” He pointed to someone in the first row.

“Wrong.”

“Getting an A on a test? You.” He pointed towards the back with excellent precision.

“Right.”

“Cheating... to get an A on a test? You.” He pointed to his left.

“Wrong.”

“See? You all know. The question becomes why didn’t you know at the time your encounters. I would like to bring a couple people up the stage. How about you.” He pointed towards the second row.

“You.” He said to someone in the fifth.

“and you.” He pointed towards me out of nowhere. I looked up the teachers, wondering if that applied to me. The odd kid out.

They all looked at me with judging eyes and I understood the message. I got up slowly and made my way towards the stage, as did the others.

When we were all there, Mr. Thompson spoke to the first one. “Hello. What is your name?”

The boy was African American, a bit on the short side, and timid to speak. “Preston, sir. My name is Preston.”

“Preston,” the twang in his voice rang out. “What don’t you come up to the podium and tell everyone about your encounter.”

The boy reposed a bit and his shoulders bent inwards in defeat.

Mr. Thompson pushed him towards the mic with an inspiring look in his eyes.

Preston approached slowly and coughed a little before starting. “I-I was working in a bookstore. And one day, while organizing the magazine section...” the crowd hung on his words. “I found a specific magazine, you know. And... and I was curious so I stole it from my employer. And month after month, I kept stealing them until... my mom found them in my room.”

There was an eerie silence to the room and Preston’s body froze at the sound.

“And how do you feel about that now?” Mr. Thompson asked with sympathetic eyes.

Preston licked his lips and adjusted his footing before speaking again. “It was a misunderstanding. The only reason I wanted the magazines was because I knew I wasn’t suppose to have them. I felt independent and rebellious and jaded. I see now that that was my only possible motive.” The response echoed a standard teacher’s response verbatim. The slight twitch in his face cemented the insincerity of the statement. I saw his brain beginning to understand where the real error lied.

“Very good,” Mr. Thompson smiled harshly. “Let’s give Preston a round of applause for sharing with us.”

A couple of teachers clapped earnestly but the students hands seemed absentminded with their lazy percussions. Half of the crowd relating to him, half of the crowd hating him.

The boy’s face broke and I knew he had put the pieces together. He had figured this place was wrong. I felt for him.

He walked off the stage in a daze and Mr. Thompson turned to me. “Well, hello and what is your name, son?”

I didn’t appreciate the singsong quality of his voice or the scent of aspartame coming off his breath. “Gerard,” I hissed through my teeth.

“Why don’t you come up and tell us your story.” His tone mysteriously sarcastic.

“No,” I bit out, grinding my teeth together in fury.

He shook his head as if it was a simple mistake. “No, Gerard. It’s not an option. Come up and tell us all about your brother.”

The word dipped down my throat like a strep test at the doctor’s office. But instead of responding, I turned towards the stairs and began to leave. I felt Mr. Thompson’s fat hand grab at my shoulder and spin me towards him. I stumbled to face him, but as soon as I saw the fire in his eyes, the heat transferred and I felt the anger erupt in me. I gathered all of my force and threw my fist into the side of his face.

I saw his glasses fly off and the impact shake the fat on his face and neck. I saw his expression change from surprised to furious. He starred down at me, his face turning a deep red. “Why you little, incestuous fuck,” he spit out viciously as he grabbed me and easily threw me over his shoulder.

I fought, kicking and screaming, but it was useless. My months without running and jumping left my body to frail to fight. I felt him carry me off the stage and the teachers talking to him in hushed tones. I couldn’t concentrate though, still fighting to free myself. I thought I heard them say “holding cell” but I wasn’t sure. Then, we were moving again and I felt my muscles beginning to tire. My movements more and more delayed. Down the halls, he carried me with a entourage of teachers following behind. “Where are we going?” I shouted a couple times with no reply.

They finally stopped at the end of a corridor, empty with all the students at the assembly. I felt myself being thrown into the room. The concrete caught my fall and scratched my knees and elbows. I fell to the ground, limp as a ragdoll.

I looked up for a moment to see where I was but everything was dark. The beam of light from the doorway shrinking away and I yelled, “No! Stop!” I felt the tears well up in my eyes. But it was useless. I heard the lock of the door and the hollowness of the unfamiliar dark and I knew things would never be the same.

Thirty hours later. After starvation and solitariness and nothingness, I heard the door unlock and screech open.

I looked up blinded by the florescent light. His outline was silhouetted against the bright, fuzzy lights of the facility. His short stature. His big ears. His bald head. I knew he had to be the one that caught me that last time. And in fourteen simples words, he pulled me to pieces.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other now, Mr. Way"