What's this? Encounters with a pedophile, a pear-shaped woman, and a horrible, horrible theme song? And this is only day one of ten years of torture yet to come! Well…in reality, it's only ten months…but, you know what I mean.
FRUITY MONSTER, FRUITY FRUITY MONSTER. :D
Chapter Four
Gregory must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was being awoken by a sharp jab in his forehead. His eyes shot open. He knew that hand. He gave Christophe a sour look and rubbed between his eyes, hurt. "Why'd you do that?" he demanded. Christophe banged his fist against his own shoulder a few times, where Gregory's face had been pressed until a few seconds ago. There was a little dark spot on his sleeve where drool had dribbled out of the blonde's mouth.
"My arm was asleep," he murmured casually, flashing a grin at Gregory. The Brit blushed faintly and stole a glance out the window; he was shocked to no longer see the snow-filled countryside, but instead a vast expanse of sunbathed buildings and highways and cars. He pressed his face into the glass and stared, his heart leaping. It was a very exciting sight; he hadn't ever seen anything quite like it, even before, when they had lived in New York. He chanced a smile at the outside world before turning back around to face Christophe. The brunette looked rather tired, himself, and Gregory wondered if Christophe had sacrificed a nap in order to protect him from the strange people riding with them on the bus. Something bubbled in his stomach, and he smiled.
"…How long have we been driving?" Gregory asked, not really expecting his friend to know the answer. Christophe shrugged.
"I don't know. Around five 'ours?" he suggested, scratching his arm. "One of ze grown-ups from ze front of ze bus was talking earlier…'e said somesing about all of our luggage being returned to us at ze end of ze term, and uniforms being provided to us upon our arrival or some bullsheet like zat…"
Gregory rubbed his eyes and yawned, forcing the sleep out of his body. He suddenly began to notice the other boys around them that he hadn't taken the time to notice earlier; there were boys of all ages. The youngest appeared to be around his and Christophe's age, and the oldest looked as if they must be in high school. The blonde felt slightly sheepish as he looked around at the older boys, who pointed to him when they realized what he was doing and snickered rudely at him. Christophe peeked over the back of the seat as well, suspicious of the laughter, but that only triggered more guffaws from the high-schoolers.
"…First-year bitches," a dark-skinned boy muttered to his friend. "Same as always, right? Little pussies." His friend laughed and shook his head mockingly at the European natives; Christophe scowled at them and flashed his middle finger at the older boys. They quickly stopped laughing and flashed their fingers back. Christophe pulled Gregory back into their seat haughtily, his eyes narrow and full of loathing.
"…What does that finger thing mean?" Gregory asked gently, making sure to look directly into the French boy's face. Christophe snorted.
"Do you remember when I said 'fuck you' to you back when we were five?" he queried; Gregory nodded carefully. "Well, eet means zat. Fuck you. Basically…eh…'ow you say…go shove somesing up your arse, because you are a lousy piece of sheet."
The blonde blinked, unsure. "Sheet?" he asked, confused.
"No, no; sheet. You know…crap? Pooh? Sheet!"
"Ohhh," Gregory said, his face flushing. He cracked a smile and laughed affectionately at his French friend. "You mean shit."
Christophe gave him an irritated and baffled look. "Yes, yes, zat eez what I said. Where were you when I spoke last? Stupeed." He slugged Gregory's shoulder playfully, and the blonde giggled again.
"What the hell's wrong with that kid's voice?" a strange boy asked, peering over the back of his own seat; directly in front of Gregory and Christophe. His hair hung in his face in shaggy black curls, and he looked around two years or so older than they were. "Is he some kind of immigrant or something?"
Gregory shared Christophe's sudden urge to hit this rude boy, but managed to restrain both of them. "Yeah…he's French," the blonde replied quietly. The boy in front of them blinked accusingly, then laughed.
"Haha! French pussy boy first-year bitch!" he scoffed. Gregory scowled up at the stranger and saw Christophe's face redden in rage beside him.
"Shut up and leave us alone," the Brit demanded protectively, and Christophe threw in a few choice French swear words. The third-year snickered and shook his head, sliding back down into his seat with a; "whatever." Christophe spat; it stuck to the back of the boy's seat. Gregory opened his mouth to say something, but he was silenced by the hand clamping down over his own, and then the falsely cheerful voice from the front of the bus.
"All righty, boys, we're here!" a man said jovially; Gregory and Christophe peered over the third-year's seat to see who was speaking. A tall man who was far too skinny for his own good; he was wearing camouflage pants and black boots with a stained white muscle shirt (showing off nothing) that boasted the phrase: "I AM A GOOD PERSON; YOU ARE, TOO!" He had greasy, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he was holding a clipboard carefully in the crook of his arm. Gregory elbowed Christophe when the brunette snickered under his breath at the man, though a few other first-years giggled, as well. "Now I want y'all to listen up; I'm gonna be tellin' you about a few changes that'll be takin' place this year. By the way, first-years, my name is Mr. Milfrey…and you won't have to worry about any of this, so don't bother. Everyone else, first off, Miss Williams had the repair crews come in over the winter, so Cabin F's roof doesn't leak anymore. Y'all won't be stayin' with Cabin D anymore."
There was a brief round of applause from a few of the boys in the back of the bus. Mr. Milfrey flashed a mouthful of yellow-gray teeth at them before he continued.
"Secondly, despite the startling amount of complaints we got last year, there will still be a curfew and a rise-and-shine time. This ain't a camp for sissies, boys, you're here to learn how to be men. Thirdly—and I'm gonna be announcin' this to the whole camp later, too—when you come to me for counselin'…I don't want to hear about how horny y'all are gettin'. It's not my fault you're stuck out here without girly magazines for a month every summer, is it?" Many of the other boys—especially the older ones—all groaned in disappointment, and Gregory suddenly found Milfrey's smile very fake, even though he had no idea what it meant to be "horny". Christophe snorted and muttered something about "…sink with zer dicks…" under his breath. Gregory blinked at him, confused.
"Fourthly," Milfrey continued, consulting his clipboard for a moment, "first-years…you are all to follow me to the building where you'll get your very own camp uniform and set of rules. These rules are to be followed at all times; there are no exceptions." The counselor was looking around the entire bus, finding younger faces, and his eyes flitted over each visage nonchalantly, pausing only for a split-second on each set of confused eyes…but for some reason, Gregory sensed that the man's gaze first froze and then darkened when he saw Christophe. Three seconds passed in the blonde's mind before Mr. Milfrey looked away from Christophe, and Gregory fidgeted nervously. Something already felt wrong about this place. "Anyway, boys, when the bus stops, y'all know what to do," the man said in that horribly fake chuckle of a voice as the vehicle rolled slowly to a stop.
Christophe grasped Gregory's wrist and pulled him into the aisle, intent on being one of the first out of the smelly bus. The blonde tripped over several large shoes and looked sheepishly up into many pairs of glaring eyes before he found himself standing in what he immediately believed to be the hottest spot on the face of the earth. After a few moments of the general confusion of arrival, he looked up at the cloudless sky; the sun seemed to be focusing all of its energy down upon the two European boys' heads. The ground beneath them was dry and cracked from lack of rain, and a thought suddenly struck Gregory as he took in the yellow-and-brown landscape:
So this is Nevada.
What part of Nevada, he wasn't sure. But it didn't take him long to decide that whatever part of the state it was, he didn't like it very much. He looked over at Christophe, who had released his arm, and he noticed that the young French boy was already sweating quite profusely. He wiped his forehead and glared around them, surveying what would be their home for the next month with a very critiquing eye.
"First-years," Mr. Milfrey said lazily, losing his false cheerful tone as quickly as the atmosphere had lost its artificial coolness. "Follow me."
A cloud of boys, many from other buses, made their way to Milfrey's side, and they followed him toward a long, log Cabin off to one side of what appeared to be the parking lot. All of the children were panting and rubbing at their faces, a few of them groaning that it was too hot for them to be outside. Milfrey muttered something like "get used to it, you little shits" while wiping his own forehead. Gregory stayed at Christophe's side even when Milfrey stopped the group at the front of the Cabin, pulling out his clipboard again and filtering through a few pages.
"When I call your name, go into the building. You'll be directed further onward once you're inside," the man growled. "These boys are in Cabin A…." He proceeded to call out names, and slowly the group grew smaller and smaller, with Gregory and Christophe still standing out in the heat, until finally, he began with Cabin H. "…Cabin H…Brown…Delorne…Hoffman…Lewis…Porter…Thorne…"
Christophe's arm quickly regained feeling as he walked into the Cabin with a smirk on his face, listening to Gregory's delighted giggles.
They went down a long hallway together and were pointed in the direction of a door marked "CABIN H: RUFUS" by a tall man with a black moustache and equally black glasses. Gregory stopped laughing at the sight of this foreboding stranger and clung to his friend again, nervous as he looked around the dark, dusty halls. The paintings of crying clowns that hung on the walls seemed to stare at them as they walked past, whispering insults at them for some secret, evil reason. The blonde shivered and Christophe squeezed his hand gently in consolation as they stopped in front of Rufus's door.
After a few seconds of hesitation and several pained glances at Gregory, Christophe knocked. A man that Gregory assumed was Rufus pulled the barrier open and grinned down at the pair; he was just as strange-looking as Milfrey, wearing bright green slacks and glistening black dress shoes, with a ripped white work shirt and a crooked grin beneath his crooked nose on his crooked face. His gray eyes gleamed down at them in a corpselike way that sent a shiver down even Christophe's spine.
"Well well well," Rufus wheezed; Gregory's fingers clamped down around Christophe's upper arm, and the frightening man's eyes focused on the tiny hands for several long seconds before he continued speaking. His eyes didn't seem able to find the boys' faces. "What a cute couple you are, what a cute couple indeed. Come on inside, boys, no need to be shy." He nudged them in with his gnarled hands, stroking Gregory's golden curls in a way that made the Brit tremble involuntarily against the violent chill that tore through his body. There was just something wrong about these people, Gregory thought, upset. The old man beamed and closed the door behind them.
Rufus's office was filled with clutter and littered with green shirts and brown pants; pairs of boots and gloves and socks and underwear, strewn over the floor, chairs, his desk, his bookshelves. There were cobwebs in the uppermost reaches of the ceiling, and the streaked window behind the desk gave the three of them a view of the vast, yellow desert. Gregory had no idea how things had managed to change so quickly from silvery and city-like into a barren, sandy wasteland. He heard Christophe breathe out sharply as Rufus stepped out in front of them, still smiling in that creepy way, and all of the blonde's thoughts were drawn immediately back to this terrifying man before them.
"So boys…what are your names?" he asked in that creaking voice of his. Christophe glowered up at him, showing no fear.
"I am Christophe Delorne, and zees eez my friend, Gregory Zorne." Rufus began pushing underpants off of his desk and pulled out a piece of paper boasting the roster for his Cabin the moment that Christophe began speaking, but he glanced up from his list when the French boy finished his sentence.
"Zorne?" the man asked, looking at the ceiling. Gregory shuddered and hated that he had done it afterward.
"…H-he means 'Thorne', sir…sometimes…h-he has a hard time making 'thhh' sounds…he h-has an accent, you see…"
"Ahh, and so do you!" Rufus chuckled, almost victoriously. "British and French, the two of you are! How beautiful…how young and tender you both are…and of fair origins, ahh…in my Cabin for ten years…this is wonderful!" Gregory suddenly wanted to cry, though he wasn't sure exactly why he felt that way; he felt rather sick to his stomach, and there was a weird crawling sensation plaguing his lower abdomen. He grabbed at Christophe's hand and whispered something into his ear that only the brunette understood. Christophe scowled at Rufus.
"We are 'ear for our uniforms, oui?" Christophe snapped. Rufus jerked back into reality.
"Oh, yes, yes. It says here…both of you need smalls for everything. Excellent. Just let me gather you up everything you need," the old man said, sounding a bit stiff, now that he was being forced to work. He began sorting through the articles of clothing and threw quite a few dark green turtleneck shirts at the boys' feet, along with several pairs of brown pants that appeared to be made of canvas. Both boys received one pair of shiny black combat boots, a belt, a pair of gloves, and a dozen or so pairs of underwear. Christophe picked the gloves up and stared at them appraisingly for a moment or so before he pulled them on. They were black and elbow-length; fingerless and boasting a square-shaped hole on the back of the hand. The French boy rolled them down around his wrists and grinned at Gregory, enjoying himself for a few brief seconds before Rufus turned back to face them and smiled in that twisted way again.
"Okay, boys. Go ahead and get undressed for me, and get changed into your new uniforms."
Christophe blinked accusingly at Rufus after a few moments of awkward silence had passed between the three of them. "…Right 'ear?" he asked, sounding rather shocked.
Rufus grinned and nodded. "Well, where else is there?"
…Something cold and sharp slid into Gregory's brain. This took the cake. This man was not normal. No matter what, Gregory remembered, his mother had always told him that when a stranger asks you to do something that you know is wrong—like getting naked in front of them—you should do everything you can to resist them. Bite, kick, scratch, scream, run…whatever it takes.
…But instead of doing as Katherine had told him, his mind froze, and he started to peel his shirt slowly off.
"…No."
He was stopped again, though this time by a warm set of fingers on his arms, jerking his shirt back down over his body. Rufus's bizarre smile quickly became a dead snarl of a frown on his sallow face. Christophe glared at him with an equally evil look cursing his lips and eyes.
"I won't do eet. You will leave ze room while we change."
Rufus's face twitched, and he fidgeted with his hands a few times before he answered. "I don't have to listen to a—!"
"My muzar 'as words for people like you. She calls you sheets pedophiles. Do you know what zat means, Meestar Rufus? Eet means you are a feelthy, sick person and you should be shot een ze 'ead!" Christophe spat, grabbing Gregory and pulling him close. "Eet makes me want to vomit, knowing zat you would try to take advantage of me and my dearest friend! I should kick you een ze balls for zees!"
…The blonde felt a strange, deep-seated affection for Christophe the moment these words passed between the French lips; an affection that, at that point, he had no idea would never, ever go away. He suddenly felt very protected in his friend's arms…even more protected than he had ever felt when his own mother had held him on nights when the monsters beneath his bed threatened to devour him whole.
"Now you can leave us, or I will tell 'ooevar eez een charge 'ear zat zer eez a pervert running zees Cabin! I am sure zat no one 'as evar told on you before, yes?" Rufus twitched again, looking much paler, now. "I sought as much. Go!" the brunette demanded, pointing to the door. The old man gave him a very scathing look before he walked quickly out of his own office and slammed the door so hard behind him that cobwebs fell from the ceiling.
After a few seconds of astonished quietude (during which Gregory was released and a very satisfied Christophe began getting undressed), Gregory turned sheepishly to face his best friend. "…Christophe," he whispered, as if afraid that Rufus was listening in on them. "I…h-how did you—?"
"I 'ave no desire to show my naked arse to zat 'orny son of a beetch," the French boy muttered, pausing halfway into one of his new sets of underwear to smile gently at Gregory. "And besides…I could tell zat you were too afraid to say what needed to be said. Eet eez all right. I understand."
"I…I was not afraid!" Gregory cried indignantly, though his cheeks turned a telltale shade of pink. Flustered, he jerked his old pants and underwear off, throwing them into a pile with Christophe's clothes and quickly redressing his nether regions, just in case Rufus decided that he was tough enough to take Christophe on if it was really necessary. The brunette beamed at Gregory.
"I could feel your 'ands shaking, mon chéri."
The Brit blushed even more furiously at this tender accusation and busied himself by jerking on his new turtleneck and ignoring Christophe. Soft lips met his cheek as soon as the fabric was down around his neck, and blue eyes focused on glistening green ones. Christophe hugged him briefly and then grinned at him, looking as if he were on top of the world.
…He seems so happy now, Gregory thought sadly, tracing the curve of that comforting smile with his shy sapphire eyes. It's so hard to tell what he's thinking, or what he'll do next…why does he always have to be like this?
"…You 'old grudges against ze wrong people," Christophe sighed, ruffling his best friend's curly hair. "Always against ze ones trying to 'elp you, nevar against ze ones trying to 'urt you. And you know why, Gregory? Eet eez because you sink too much, and you worry too much about ze sings you do not understand. Care less about me, and ze world will be zat much simpler."
"B-but I…I don't want to care less about you! Never! I'll never stop caring about you as much as I do!" Gregory said, hurt, before he even realized that he was thinking the words. He blushed ferociously and clamped his hands over his mouth, but Christophe just smiled and chuckled sweetly under his breath.
"…I know. And zat eez precisely why I told zat man to leave ze room," he muttered, gathering up their new clothes before giving Gregory a loving shove toward the door. "Because you care so much about me, and I care so much about you."
For some reason, it no longer felt strange to accept the fact that Christophe could feel caring toward another person, and Gregory realized—as they scampered past a scowling Rufus and were first given their rule sheets, then directed back out into the heat by the moustachioed man—that he liked the loss of that strangeness.
He liked it very much, indeed.
Within the hour, the boys found themselves seated inside of a huge, low-ceilinged, one-story building, off at the far left-hand table of the ten long wooden surfaces that were set up in the camp's cafeteria. The tables were poorly labeled by numbered pieces of paper stuck to the wood with masking tape; Gregory and Christophe, were, of course, at the table labeled with a "1", amongst a number of equally nervous seven-year-olds. The other, older boys were all laughing and yelling for food! Food! while a number of disgruntled-looking adults stood up on a platform, in front of what Gregory assumed was the staff table. An American flag that was as big as the wall itself was tacked up behind the staff's seats. Christophe eyed it suspiciously as Milfrey, Rufus, the sunglasses man, and a number of other men sat down in their seats. A rather frightening-looking woman was making her way past a piano onto the stage.
She was very large and pear-shaped, with a plump tomato for a head. Her gray-brown hair was swept messily back into a bun on top of her head, and she had mean, black eyes set deep in her skull below her over-plucked eyebrows. Her lower lip stuck out way too far, her cheeks sagging, very much like the jowls of a bulldog. She was wearing a gray-green suit with black dress shoes, and clutched in her left hand was a thick riding crop. All of the boys went silent when they saw that she was on the stage, and Gregory had the sickening thought that this woman would eat him, if need be.
She grinned in a way that contorted her face and sent a shiver up Gregory's spine. "Welcome to another year at my academy, boys!" she said, her voice thick and throaty. Her eyes sped to the first-years' table, and a few of them actually gasped in horror. She chuckled lightly. "If you don't already know, my name is Ms. Wilma Williams, and this—" she gestured around herself obtusely "—is my Military Academy for Boys. Here, you will learn the values of discipline, self-respect, respect for others, and just what it means to do a hard day's work. This isn't meant to be fun and games, and I assure you that it will not be, in any way, fun. So don't count on it. We go to bed at eight o'clock every night and get up at four o'clock every morning. We eat breakfast at five AM, lunch at eleven thirty AM, and dinner at six PM. In between meals, we have drills and chores. On weekdays at seven o'clock PM, for an hour before bed, we have group counseling. On weekends, there is time for individual counseling at this time. Talk to Mr. Milfrey about scheduling individual counseling." Milfrey waved from his seat.
Wilma put quite a lot of effort into an attempt at an actually nice-looking smile. She looked constipated. "I do hope that you enjoy your first month with us," she said almost politely to the seven-year-olds. One or two of them nodded; the rest of them exchanged unsure glances. The man in the sunglasses got up from the table and walked quickly toward the piano; the pear-shaped woman turned quickly back toward the other campers, and Gregory felt a wave of negative energy hit him hard in the face. There was a chorus of soft groans from the older boys' tables as the falsely cheery face of Wilma Williams announced; "and now, it is time for The Anthem!" and the tinny sound of the old piano churning out an unclassified chord echoed through the dining hall. The poor instrument was terribly out of tune, Gregory noticed (even though he had only heard a piano played about twice before in his short life), and he felt tension radiating off of the young Frenchman beside him as realization struck them both.
"Oh, don't tell me zey are going to sing…" Christophe groaned.
"I'm afraid so…" Gregory replied, furrowing his eyebrows.
Wilma flailed her arms around in the air in a pitiful attempt at conducting the feeble singing that sounded out from the second-to-tenth-year students' tables. Her own voice burst forth like the screams of so many children being attacked with baseball bats, carrying the words to a song that neither Christophe nor Gregory would ever successfully manage to forget:
"Representing freedom,I will fight for what is right;
And to protect my country,
I'll stand tall...
I will try my hardest,
To serve my fair native land;
And to protect my people,
One and all...
Forward we will go,
Our sprits never down or low;
Because we know that we will never fall...
Forward we will go,
Our spirits never down or low;
Because we know that we will never fall!"
The piano player ended with a sort of flourish, then got up abruptly from the bench and headed back to his own seat at the staff table. Wilma nodded and turned around, taking her own seat. "…Vive la France," Christophe muttered after a few moments of astonished silence on his fellow first-years' parts, a dark smirk on his face. Gregory giggled under his breath.
"FOOD!" Wilma shouted, clapping her massive hands and scaring several of the younger boys quite badly. Dozens of men wearing orange jumpsuits ran out of a door to the left of the first-years' table, carrying trays of assorted meat products. "Meat makes little boys strong!" Ms. Williams declared as the orange-clad men piled food onto the boys' plates. They ran away and left their trays on the tables, more men rushing out of the kitchen carrying bowls of potatoes and carrots. "Vegetables make little boys smart!" The drill was repeated until every boy had a full plate and a cup of water, and each time they received a new food, Wilma said something about its significance to them, growth-wise. "Water cleanses the soul," she told them, raising her cup (which Gregory noted, from the bottle of Chardonnay on the table, was full of wine instead of water). "And now…we eat."
They ate. Gregory noticed right away that the meat was too tough and the vegetables were too soft; not at all like his mother's cooking. He sighed halfway through his chicken leg and didn't feel too hungry anymore, leaning his chin against his palm and burying his carrots in his potatoes with his fork. Christophe looked over at Gregory, chewing savagely at a mouthful of poultry.
"…What eez ze matter?" he asked softly, though he could have spoken normally; the other boys were back to screaming and shouting at one another. Gregory looked over at his friend sadly.
"…I miss Mum already," he said, shaking his head. Christophe gave him a blank look, not understanding for a few seconds, but then he nodded.
"Of course you do. She eez a nice lady, your muzar," he said, shoveling carrots into his mouth. "She cooks much better zan zees, too." Gregory smiled at Christophe, soothed for a moment, but then he sighed again. The green eyes narrowed uncertainly at him. "…Eet eez only for a month, Gregory. Zen we go back to ze Cabin, and ze snow, and ze soldiers."
Gregory knew Christophe was right. And he knew that they had already talked this over. But still, he couldn't help but have second thoughts. He loved his mother very much, and being in this harsh environment for a month, away from her comforting words and protection? He knew he could at least try to deal with it, but still, he didn't know how he would be able to handle it for more than a week. Christophe clapped a hand on Gregory's shoulder.
"Look," he murmured, glancing around them as if he knew that he was doing something that he shouldn't have been doing. "…Eef…eef sings get too 'ard for you…I will 'elp you out, een any way zat I can. But ozarwise…you 'ave to tough it out, Gregory. I know you are not like I am. But you are still strong, and I know zat you can do zees, even eef you do need a bit of 'elp een ze beginning."
Gregory stared at him, dumbstruck and very flattered. The other boys ignored them, talking and laughing amongst each other, making friends. But I don't need anyone but him, the blonde's mind whispered to him, making him smile. He's better than all of these boys combined. Christophe squeezed Gregory's shoulder softly before turning back to his dinner and pretending like nothing had happened between them, as he always did when they were in public. Later that night, the Brit knew, he would feel that subtle desire to have Christophe's thin body beside him; to have that comforting warmth of breath on his neck and to smell the gentle fragrance of the French boy's hair…and Christophe would not come to him, because they would be in a room with many other boys. It was something Gregory had long since grown accustomed to; Christophe's presence in bed with him. What would happen, he wondered, now that he could no longer have it? Now that he would be deprived of his security blanket?
"…Thank you, Christophe," he whispered, not sure what else to say. "You always look out for me."
The brunette nodded and flashed Gregory a sweet smile before turning back to his food. Gregory, after hesitating for a moment, sighed and ate his dinner, doing his best to prepare himself for a month of what would surely be his first taste of Hell.