Academic Assassins (2 page)

Too late now
, I'll say from the cozy confines of my woodland Shangri-la.
Maybe next time you'll think twice about saying no to me when I ask for an extra helping of
chocolate milk…

Or if I can stay up an extra hour to watch television…

Or if I can borrow the keys to Dad's car
.…

I made it as far as the end of our block before I realized I had forgotten to pack my toothbrush. And my favorite T-shirt (I really shouldn't have scheduled my great escape on laundry
day).

Dragging my suitcase back into the kitchen, I found Mom setting the dinner table.

“I'm not staying,” I said. “I just forgot a few things.”

“I'll pretend like I didn't see you.”

I smelled the alluring aroma of beef in the oven. “What're you making?”

“Meatloaf sandwiches,” she said. “Want one for the road?” Mom had already set a place for me at the dinner table. “Just in case you change your mind.”

Mom didn't say anything when I sat down. She didn't have to. She simply served me a sandwich. And with every meaty, juicy bite that she watched me take, I could feel how much she
loved me.

Whoa
.…

Where did that memory come from? I hadn't thought about it in years. Out here in the woods, recollections keep returning when I least expect them, like a dam has cracked in my mind,
releasing a flood of memories.

The biggest difference between now and then is—when I was eight, I had a home to run away from.

Now I've got nothing. And I'm keeping it that way.

Sitting here with my back pressed up against cold limestone, huddled in the dark with a flickering candle, I can't help but wonder if Mom and Dad are sorry that I'm gone this
time.

Or if they've realized I'm gone yet.

It has been days since I last set foot outside. I think. Hard to tell with no daylight. I'm beginning to forget what sun feels like on my skin.

Too much time on my hands here.

In the cold. In the dark.

In my head.

I returned to Camp New Leaf today.

I know, I know
.…
Bad call. I promised myself I wouldn't, but I had no choice.

I needed to find food. Pronto.

One unclassified red wildberry was enough to seize my stomach with massive cramps. I threw up—twice—even though there wasn't anything left to purge. I sounded like a donkey
with colic, heave-ho-ing a lot of bile and air and emptiness—
heehaw
,
heehaw
,
heehaw
!

Food. I've got to find food.

Hello, New Leaf
.…
Boy, were you ever a sight for sore eyes.

Sore, pecked out, bleeding eyes.

The grounds were nothing but a burnt shell. The gutted cabins looked like the long-forgotten skeletons of some prehistoric pack of wooly pachyderms, their bones pecked clean of their meat by
scavenging animals. Whatever remains of these oversized frames had been left to decay, swallowed up by the surrounding wilderness.

Walking through the front door of my old cabin, I looked up and noticed the roof had been scorched back to its beams, compliments of Firefly. The exposed rafters were nothing more than cindered
ribs.

I spotted a partially charred sleeping bag on the floor. The fire had chewed through the bottom of the bag, but I could still use it. I rolled it up and tucked it under my arm, searching for
more salvageable materials.

I could have sworn I heard somebody call out my name—
Speeeeeeeencer
.

“Who's there?” I spun around and realized it was just the breeze blowing through the shattered window at my back. Shards of jagged glass rattled in the windowsill, like
fangs—
Speeeeenceeeeeeeeeeer
.

Let's make this a quick visit, Spence
, I thought.
Now's not the time for a trip down memory lane.

Hunger had taken over my head. I couldn't think straight. My vision was blurry.

I needed to eat.

Something.

Anything.

There wasn't any food in the mess hall. A raccoon was perched on a table, clasping a hamburger bun covered in blue and green spots.

“You gonna finish that?” I asked.

No answer.

“Thanks for the stimulating conversation, pal
.…
That's the last time I invite you to lunch.”

I gathered a few plastic forks from the floor and stuffed them into my pocket before I heard a clanging coming from the parking lot.

Sounded like Morse code.

I'm not alone
, I thought as I picked up the pace and raced toward the parking lot.
Maybe I wasn't the only one who had hightailed it into the woods. Maybe I'm not
alone I'm not alone I'm not—

The parking lot was empty. All I saw was a few abandoned cars, their tires melted down to the rims. A loose pulley kept striking the flagpole in the wind. A few scraps of fabric billowed in the
breeze.

The Tribe's flag.

I saluted the raggedy blanket with my middle finger—“Thanks for the memories, guys. This was a summer I'll never forget.”

Back to scavenging. I found a few pens in the counselor's office. They would hold me over for a couple more journal entries, I thought.

George's computer sat on his desk. A thin film of soot smeared the screen. Wiping the grime away, I was confronted with a teenage scarecrow staring back at me from the dark screen.

“Aaah!” I gave a start, thinking someone else was standing behind me.

My face looked thinner. Whatever puff I had in my cheeks was gone. I really could've used a haircut.

I found my finger hovering over the computer's power switch. Only an inch between me and electricity.

Spencer
, I thought,
what are you doing?

If I turned it on, I could connect to the outside world.

Don't do it, Spence
.…

If I connected to the outside world, I could go online.

Don't do it
.…

I could reach out. Reach home.

Don't
.…

I pushed the power button. Nothing. Of course there was no electricity. Nothing works out here anymore. It was as if everybody had forgotten this spot. Maybe nobody wanted to remember.

Would you?

Best to forget you even exist, Spencer
.…

I couldn't quiet the voice in my head.

Nobody wants you.

The whispers at my ear were growing louder.

Nobody cares.

I walked down to the dock for a last look at Lake Wendigo. A stray life preserver drifted along the crystal-smooth surface, like a floating donut. The sun started to sink below the tree line, as
pink as a slice of raw sirloin.

Yum
.…
I was seeing food everywhere now.

I had to head back to the cave. There was an hour's hike through the woods, and it wasn't easy in the dark.

There were animals out there. Wolves. Bears. Snapping turtles. Each looking for their next meal.

Aren't we all?

I could feel the knot in my stomach tighten its grip, squeezing my insides until it had my undivided attention—

Feed me feed me feed me feed me feeeeeed meeeeee
.…

Dusk brought a cicada song out from the pines. Their grinding jaws filled the night sky—

Fee­edme­eee­fee­eed­mee­eee­ef­eee­edm­eee­eee­ee
.

The camp reminded me of an empty cicada husk. Once the molting adult insect sheds its skin, the abandoned exoskeleton still clings to the side of a tree.

With the Tribe gone, this camp was nothing but a layer of hollow, hardened skin.

Like me. Was I nothing but a husk of who I once had been? Sure felt like it.

I spotted the Tribe's insignia spray-painted across the side of cabin two. Blood-red paint had dribbled down the wood before drying, as if the cabin had been bleeding.

The stick figure. The spear raised over its head.

Long live Camp Cannibal
.

Long live the Tribe
.

I should never have gone back there. That camp is a dead place now.

It's that time again, folks! Time to play another rousing round of…

Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

(Thunderous applause from the studio audience.)

The rules are simple:

Think of somebody you haven't talked to in a long time and get whatever you've been wanting to tell them off your chest.

For those folks at home, feel free to play along
.…

Today, our returning guest Spencer Pendleton will face someone very near and dear to his heart, someone he hasn't seen since he chickened out and turned tail when he should have taken her
by the hand and walked back into the real world alongside her.

I think everybody at home knows who we're talking about.

Folks, give a hand to…

…Sully Tulliver!

(The crowd goes wild, like a bunch of rabid badgers.)

Hailing from Greenfield, Miss Tulliver spent her formative years palling around with Peashooter and his Tribe before striking out on her own. But our viewing audience knows that Miss Tulliver
and Spencer have had a rather—how should we say this—well, an on-again, off-again “friendship” that has left the rest of us feeling pretty dizzy.

(A collective chuckle rumbles through the crowd.)

This should make for a spirited game today, folks! Time to let those sparks fly as we play…

Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

“Hey.”

Hey
, she said—or, to be more exact, I imagined she said.

“So…? Should I start?”

It's your head, not mine
.

“Okay. So. I've been talking a lot to myself lately. Just got to keep my voice alive—like a fire. Don't let your voice snuff out, I keep telling myself.”

Is there something you want to—?

Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

(Thunderous applause from the studio audience.)

“I know this is a little awkward,” I said. “Last time we saw each other, I kinda hightailed out on you without telling you what's up.”

Definitely not your best move, Spence
.…

“I just wanted to—”

Get! It! Off! Your! Chest!

(More applause.)

“I wanted to explain why I left.”

Fine
. She shrugged.
Be my guest
.

“Has it been hard out here? Sure. I wouldn't recommend a retreat like this for everybody…But it really does wonders for your character. After the first month, you kinda get
the hang of it.”

Look
, Sully said.
This whole “I went to the woods because I wished to be all badass” is not doing you any favors. You're not proving anything by hiding out here.
Plus, winter's coming. You're going to popsicle yourself to death because you're running out of matches and you still don't even know how to start a fire.

“So—what? You're saying I should give up and come home? To the life I had before? A life of watching TV? A life of wasting countless hours trolling online? That's not my
life. That's not a life at all.”

Stop hiding
, she said.
Find yourself by facing yourself, not running away.

A pretty profound thought for someone who's not even there. Even when she's imaginary, Sully always knows just what to say.

I'm starting to see my breath now. My sleeping bag has a hole in it. The leaves are falling. The branches are beginning to look like bones.

I see skeletons all around me.

Find me, I wish Sully had said. I miss you, Spencer.

Hunger is a clown making a balloon animal with your intestines. Hunger is a brushfire set in your belly. Hunger is a boa constrictor coiled within your torso. Hunger is your
mother hanging your insides on the clothesline to dry. Hunger is a violin with its strings made from your guts, whining a three-hour symphony. Hunger is rust corroding away the lining of your
stomach. Hunger is heartache. Hunger is…

Hunger is…

I'm down to my last Ding Dong. The Twinkies didn't last long.

What day is it again?

Nobody ever told me fishing would be this hard. Robinson Crusoe made it sound like a cinch on his “Island of Despair,” but at least he had his man Friday helping him.

I've been eating moss just to keep my stomach from rioting against the rest of my insides.

Stay away from the red berries
, I have to keep reminding myself. Even though I know they're poisonous, I've had to force myself to steer clear.

Hunger is…hunger.

When you don't feed it, it eats you. I read somewhere that when the body runs out of things to digest, it will turn on itself. First, it breaks down the fats. Then it moves on to the
organs and muscles.

Eaten alive. I'm devouring myself from the inside out. Before long, there won't be anything left of me.

I never knew what silence was until I came here.

Thought I knew. I imagined I had immersed myself in solitude—but out here, in the middle of
nowhere everywhere anywhere
, surrounded by an endless stretch of pines, I've
experienced a kind of quiet that makes me realize I had no idea what solitude was. Not even close.

I, Spencer Pendleton, have lived a life mummified in white noise. I spent my days in a suburban sarcophagus. At home, there was always some hum in the background, padding my ears. A clock
ticking. A television muttering. An airplane droning overhead. Whether I was aware of it or not, those sounds shielded me from the thoughts in my own head.

Now there is nothing, nothing but silence—and I'm left with nothing. Nothing but my memories.