hey hey,” I answered, disappointed.
“Maybe we should follow suit,” she said, spanking her hands together. “I could load my car right now and be at Mother’s farmhouse in half a day. Get back my old job at the Econo Lodge. They liked me there. I liked them .”
“You’d have to leave the kids,” I said. “Abandon them to the predations of Mindy and Santangelo.”
“And Tim, that abject pitiful worm,” she said rubbing her knuckles across her hair in frustration. “Please give me a goddamn cigarette.”
I did.
“Those tiny little minds, Madeline. Colorless, narrow, and utterly lacking in joy.” Lulu started to pace, trailing Bette Davis wreaths of smoke. Fuming, literally. “I am not willing to admit defeat. Someone has to stand up for joy .”
“You do,” I said. “You are.”
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The room had begun to smell like hot, sweet air freshener.
When the drizzle of coffee slowed, she pulled fl owered mugs from a high cupboard.
“That fi rst week we were here,” I said, “when they were breaking us in—” I started.
“All those meetings !” Lulu said handing over my mug.
“I had hope for Santangelo,” I said, consuming a candied swallow. “He seemed to have a spark. He said some intriguing things.”
“We both wanted to believe him. Believe in him.”
I savored another drag of Camel, another sip of coffee.
During one of those early meetings, Santangelo had explained why he’d banned both vices on campus. “We used to let the kids smoke,” he’d said, “if they were of age and had their parents’ permission. Not in their dorm rooms, just in a couple of designated areas outdoors.”
It had been hot that day. Late summer.
He walked along a row of French doors in the Mansion’s library, all of them open to let in any longed-for afternoon breeze.
“The thing is,” he continued, “whenever these kids run away, they go looking for a means of defi ance—fi rst thing, every time.
A lot of them are here because they’d become addicts. Kid hits the road, right away he’ll go score.”
Santangelo paused to lean back against a column between doors. “We lost a boy who’d been with us for three months—
took off and hitchhiked home to Boston. Six hours after he left campus, he OD’d on heroin. The police found him dead in a park.”
We were all leaning forward, perched on the edge of our chairs and sofas.
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He crossed his arms, pausing to gaze deep into the eyes of one person after another, around the room. “Another boy broke into an old shed in Stockbridge. His thing was huffi ng, anything with fumes enough to get him off and dull the pain he was in.
He found a quart of paint thinner and some rags—sucked down the vapors until he passed out, holding a lit cigarette. The shed caught fi re, but they got him out in time.”
Santangelo turned to look out over the broad expanse of lawn.
Everything shimmered in the summer heat.
“The thing is, what we’re asking these kids to do, the kind of work this place is about—well, it’s damn hard,” he said. “We force them to confront the most painful experiences they’ve ever had: molestation, beatings, rape . . . instances of cruelty that will break your heart and spirit just hearing about them after the fact.”
Old hands around the room nodded at this.
“It’s no wonder the kids want to run away when we’re pushing them to feel the impact of those horrors honestly. The damage . . .” he said, shaking his head sadly, then turning to face us again. “I can tell when a kid is ready to bolt. It’s always when our work here fi rst starts to become truly meaningful.
They want to shut down, to escape from having to relive the worst of it, and from having to see themselves honestly, without the comforting fi lter of denial.”
Santangelo walked along the row of windows again, serious, his hands clasped at the small of
“Maybe we should follow suit,” she said, spanking her hands together. “I could load my car right now and be at Mother’s farmhouse in half a day. Get back my old job at the Econo Lodge. They liked me there. I liked them .”
“You’d have to leave the kids,” I said. “Abandon them to the predations of Mindy and Santangelo.”
“And Tim, that abject pitiful worm,” she said rubbing her knuckles across her hair in frustration. “Please give me a goddamn cigarette.”
I did.
“Those tiny little minds, Madeline. Colorless, narrow, and utterly lacking in joy.” Lulu started to pace, trailing Bette Davis wreaths of smoke. Fuming, literally. “I am not willing to admit defeat. Someone has to stand up for joy .”
“You do,” I said. “You are.”
6 0
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 60
28/5/08 2:44:16 PM
The room had begun to smell like hot, sweet air freshener.
When the drizzle of coffee slowed, she pulled fl owered mugs from a high cupboard.
“That fi rst week we were here,” I said, “when they were breaking us in—” I started.
“All those meetings !” Lulu said handing over my mug.
“I had hope for Santangelo,” I said, consuming a candied swallow. “He seemed to have a spark. He said some intriguing things.”
“We both wanted to believe him. Believe in him.”
I savored another drag of Camel, another sip of coffee.
During one of those early meetings, Santangelo had explained why he’d banned both vices on campus. “We used to let the kids smoke,” he’d said, “if they were of age and had their parents’ permission. Not in their dorm rooms, just in a couple of designated areas outdoors.”
It had been hot that day. Late summer.
He walked along a row of French doors in the Mansion’s library, all of them open to let in any longed-for afternoon breeze.
“The thing is,” he continued, “whenever these kids run away, they go looking for a means of defi ance—fi rst thing, every time.
A lot of them are here because they’d become addicts. Kid hits the road, right away he’ll go score.”
Santangelo paused to lean back against a column between doors. “We lost a boy who’d been with us for three months—
took off and hitchhiked home to Boston. Six hours after he left campus, he OD’d on heroin. The police found him dead in a park.”
We were all leaning forward, perched on the edge of our chairs and sofas.
6 1
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 61
28/5/08 2:44:16 PM
He crossed his arms, pausing to gaze deep into the eyes of one person after another, around the room. “Another boy broke into an old shed in Stockbridge. His thing was huffi ng, anything with fumes enough to get him off and dull the pain he was in.
He found a quart of paint thinner and some rags—sucked down the vapors until he passed out, holding a lit cigarette. The shed caught fi re, but they got him out in time.”
Santangelo turned to look out over the broad expanse of lawn.
Everything shimmered in the summer heat.
“The thing is, what we’re asking these kids to do, the kind of work this place is about—well, it’s damn hard,” he said. “We force them to confront the most painful experiences they’ve ever had: molestation, beatings, rape . . . instances of cruelty that will break your heart and spirit just hearing about them after the fact.”
Old hands around the room nodded at this.
“It’s no wonder the kids want to run away when we’re pushing them to feel the impact of those horrors honestly. The damage . . .” he said, shaking his head sadly, then turning to face us again. “I can tell when a kid is ready to bolt. It’s always when our work here fi rst starts to become truly meaningful.
They want to shut down, to escape from having to relive the worst of it, and from having to see themselves honestly, without the comforting fi lter of denial.”
Santangelo walked along the row of windows again, serious, his hands clasped at the small of
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