Pressure - By Jeff Strand Page 0,7

next building over. After we took our seats I tried to do a quick count and estimated that there were about four hundred kids in the room, all between the ages of twelve and sixteen. About ten students pushed carts between the tables, handing a cellophane-wrapped dish and a container of milk to each student.

“That’ll be our job every Thursday at dinner,” Peter explained.

Dinner was meat loaf, mashed potatoes, creamed carrots, and a roll. All four were indescribably awful. The meat loaf tasted a lot like the mashed potatoes, which tasted a lot like the creamed carrots. The roll didn’t taste like anything.

I successfully fought back tears as I thought of my mother’s meat loaf, which, to be perfectly honest, was never all that great.

After the meal, Peter and Jeremy took me on a quick tour of the school grounds. There were two residence halls, a library, one classroom building, a small administrative building, and a sports field. Even with my horrible sense of direction, I was pretty sure I could keep from getting lost.

When we got back to the room we talked and played some more cards. Peter told me all about Killer Fang, his cocker spaniel, who at this very moment was guarding his room back at home, defending his valuable possessions against evil intruders. He explained how more than anything in the world, he wished that Branford Academy would institute a policy where he could trade Jeremy in for a dog.

Jeremy made several pointed observations about how people who loved dogs often grew to resemble them, using the pug poster as a visual aid.

Darren kept reading his book.

At ten o’clock, lights out, we went to bed. I was unbearably tired, especially since I hadn’t slept the night before, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t fall asleep.

The next night I did sleep, if only because of my complete mental exhaustion. I slept fitfully for the first week, and twice I woke up crying. Fortunately, this didn’t awaken my roommates, unless they were pretending to be asleep in an effort to spare me the humiliation.

But by the third week, I was sleeping more or less soundly each night, and I was getting used to the Branford Academy routine. The teachers were amazingly strict, but the classroom material was less difficult than what I was used to, so it didn’t take me long to catch up. I made sure to turn in my homework on time and study thoroughly for every test, and there were no problems.

The dorm rules were straightforward: room spotless at all times, with surprise inspections at least once a week. No noise after ten o’clock, although they were generous enough to allow middle-of-the-night bathroom visits.

I never could get used to the food. Each and every meal was so bad that the chef had to be doing it on purpose. Culinary incompetence could explain the first six or seven meals, but more than that had to be culinary malice.

Peter and Jeremy readily accepted me into their group, and the three of us hung out like best friends. Despite living in the same room as him, I didn’t talk to Darren much. If he wasn’t studying, he was reading, furiously scribbling in his notebook, or staring into space.

I can’t honestly say that I’d rather have been at Branford Academy than back at home, but all things considered, the first three weeks weren’t such a bad experience.

Twenty-three days after my parents dropped me off, the room’s inhabitants were punished on my behalf.

Chapter Three

I hadn’t even forgotten my entire history report, just the last page, which had somehow slipped out of the paper clip. Racing back to the residence hall meant I’d be late for class, but that was better than turning in incomplete work. Since I’d never been late before, I probably would have only received a very stern reprimand.

Running on the sidewalks was against the rules, of course, but it wasn’t a major infraction. Again, with my flawless behavior record up to this point, it probably wouldn’t have earned me more than a warning.

The collision, however, was a definite source of concern.

I ran smack into Mr. Wolfe, my math teacher. The papers he’d been carrying flew everywhere, some of them getting caught in the breeze. Through what I like to think was divine intervention, it was me who was knocked to the ground and not him.

He didn’t say a word, and simply began picking up the papers. After standing indecisively for a long, frightening moment,