The Ringleaders
A favorite pastime of mine and Ralph's was the food storytelling contest. Among the hub of a thousand kids eating and talking, no one could tell we were playing a game. The object was to tell about the strangest thing you had ever been served here. The winner was whoever claimed to have had the strangest meal that at least half the table believed to have been served, and the prize was the best thing on everyone's plate. It was one of the few games I could truly beat Ralph at. Ralph, of course, was graduated by now, and I would be presiding as a judge. These games were nearly always Ralph's inventions (I'd introduced a few since he'd moved on), and we had a huge advantage over the more gullible kids because we remembered our childhoods and the world outside this compound. While the five-year-olds claimed they ate rag dolls and mud and the one of the older kids was telling a very convincing story that he had actually been served a mushroom from a patch he saw growing outside, I scratched my itching hand and thought about how to make my escape. Time was of the essence; the trucks were two months away and I could graduate at any minute between now and then. If I graduated, it was all over for me, for Ralph, and for my parents. Between my itching hand, the food stories, and the fear of my imminent graduation, I couldn't concentrate. Ralph kept floating into my head. I really missed him, and I realized that it had been two years ago this day when I last saw him.
Every day was suspenseful when Ralph turned fourteen. He had become tall and muscular, and his facial hair made him look like an adult. He looked like a warrior, but I knew the day would soon come when he would not be there to protect anyone. I knew he'd be graduated, not shipped out on the trucks, and by this point I knew that graduates vanished with no explanation, usually never to be seen again. If I didn't see Ralph for a day, I would be unable to sleep that night. But Ralph never let on if he was nervous. He talked to whoever wanted company, did his best in classes, and stood up to arrogant gang leaders with class and confidence.
“Jake,” he said to me one day, “you're as old as I was when I came here. The kids look up to you. They're getting more distant from me. They know I won't be around long.”
He was testing me, and to my surprise I wasn't as upset as I thought I would be. For all the stress I had been under anticipating his leaving, when he actually mentioned it, I could handle it. “I'll never forget you, Ralph,” I said. “I'll make sure no one does.”
“I won't forget you either, Jake. They're going to wish they never took me. I'll show them how 'special' we are.”
I smiled at him. I realized we'd both become tough. We were, in a sense, the only survivors of the war. The children had lost all their memories. I would be able to do his work. From then on I didn't worry so much, and a few weeks later he was gone for good, or so I thought.
I saw him for the last time at lunch one day, two weeks after he had disappeared. I was sitting with a more dull group than usual and was staring out the window. The trucks were being loaded. One of the kids was putting up a struggle. I recognized him; he had been a gang leader and wanted to be a supervisor so badly. He would have done anything to graduate. He was kind of a big kid, and he managed to break away and run for the building. I'd never seen that before, so I watched with interest.
A couple guards ran after him, but the were overtaken by a man in a black cloak. He blasted towards the building, eating up the gap between him and the unlucky kid. He closed it with a terrific jump kick, which connected with the poor boy's head and collapsed him. As he flew through the air, his hood blew off and I saw that it was Ralph. Ralph grabbed the boy by the ankle and dragged him towards the truck. The boy began to come to, and he dug his nails into the ground. Dirty, disheveled, and banged up, the boy was thrown unceremoniously into the truck by his leg. Afterwards, Ralph made the exaggerated gesture of a job well done, dusting off his hands. He threw his hood back up and left with a few guards.
Ralph, who had never raised his fist unless it was to protect the younger kids, who risked corporal punishment teaching kids to play instead of fight, who taught me to devote myself to making this place better for everyone, was the first to attack a prisoner. I knew then why the police murdered the people they had sworn to protect and serve. I knew why Mr. Walker betrayed my parents. I knew why so much of the equipment seemed to come straight from the army, or law enforcement.
When they got you, it didn't matter who you were. They took your memories and made you into them.
Every day was suspenseful when Ralph turned fourteen. He had become tall and muscular, and his facial hair made him look like an adult. He looked like a warrior, but I knew the day would soon come when he would not be there to protect anyone. I knew he'd be graduated, not shipped out on the trucks, and by this point I knew that graduates vanished with no explanation, usually never to be seen again. If I didn't see Ralph for a day, I would be unable to sleep that night. But Ralph never let on if he was nervous. He talked to whoever wanted company, did his best in classes, and stood up to arrogant gang leaders with class and confidence.
“Jake,” he said to me one day, “you're as old as I was when I came here. The kids look up to you. They're getting more distant from me. They know I won't be around long.”
He was testing me, and to my surprise I wasn't as upset as I thought I would be. For all the stress I had been under anticipating his leaving, when he actually mentioned it, I could handle it. “I'll never forget you, Ralph,” I said. “I'll make sure no one does.”
“I won't forget you either, Jake. They're going to wish they never took me. I'll show them how 'special' we are.”
I smiled at him. I realized we'd both become tough. We were, in a sense, the only survivors of the war. The children had lost all their memories. I would be able to do his work. From then on I didn't worry so much, and a few weeks later he was gone for good, or so I thought.
I saw him for the last time at lunch one day, two weeks after he had disappeared. I was sitting with a more dull group than usual and was staring out the window. The trucks were being loaded. One of the kids was putting up a struggle. I recognized him; he had been a gang leader and wanted to be a supervisor so badly. He would have done anything to graduate. He was kind of a big kid, and he managed to break away and run for the building. I'd never seen that before, so I watched with interest.
A couple guards ran after him, but the were overtaken by a man in a black cloak. He blasted towards the building, eating up the gap between him and the unlucky kid. He closed it with a terrific jump kick, which connected with the poor boy's head and collapsed him. As he flew through the air, his hood blew off and I saw that it was Ralph. Ralph grabbed the boy by the ankle and dragged him towards the truck. The boy began to come to, and he dug his nails into the ground. Dirty, disheveled, and banged up, the boy was thrown unceremoniously into the truck by his leg. Afterwards, Ralph made the exaggerated gesture of a job well done, dusting off his hands. He threw his hood back up and left with a few guards.
Ralph, who had never raised his fist unless it was to protect the younger kids, who risked corporal punishment teaching kids to play instead of fight, who taught me to devote myself to making this place better for everyone, was the first to attack a prisoner. I knew then why the police murdered the people they had sworn to protect and serve. I knew why Mr. Walker betrayed my parents. I knew why so much of the equipment seemed to come straight from the army, or law enforcement.
When they got you, it didn't matter who you were. They took your memories and made you into them.