The Initiation by Ridley Pearson Page A

couple times a year.”
    â€œMine, too. I think.”
    â€œI thought you owned the place.”
    â€œNot hardly.”
    â€œHow many names of people of color at this school do you know, Moria?”
    â€œI . . . ah . . .”
    â€œIt’s ‘the Chinese chick’ or ‘the black guy,’ or ‘the skinny Indian kid,’ right?” She didn’t give metime to answer. “But you don’t say ‘the white kid with the big head,’ when you’re describing Robby Knight, do you? Of course you don’t. See? It’s like that.”
    I laughed. “Robby Knight’s head looks like a pumpkin, it’s so big!” She laughed. I liked her.
    â€œHow long have you played field hockey?”
    â€œTwo years. You?”
    â€œYou’re way better than I am,” I admitted. “You should be JV.”
    â€œNot as a middle. Never going to happen.”
    â€œHow many kids have parents who went here?” I asked. “Like us?”
    â€œLegacies?” Latisha said. “A lot. A very lot. An extreme, very lot. This place is like an exclusive club or something. My dad acts like he still goes here sometimes. It’s kinda weird. It’s like even after all the time in the army, this place is more important to him, you know? But his friends, a whole bunch of his besties, are from his time here at Baskerville. They’re thick as thieves.”
    â€œYou know . . . now that you mention it, my father has friends like that, too. From here. I wonder if they know each other, our fathers?”
    â€œProbably. My dad is totally dedicated to this place.”
    â€œLet me ask you this: Does your father happento have these group meetings with businessmen and lawyer-types late at night?”
    â€œHow could you know that?”
    Memories flooded me. “Like, four or five at a time? Expensive suits? Your dad all secretive about it?”
    â€œMy dad is in the army. He’s secretive about what he eats for breakfast. It’s just the way he is.”
    â€œHow long do the meetings last?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m never awake when they leave.”
    â€œNever? Never once were you curious?” She looked as if I’d caught her shoplifting. “Latisha?”
    â€œMaybe. What about you?”
    â€œOf course! Always! My brother and I are secret agents. We spy on Father constantly!”
    â€œWhat about your mom?”
    â€œI don’t have one,” I said. “At least I don’t think so. It’s complicated.”
    â€œThat’s awful.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œMy mom might as well be in the army, too. She does everything my dad wants. All the time.”
    â€œThat’s good, right?”
    â€œIt’s too much, if you ask me. She says I know nothing about marriage and that when it’s my turn I can have the marriage I want.”
    â€œSnap!”
    â€œYeah, you got that right.”
    â€œI kinda feel like—”
    I was interrupted by what sounded like a burp, or something you’d hear from one of the stalls, except it was only Latisha and me. We both looked at the drain as a second, throaty belch emanated from below—a dragon fart, maybe? The toilets gurgled like boiling teapots. Something happened in the three showers that sounded like snakes hissing. Then the sinks chimed in, spinning the two of us around. We moved toward the door instinctively, but too late. The room’s central drain erupted like Old Faithful spewing raw sewage in a blast of brown mist quickly followed by a stream of the unmentionable. Gobs of it. The drain itself broke free under the pressure and danced atop the vertical column of sludge like a tin hat. It splashed to the floor, which was already an inch deep and rising for our ankles. The stuff was filling the sinks, gushing over the rims of the toilets, and shooting from the shower drains.
    It stopped. Latisha and I were brown and wet all the way