She grabbed a dust rag, gave the delivery tray of the booze-dispensing machine a quick wipe, then picked up her basket and left. Luke and Avery lingered a moment or two, then also went on their way. Mrs. Sigsby killed the video.
“Hunger strike,” Stackhouse said, smiling. “That’s a new one.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Sigsby agreed.
“The very idea fills me with terror.” His smile widened into a grin. Siggers might disapprove, but he couldn’t help it.
To his surprise, she actually laughed. When had he last heard her do that? The correct answer might be never. “It does have its funny side. Growing children would make the world’s worst hunger strikers. They’re eating machines. But you’re right, it’s something new under the sun. Which of the new intakes do you think floated it?”
“Oh, come on. None of them. We’ve only got one kid smart enough to even know what a hunger strike is, and he’s been here for almost a month.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And I’ll be glad when he’s out of Front Half. Wilholm was an annoyance, but at least he was out front with his anger. Ellis, though… he’s sneaky. I don’t like sneaky children.”
“How long until he’s gone?”
“Sunday or Monday, if Hallas and James in Back Half agree. Which they will. Hendricks is pretty much through with him.”
“Good. Will you address this hunger strike idea, or let it go? I’d suggest letting it go. It’ll die a natural death, if it happens at all.”
“I believe I’ll address it. As you say, we’ve currently got a lot of residents, and it might be well to speak to them at least once en masse.”
“If you do, Ellis is probably going to figure out Alvorson’s a rat.” Given the kid’s IQ, there was no probably about it.
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll be gone in a few days, and his nose-tweaking little friend will follow soon after. Now about those surveillance cameras…”
“I’ll write a memo to Andy Fellowes before I leave tonight, and we’ll make them a priority as soon as I’m back.” He leaned forward, hands clasped, his brown eyes fixed on her steel-gray ones. “In the meantime, lighten up. You’ll give yourself an ulcer. Remind yourself at least once a day that we’re dealing with kids, not hardened criminals.”
Mrs. Sigsby made no reply, because she knew he was right. Even Luke Ellis, smart as he might be, was only a kid, and after he spent some time in Back Half, he’d still be a kid, but he wouldn’t be smart at all.
16
When Mrs. Sigsby walked into the cafeteria that night, slim and erect in a crimson suit, gray blouse, and single strand of pearls, there was no need for her to tap a spoon against a glass and call for attention. All chatter ceased at once. Techs and caretakers drifted into the doorway giving on the West Lounge. Even the kitchen staff came out, gathering behind the salad bar.
“As most of you know,” Mrs. Sigsby said in a pleasant, carrying voice, “there was an unfortunate incident here in the cafeteria two nights ago. There have been rumors and gossip that two children died in that incident. This is absolutely untrue. We do not kill children here in the Institute.”
She surveyed them. They looked back, eyes wide, food forgotten.
“In case some of you were concentrating on your fruit cocktail and not paying attention, let me repeat my last statement: we do not kill children.” She paused to let that sink in. “You did not ask to be here. We all understand that, but we do not apologize for it. You are here to serve not only your country, but the entire world. When your service is done, you will not be given medals. There will be no parades in your honor. You will not be aware of our heartfelt thanks, because before you leave, your memories of the Institute will be expunged. Wiped away, for those of you who don’t know that word.” Her eyes found Luke’s for a moment and they said But of course you know it. “Please understand that you have those thanks, nonetheless. You will be tested in your time here, and some of the tests may be hard, but you will survive and rejoin your families. We have never lost a child.”
She paused again, waiting for anyone to respond or object. Wilholm might have, but Wilholm was gone. Ellis didn’t, because direct response wasn’t his way. As a chess player, he preferred sneaky gambits to direct assault. Much good would it do him.
“Harold Cross had a brief seizure following the visual field and acuity test some of you, those who’ve had it, call ‘the dots’ or ‘the lights.’ He inadvertently struck Greta Wilcox, who was trying—admirably, I’m sure we all feel—to comfort him. She suffered a severely sprained neck, but is recovering. Her sister is with her. The Wilcox twins and Harold are to be sent home next week, and I’m sure we will send our good wishes with them.”
Her eyes again sought Luke, sitting at a table against the far wall. His little friend was with him. Dixon’s mouth was hanging agape, but at least he was leaving his nose alone for the time being.
“If anyone should contradict what I’ve just told you, you may be sure that person is lying, and his lies should be immediately reported to one of the caretakers or technicians. Is that understood?”
Silence, without even a nervous cough to break it.
“If it’s understood, I would like you to say ‘Yes, Mrs. Sigsby.’ ”
“Yes, Mrs. Sigsby,” the kids responded.
She offered a thin smile. “I think you can do better.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sigsby!”
“And now with real conviction.”
“YES, MRS. SIGSBY!” This time even the kitchen staff, techs, and caretakers joined in.
“Good.” Mrs. Sigsby smiled. “There’s nothing like an affirmative shout to clear the lungs and the mind, is there? Now carry on with your meals.” She turned to the white-coated kitchen staff. “And extra desserts before bedtime, assuming you can provide cake and ice cream, Chef Doug?”
Chef Doug made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Someone began to clap. Others joined in. Mrs. Sigsby nodded right and left to acknowledge the applause as she left the room, walking with her head up and her hands swinging back and forth in tiny, precise arcs. A small smile, what Luke thought of as a Mona Lisa smile, curved the corners of her mouth. The white-coats parted to let her pass.
Still applauding, Avery leaned close to Luke and whispered, “She lied about everything.”
Luke gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“That fucking bitch,” Avery said.
Luke gave the same tiny nod and sent a brief mental message: Keep clapping.
17
That night Luke and Avery lay side by side in Luke’s bed as the Institute wound down for another night.
Avery whispered, recounting everything Maureen told him each time he went to his nose, signaling her to send. Luke had been afraid Maureen might not understand the note he’d dropped into her basket (a little unconscious prejudice there, maybe based on the brown housekeeper’s uni she wore, he’d have to work on that), but she had understood perfectly, and provided Avery with the step-by-step list. Luke thought the Avester could have been a little more subtle about the signals, but it seemed to have turned out okay. He had to hope it had. Supposing that were true, Luke’s only real question was whether or not the first step could actually work. It was simple to the point of crudity.
The two boys lay on their backs, staring into the dark. Luke was going over the steps for the tenth time—or maybe the fifteenth—when Avery invaded his mind with three words that flashed on like a red neon, then faded out, leaving an afterimage.