Boot Camp Read Online Free

also be surprised. Everyone assumes I’m a great basketball player, which I’m not. At least once a day I manage to bang my head in a low doorway. And sometimes I’m a target for smaller guys with Napoleon complexes—like this red-haired jerk—who think they have something to prove.
    â€œBawk, bawk, bawk.” The freckled kid makes chicken sounds. The guys around him grin.
    Since I’m the new kid, my “father” is keeping an extra sharp eye on me. His name is Joe, and he is the thin, black-haired man who ordered me to strip in the windowless room when I first arrived. Joe’s eyes are puffy and red from spring allergies, and his nosetwitches constantly. He seems convinced that we are always up to no good. Already this morning I had to do twenty push-ups (the last ten on my knees) for not tucking in my shirt properly, while Joe screamed that I was a lazy, good-for-nothing slob with low self-esteem and no self-respect. I wanted to ask why he thought that, since he didn’t know me at all. Of course, being a Level One, I couldn’t say anything.
    The red-haired kid goes quiet when Joe cruises slowly past our table. Joe’s body language says he thinks he may have heard something. I take another spoonful of cold scrambled eggs and stare straight ahead, chewing. According to the rules I must eat at least half of every meal. If I don’t, whatever is left over will be served to me again at the next meal. No sooner does Joe pass than a small glob of eggs hits me on the side of the nose. Wiping it off, I slowly turn my gaze toward the red-haired kid, who bares his lizard teeth for an instant.
    â€œWhat was that, Garrett Durrell?” Suddenly Joe is standing over me with his hands planted firmly on his hips. His voice is loud enough for the entire food hall to hear.
    â€œSorry?” I answer.
    â€œSorry, what?” His twitching nose reminds me of a rabbit.
    â€œUh … sorry … sir.”
    â€œWhat are you so sorry about?” Joe’s voice becomes shrill, like Hitler’s when he was rallying the Nazis. I try not to stare at his nose. It takes concentration not to laugh.
    â€œI… er … don’t know … sir.”
    Joe’s face tightens like a fist. “You disrespecting me, punk? You don’t know what?”
    The food hall has gone still. Not a tap of a spoon or a slurp of juice. I keep my eyes aimed down at the table, but I know they’re all watching me.
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    â€œYou don’t know
what!”
    Maybe it’s the omnipresent headache, but I’ve lost track of what this is about. I stare down at the table and don’t answer.
    â€œStand up!” Joe shouts.
    I do as I’m told. My tired legs tremble and my sore knees ache when I put weight on them. Earlier this morning we had to run five miles in military-style leather boots through woods, across muddy streams, and up and down hills. We were not allowed to stop or walk. Those who grew too tired to run were forced to crawl on their hands and knees until they could run again. Standing now in the food hall, I glance out of the corner of my eye at a family of females at the next table. I know they’re watching, but when I look, they avert their eyes. Except for one who sits apart from the others, her black hair pulled to the side and her blue eyes clear and unwavering. A square, handwritten cardboard sign hangs around her neck:
    T WO YEARS AND STILL PULLING THE SAME CRAP .
    Her eyes meet mine with a steady, knowing gaze.
    â€œStand straight!” Joe shouts.
    I straighten up and look down into Joe’s face. Oureyes meet. His are small, beady, and hard. His face is red with fury, and his forehead is lined. I can’t understand what he’s so angry about.
    â€œWhat’s that look?” he demands sharply.
    â€œSorry, sir?”
    â€œYou disrespecting me, Garrett?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    Joe leans closer, his