Chapter Text
She hadn’t seen her mother in eighteen months. Last summer they had spoken about Clarke coming to visit her at the school, but it was a long drive to a place Clarke had not particularly wanted to go to and in the end it hadn’t happened. Now, as she drove slowly along a narrow tarred road with dense forest on either side, she though that perhaps it would have been better to have seen the school before signing any kind of contract to work there. She had left the last town nearly half an hour ago and it had been a bleak one, barely kept alive by the income from a lumber mill on its outskirts which belched dirty smoke against the horizon. The only sign of life had been an old man smoking in the doorway of a liquor store and several stray dogs plagued by small, black clouds of flies.
When Clarke had stopped at the gas station and bought a greasy-looking cup of coffee from the attached convenience store, the woman at the till had guessed immediately that she was going to what she called the ‘institution’. Clarke had been pleasantly surprised by this and while the woman scraped together her change, she had asked if the town had much business with the school.
“Not much,” the woman grunted, looking unhappy to be asked.
“Do you see the girls at all?”
Her expression soured further, “No. Unless a runaway comes through, which is only sometimes. They don’t often get this far, and never the same one twice.” She narrowed her eyes at Clarke, gave her change which was a quarter short and disappeared into a back room.
Clarke had returned to her car without complaint, sipping cautiously at the coffee and feeling a sudden, sickening jolt of unease. Her sense of disquiet had only been growing since then, as she had left the town, taking a sharp right turn off of the freeway and onto the road she was on now. Her mother had explained that it would lead her through almost twenty-five miles of plantation forest before she reached the school grounds on the other side, a large property wedged between the mountains and the trees.
After the first few miles on the new road the local radio station she had been listening to began to break up and crackle with static. She flipped around with the frequency for a while but couldn’t find an audible station and turned the radio off, rolling down her window to listen to the wind through the trees instead. It was late afternoon, warm but still fresh with the end of a long spring and the air rushing past smelled like pine needles and dust. In the quiet, Clarke found her mind turning to her mother, as it had been doing since the beginning of her trip. She thought again about what a reform school hundreds of miles away from her hometown could have to offer Abby.
Her mother had never been especially fond of children, and certainly not teenagers. She had worked as a trauma surgeon for most of her career, after serving for several years as a hospital corpsman with the Marines, during which time she had been awarded a Commendation Medal. It had never surprised Clarke very much that her mother had performed well in the military: she was a stern, humorless kind of person, self-sacrificing and quick-thinking, but not very affectionate. Ever since she had told Clarke that she was inexplicably leaving her previous job to become the resident doctor at a private juvenile detention facility, Clarke had wondered whether it was grief that had incited the decision. Perhaps the loss of Clarke’s father had driven Abby back to something she knew intimately and still thought of fondly: militaristic discipline. Clarke recalled their phone conversation the previous summer, and the new, eager energy she had heard in Abby’s voice when she had described the school to her.
“It’s a good institution,” she had said, “You would call it a bit tough, I suppose, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing for these kids. No one’s ever given them any boundaries before, or consequences if they cross them. But they learn fast here.”
“I’m sure,” Clarke had replied, rather dryly. She had grown up listening to her mother’s rigid definition of discipline: boundaries, consequences, accountability. Without her father’s frequent intervention, she wasn’t sure she would have made it out of her childhood as unscathed as she had, and in the months after his death she had found some degree of comfort in the knowledge that she was old enough to no longer need his protection as desperately as she had when she was younger.
“You would like it out here,” Abby had continued, almost wistfully, “The trees are beautiful, and it’s so quiet. I worry about you in the city by yourself, spending so much time in that awful little café.”
“Mom…”
“You could be earning better money here, Clarke, and doing work more rewarding than waiting tables. The warden has been talking for weeks about starting an arts program for the summer. You could even coach some track if you felt like it.”
That had been the first time Abby had mentioned the job. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it would pay well, but Clarke had been enjoying her last, laid-back summer before her senior year in college and the money was not enough of an incentive to override the deep suspicion she had that the reform school was not an environment she would find healthy. But then she had graduated and spent months looking for work, discovering that the jokes one makes about being a Visual Arts major are less funny when one is suddenly twenty-three and decisively unemployed. She had eventually managed to sign a contract as a tattooist’s apprentice on the strength of her portfolio but the position would only be open from the beginning of October and she had yet to find a way to pay for it. Then her mother had phoned again and this year the offer had seemed almost too good to be true, a lingering thought which was now nagging at the back of her mind. But she had already agreed to a contract several weeks ago, one which she remembered with unease had included a confidentiality agreement she had signed without much thought at the time. So it was in spite of her mounting agitation that Clarke kept driving, as the day began to fade very slowly into a long twilight.
She had come about twenty miles through the forest when the tarred road became a dirt track very suddenly. The deep shadow of the trees made the dirt indistinguishable from the tar until she hit the gravel at speed and punctured a tire. Pulling over into the thick shade beneath the trees, Clarke swore loudly at herself and her car and the road, but mostly at everything about this unsettling place that made her hackles rise. She slapped the steering wheel once, sharply, then turned off the engine and got out onto the road. Without the sound of the car, she could hear the coo of a mourning dove somewhere in the upper branches above her as she moved around, checking the tires. It was one at the back that had fared badly and she kicked at it lightly with the toe of her sneaker. She had a spare tire and a floor jack in the trunk, but had never used either of them and wasn’t sure she knew how to. It would be a better idea to call her mother and ask for help from the school, but there was no reception, even when she clambered up onto the roof of her little car and held the phone above her head. She was awkwardly dragging her jack out of the trunk when she heard the sound of shoes pounding against hard dirt and moved over to look around the body of the car. The road ahead rose up gently to the top of a low hill she could not see beyond, and as she watched, a girl crested the hill from the other side, then another and another until there were about twenty girls jogging down the road towards her.
They were teenagers, dressed alike in gym shorts and a-shirts, running in slip-on canvas shoes. Clarke knew they saw her; she had felt their eyes on her from the moment they appeared ahead of her on the road, but they seemed indifferent: their faces blank and drawn. One by one they began to pass her by, first a tall, thin girl who had put a good twenty yards between herself and the others, then the rest in a quick succession of heavy-breathing, sweat-damp bodies. Clarke stood still and watched them go by, until the last girl came panting past. She was short and dark-haired, flushed from exertion.
“Hey,” called Clarke, “Hey, excuse me?” The girl threw her a surprised, half-panicked glance but ran on without stopping. As the group reached the tarred road at the end of the dirt track they began to turn around and run back towards her, the gait of one or two now limping a little. Clarke realised with some disbelief that they had probably come all the way from the school and would run back, a ten mile round-trip. She was just about to call out again when she saw the leading girl look directly at her and slow down. The girls behind her caught up and overtook her, giving her quick, questioning looks on their way past, but she had broken away from the group entirely by then and was walking over to Clarke with her brow crinkled in a slight frown. When the last girl came by she slowed down too, walking backwards so she could keep Clarke and the other girl in sight.
“Commander…?” she asked, sounding worried.
“Keep running,” said the other, who had stopped a few feet from Clarke.
“What are you doing? They’ll…”
“I said keep going, Blake.”
The girl, Blake, looked anxious and unhappy, her delicate features pinched with tiredness and concern, but she turned around and ran up the road towards the back of the group, where the last few girls were disappearing over the rise of the low hill. Clarke watched her go, then turned her attention back to the other girl, the tall one, the strong runner. She was perhaps about seventeen, a long-limbed, skinny adolescent. Clarke could see that her clothes fit badly, shorts and a-shirt both too large. The loose elastic of the waistband was slipping slightly over one narrow hip and Clarke wondered how she managed to run any substantial distance without having to hold them up. As if sensing Clarke’s eyes on her clothes, the girl hoisted the shorts up self-consciously, then thrust her hands into the pockets. When she spoke her voice was low and hoarsely shy: “Um… Do you need some help, maybe?” She gestured at the flat tire, “You… I mean… you have a puncture, ma’am.”
It was the first time anyone had ever addressed Clarke as ma’am, and she blinked at the girl for a moment then grinned suddenly, “Yeah. Yeah, I noticed, thanks.”
The girl ducked her head embarrassedly and spoke to the ground, not looking into Clarke’s face, “I could change it for you, ma’am.”
“Really? That would be incredible. Honestly, I’m hopeless with cars.”
The girl only nodded at this, stepping past Clarke to pick up the jack that she had dropped onto the road earlier. As she put weight on her left foot, she winced a little and flicked a fleeting look at Clarke before reaching down and sliding her shoes off, putting them neatly off to one side. Clarke gave a soft hiss of surprise: the girl wasn’t wearing any socks and she could see smears of blood on her bare feet from several burst blisters and raw, painful-looking chaffing on both of her heels.
“Jesus, kid, hasn’t anyone ever told you about athletic tape? Or socks?” Clarke eyed one of her big toes, the nail of which was an ugly purple colour, “You’re going to lose that nail.”
The girl said nothing, getting down on one knee and sliding the jack underneath the car, squinting beneath it to find a good position. When she had, she slid the jack’s detachable handle into its joint and began to lever at it with firm, regular pumps. Clarke came over and crouched next to her to watch the jack being raised, noticing with some concern the way the girl tensed at her proximity.
“I guess you’re from the school,” she said, “From TonDC?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The jack met the underside of the car and the girl’s pumping became more cautious.
“You probably know my mother, then. Abby Griffin - the school doctor?”
“Probably.”
Clarke smiled wryly, “Not a big talker, are you? That’s okay.”
The girl let go off the jack and got up, dusting herself off. Clarke offered her a hand, “I’m Clarke.”
“Do you have a wrench?” said the girl, without shaking it. Clarke dropped her hand and went to get her lug wrench out of the trunk.
Neither of them spoke again while the girl removed the hubcap and took off the lug nuts one by one with capable twists of the wrench. Clarke thought she looked like she had done this before, many times. She was going to break the silence to ask the girl’s name when she caught the sound of a motor in the distance, something rough like a motorcycle. The girl stopped what she was doing for a moment, her face expressionless as she listened to the sound, then she let out a long breath and hoisted the flat tire away from the body of the car, hauling it into the trunk and rolling the spare forward along the road with light pushes of her palms. It was as she was mounting it onto the hub that an ATV burst into sight over the rise, the sound of its engine suddenly heightened to a harsh roaring. It drew up close to them, slowing to a stop beside her car, and Clarke took in the man astride it. He was several years older than her, perhaps nearing thirty, and dressed in a black, faux-military uniform with a whistle on a lanyard around his neck. There was something disconcerting about his expression, and Clarke realised that it was familiar to her: the way certain kinds of gym teachers had looked when an overweight kid could not complete a requirement, full of anger and self-righteousness and a sadistic sort of pleasure.
“Woods!” he snapped, turning off his engine, “What the fuck is this, huh?”
The girl pushed the tyre properly into place and turned around to face him, head down. He climbed off the ATV and stood in front of her with his arms folded over his broad chest, his eyes moving from the girl, to Clarke, to the car that was still being held up at an awkward angle by the jack.
“I don’t remember telling anyone they could stop running,” he said, “In fact, I think I made it very clear what would happen if anyone so much as stumbled this afternoon. So tell me, Woods, why there is a mile and a half between you and the rest of your goddamn platoon.”
Woods did not reply, still staring fixedly at the road, and when the man stepped towards her in a threatening way that Clarke immediately detested, she took a hurried step back.
“She’s been helping me,” said Clarke quickly, struggling to keep her voice pleasant despite her unease, “I punctured a tire and you wouldn’t believe how stupid I am with cars. I would have been stuck here all night if she hadn’t offered to change it for me.”
The man turned to look at her, unimpressed, “And you are?”
“Clarke Griffin. I’m teaching the arts program this summer.”
His eyes narrowed and he pointed to the lug wrench lying on the road next to Clarke, “Who took the nuts off? You?”
“I… No.”
“You gave a convicted delinquent a wrench?” His voice had taken on a quiet, jeering edge now and Clarke felt herself grow hot with anger and embarrassment. She said nothing but refused to look away and after a long, stubborn moment he turned back to the girl.
“Why are you still here? Move!” She took off like a startled rabbit, bolting down the road on bare feet. The man found her shoes and hurled them at her back, hard.
“Put your goddamn shoes on, Woods! You’re not a fucking savage.”
Woods snatched up her shoes but did not stop moving, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other as she pulled them on. Then she was gone, sprinting over the hill and out of sight. The man watched her until she had disappeared, then faced Clarke again, his whole demeanor startlingly changed to something friendly and a little rueful. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and smiled at her.
“Sorry I had to come in with all guns blazing,” he said, “But you give these kids an inch and they take a mile. You’ll see for yourself.”
Clarke gave him a weak smile in return, “I suppose I will. She really was just helping me, though.”
“It doesn’t matter what she was doing. Her job is to listen to what she’s told and to do it, not decide for herself that something else is more important. We encourage absolute discipline here.”
“Hmm… That’s going to make my job a little difficult.”
He raised his eyebrows, “What?”
“Art. It doesn’t mix well with absolutes.”
“Oh,” he laughed in a way that sounded dismissive to Clarke, “I guess you’ll find a way.” He stepped forward and offered her his hand to shake, “I’m Roan Azgeda, by the way, the Correction Captain at the school.”
Clarke accepted the handshake cautiously and when he released her hand he was smiling broadly again, nodding to her car, “Shall I finish up for you? It’s getting dark.” She thanked him and he set to work, replacing the lug nuts with considerably more difficulty than Woods had taken them off, lowering the jack laboriously and loading it into the trunk.
“We have a mechanic at the school who can patch your tire,” he said, slamming the lid of the trunk closed, “She’s real good at what she does, too good to be teaching shop classes out in the middle of nowhere, if you ask me. Listen, I think you’d better let me drive you the rest of the way. This road gets worse before it gets better.”
The offer took Clarke by surprise and she felt reluctant to accept it. Roan was being nothing but likable now, and yet she had bitterly resented his behavior towards the girl, who had seemed shy and sad and completely undeserving of his treatment of her. After a moment of deliberation her tiredness won out and she agreed simply to avoid an argument over it. He secured his ATV with a wheel lock and got into the driver’s seat, fastidiously clipping on his seat-belt. Clarke sat awkwardly in the passenger seat, picking at her cuticles and suffering through Roan’s cheery attempts at conversation. She watched the road ahead, waiting for them to catch up to Woods on her run back to the school. They had left only about fifteen minutes after the girl, but they had been driving for a good while before her silhouette appeared ahead of them on the road, her white a-shirt bright under the deep, twilight of the trees.
“God,” said Clarke, turning slightly in her seat to look at her as the car whipped past, “What’s her minute mile?”
Roan made a smug noise in the back of his throat, “That one runs a solid six minute mile, quicker if she’s really pushed. She’s one of the best I’ve ever had, but lazy as hell.”
Clarke lent her forehead gently against the window to hide a frown, wondering if Roan thought most lazy girls offered to change tires for strangers. A few minutes later they passed the rest of the girls, some of whom were limping badly now. Roan blared the car horn at them as he came up behind them, making several jump violently. Then suddenly they had broken free of the forest and Clarke was confronted with a view of the school ahead of them, nestled in the foothills of the mountains: a large, plantation-style house facing the trees, with several smaller, white-washed buildings ranked neatly beside it. On the far right, standing alone between the far edge of a soccer field and the treeline, was a squat blue cottage with a low, tin-roofed outbuilding attached.
“Well,” said Roan with a small sigh, “Welcome to Ton Detention Center, Ms Griffin.”