Sunday
I looked up from my textbook, and put my yellow highlighter down. "Come in."
The door opened, and Wallace poked his head in, biting his lip nervously. "Is Maverick here?... Oh, hi." Wallace nodded at Maverick, who was sitting up on his bed in the neck trainer, his eyes closed, listening to music on headphones. Maverick opened his eyes. Seeing the gazelle, Maverick reached up to push the headphones away from his ears, with a neutral expression.
Wallace stammered, "I - I'm sorry, I'm interrupting, I could come back. It's, I...."
Maverick levered himself up with the handholds and unhooked the neck trainer collar. "It's okay, I was about finished. What do you need?"
Wallace came further into the room. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands. "I'm... well, I'm kind of scared. I'm scheduled for my Fifteen on Thursday..."
I said softly, "Wallace, everybody's nervous about it. But we've all been practicing a lot. I know you've done more than fifteen minutes in practice, right?"
Wallace sat abruptly on the nearest chair, wringing his hands nervously.
Wallace spoke, a quaver in his voice. "I'm doing something wrong. The last few times with Lucas, I've almost fainted after about twelve minutes. I was doing it that long almost a year ago! Lucas's tried to help, but he's not sure what's different." Lucas was Wallace's roommate, each having lost his original roommate last year.
Wallace buried his face in his hands, "Of all times for this to happen!"
The Fifteen. All of the boys felt it looming over them toward the end of their second year. Early in the third year, every boy had to demonstrate he could hang, remaining conscious and kicking, for at least fifteen minutes. Under test conditions, he only had one chance.
The Academy believed that any student who, after two years of training, had not reached the point of being able to survive a hanging that long, could not uphold the standards that the Academy demanded for its graduates' final performances. And, just as in that final performance, in the Fifteen test there were no do-overs. Practice sessions didn't count — the pressure of performing the official Fifteen was thought to simulate the tension of the final performance.
Of course, students who failed the Fifteen were given the same honors as any other student who died in a demo or at a party. Their fur would be distributed to their classmates, and their heads would be enshrined in the Hall of Honor. But the specter of sudden failure daunted even the students who had never yet fallen into the Bottom Five, with the possibility of being chosen for a demo or a party hanging.
I started to stand to move toward Wallace, but stopped. Maverick slid off the bed, pulled the hanging platform out and centered it under the room's noose. "Okay, let me see what you're doing."
Wallace smiled gratefully at Maverick and peeled his clothes off quickly. Maverick followed him up onto the platform with a short rope and began tying his hands.
Maverick finished adjusting the noose around Wallace's neck. Jumping down from the platform, he let Wallace adjust his breathing for a moment, then pulled the lever.
As Wallace hung, squirming and writhing, Maverick stood watching intently, fingering his chin absently. He was focusing so hard on Wallace that I wondered whether he would feel it if I slapped his butt.
Maverick suddenly backed off a few feet. I was a little surprised — if Maverick had spotted something, I would have thought he'd move in closer.
Maverick gave a small nod, and pushed the lever to raise the platform. As soon as Wallace had caught his breath, Maverick asked, "When did you start doing that little kick?"
Wallace shook his head blankly. "What kick? It's all kicking. Like everybody does."
"Uh-uh. This one's added on. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
Wallace shook his head again, looking lost.
"Okay, get ready. I'm going to hang you again." He gave Wallace a moment, then pulled the lever again.
He moved to stand a little to Wallace's right. Watching Wallace's kicking with the same intensity as before, he suddenly reached down to slap Wallace's ankle lightly, just as Wallace made a kick. A few seconds later Maverick did it again, and then a third time shortly after. He pushed the lever then, to raise the platform.
As Wallace stood looking down at him, breathing hard, Maverick said, "That kick."
"But it's just another kick."
Maverick shook his head. "You fell into a new habit somehow. You can choreograph all you want, but sometimes self-preservation instinct throws in something new, especially if you're tense about something like the Fifteen. You're making a kick at a really bad time. It throws off your balance just when you need the pressure off the right side of your neck so the blood can come up the carotid."
Now I understood why Maverick had backed off suddenly earlier. He'd wanted a wider field of view so he could keep his eye on Wallace's leg and head movements at the same time.
Wallace closed his eyes, swaying a bit as if replaying the last hanging in his head. He suddenly gasped. "Oh!! That... yeah! I see what you're saying now!" He shook his head. "I wasn't thinking about it. I've just... well, I started worrying about the Fifteen, and tried to imagine I was doing the Fifteen when I practiced. I started feeling... you know, kind of desperate. I guess it's like you said — self-preservation."
Maverick nodded, and untied Wallace's hands. "It's a pretty stupid instinct sometimes. Does exactly the opposite of what it's trying to do. Look, go back to your room and relax about an hour. Then come back and we'll do a real Fifteen practice."
Wallace pulled off the noose and nodded eagerly. He jumped down from the platform, started to bend to pick up his uniform, but then said, "Okay if I just leave it here for now? I'm coming back."
Maverick looked at me. I shrugged and smiled. "Okay with me."
Wallace beamed at Maverick. "Thank you! I'll be back in a little bit." He dashed out into the hallway naked, almost dancing.
I came up behind Maverick and put my arms around his waist, kissing his neck lightly. "You're almost supernatural sometimes. You know that, right?"
Maverick shrugged. "If anything's wrong during a hanging, it just jumps out at me." He turned his head toward the side I had kissed — I had backed away during the shrug. "Hey, don't stop doing that."
I bent my head, my mouth spread wide this time in an O, covering Maverick's neck and licking it lightly, sensing rather than feeling Maverick start to shiver. "Mmmm. Never will."
Maverick moaned softly, and then said, "I'm sorry, hon, let's wait until after Wallace comes back. I'm still trying to think if there's anything else I can tell him."
I gave Maverick's shoulder one last kiss and nodded. He grinned. "Waiting can be fun, too. And I've got some reading I can fail to concentrate on."
After finding his footing on the rising platform, Wallace stood, a little shakily, breathing in great heaves. I quickly untied his hands and helped him take off the noose, sensing he was about to faint, and said, "Wish you'd given the signal a little sooner. I almost pushed the lever anyway. You were really running out of steam." I put an arm around Wallace's waist to help himkeep standing upright.
Still breathing hard, Wallace managed to gasp out, "How... how long?"
Maverick stood below him, with his stopwatch, and smiled. "Seventeen. How's that?"
Wallace suddenly shook with a burst of energy. He leapt off the platform straight at Maverick, and threw his arms around him. "Thank you so much!! I knew I was going longer!" He laughed joyfully. "At the start, I had to keep watching my movements. Every time I started to kick at the wrong time, it was like I could feel you slapping my ankle again, and I'd hold back. After a couple of minutes, it all started feeling more natural. I just needed you to help me get my rhythm back. I knew you could help!!"
Maverick seemed a little dumbfounded at the display, and just for an instant glanced at me as if for help, then returned the hug. "Well, you had the rhythm in you the whole time. You just had to find it."
Wallace squeezed Maverick harder, and giggled in relief. "I'd say thank you again, but there's no way I can say it enough." He finally broke off the hug, and quickly bent to gather his clothes. "I've got to go tell Lucas! He's been worried. And I'm going to practice again tonight." He dashed toward the door, his uniform wadded up in his hands, paused when he got there and gave us a big grin and a fist pump, and turned to pound down the hallway toward his room.
I closed the door, and turned back toward Maverick. I opened my mouth to speak, but Maverick held up one hand and said, "Don't even say it." He smiled, almost as if embarrassed. "Yes, it does feel good."
I laughed and flopped onto the bed on my back. "So why don't we both make ourselves feel even better?"
"Got an idea on that," Maverick said, pulling off his shirt.
"Thought you might," I responded, removing my own.
Monday
I looked at the clock on my desk. "It's five minutes to. Who's up next?"
Maverick, sat on the bed beside me. Both of us were using the wall as a backrest as we looked across at the television. He leaned forward to read the printed list in his lap. "Paul."
Almost at that moment, Paul appeared on the screen, already naked for his hanging. He entered from the front of the demo hall, trying to smile at Blaise. the graduate on duty at the moment. Paul's white-and-dark-brown fur was immaculately groomed, but tail hung limply between his legs, and his spaniel ears were down. Through the speakers, I heard Blaise saying soothingly, "I know you've gone longer than this in practice, Paul. Just pretend it's another practice."
None of us could really pretend that, of course. This was something very different from practice.
I nudged Larry, who was sitting next to me, and he passed me the bucket of popcorn. I held it between Maverick and me. Each of us took a handful, then passed it to Leo, sitting next to Maverick's other side. Jack sat on the floor in front of me; I had my heels propped on his shoulders as a footrest. Jack was sharing another popcorn bucket with Eric, using his right hand to dig out a handful while keeping his left hand wrapped companionably around my ankle. Eric sat with his head on Jack's other shoulder, pinning my ankle against it.
Paul was standing on the platform, facing the camera, his wrists now tied behind him, eyes closed. While the coyote adjusted the noose, Paul tried with moderate success to keep his breathing even.
No students, other than the one being tested, were allowed in the demo room to watch the Fifteen, but our rooms all had a closed-circuit link we could tune to on our televisions. The First Year and Second Year students watched a number of the hangings, as their class schedules allowed them. For Third Year students, there were no classes during the week of the Fifteens, and few us missed seeing any of them. All of us felt a duty to our classmates to watch them hang.
There was a soft knock at the door. I called out, "In." The door opened and Marcus entered, still carrying his textbook and lab notebook.
Marcus craned his neck to see the TV screen from where he was. "I just got out of chem class. Has the eleven o'clock started yet?"
I waved him over. "He's not dangling yet. Just getting the noose on."
Larry scooted forward off the bed and stood, beckoning to Marcus. "Sit over here by Wynn. I'm going to move over here." Larry stepped across Jack and Eric and squeezed into the small space at the end of the bed, next to Leo.
I worked hard to keep my face neutral. I don't think Larry understood the mixed feelings I had about being close to Marcus. I had not, as yet, discussed them with anyone, not even Larry or Maverick. Or, more likely, Larry did perceive it, and just thought I should work through it. I loved being around Marcus and talking with him, but physical proximity brought with it the possibility of intimate contact that made me uncomfortable. At least I knew why I was feeling that way. Maybe that would help me get past it.
Marcus, for his part, seemed already to have accepted having a Third Year boy as a friend, the feelings of growing closeness mixed with considerable awe. I suspected that was partly due to my hanging demonstration the night we met — Marcus had not yet seen Maverick perform — and partly because I was probably the only person Marcus would ever meet who had seen his brother's final hanging. There was no evidence that Marcus was unduly conscious of being the only one in the room in a white uniform and heavy, anonymous metal slave collar.
Nor, after that first night, had Marcus had any problem being in the room with Marshall's head. He often gave Marshall a kiss on entering the room. In his hurry to get settled today he'd skipped the ritual.
I retrieved the popcorn bucket and offered it to Marcus, saying, "Remember Zuchter's invited too. Is he coming?" Zuchter, Marcus's roommate, was a sweet, serious boy who still wore the wide-eyed wonder of being at the Academy on his face for everyone to see.
Marcus shook his head while grabbing a handful of popcorn. "He's got Hanging class starting now. He'll be here at one... Oh!" He pointed at the screen. "It's starting!"
On the screen, the platform was visibly descending. Seconds later, Paul was nooseborne.
Though his legs were kicking automatically, seeking to recover their lost support, Paul appeared more relaxed than he had seconds earlier. That, I thought, is probably the way it will be for most of the boys. The worst part of the Fifteen was anticipation. I was sure that when my turn came, I would settle into it once I was hanging by the neck.
Some of the boys, unfortunately, had to spend much more time in anticipation than others. Six sessions of the Fifteen were scheduled each day, each starting on the hour: nine, ten, and eleven in the morning, and one, two, and three in the afternoon, with an additional session at four on Monday only. With thirty-one boys having survived into the Third Year, it took five days, Monday to Friday, to complete the testing. Paul was no doubt glad that the luck of the draw had given him a Monday test time.
Marcus leaned forward slightly, fascinated by the kicking boy on the screen. He murmured, almost hypnotized, "He's not doing that kind of stuff you showed me."
I answered, "He can. It's not something you'd do for the Fifteen, where the only idea is endurance. All those special moves would use up too much energy. But he's pretty good at it, really. I've worked with him some. Mostly he's worked with Shaw."
Still speaking softly, Marcus said wonderingly, "I guess Marshall had to do this, right? When he came home, he didn't talk very much about details of what he did here."
I smiled at the memory. "He told me about it. He said it scared him. It does that to everybody."
Marcus, his eyes still glued to the screen, said, "You're not scared."
Larry leaned forward at the end of the bed and looked toward Marcus. "He is. You'd have to know him better to see it, but he is. Trust me on that."
I snorted. "Well, yeah. You can't help it. When you practice, you know that if you start running out of gas, you can end the session. But for the Fifteen, you go into it knowing that you can't end it early. That gets in your head and makes the whole thing bigger, even if you're used to going more than fifteen minutes in practice. And I don't try for fifteen most of the time. When we practice, we're usually trying to work on our moves, and we give the signal when we feel like we've done enough. I've really only gone past fifteen minutes a few times. I know I can do it, but I don't try very often. Practice isn't about that.
"Of course, as I get closer to graduating I'll be going for longer times. Most of us hope our show can last twenty or twenty-five minutes." I turned to look at Marcus, and was stunned once again by his resemblance to his brother. "Marshall kicked for thirty-one minutes. Nobody here has heard about a boy going longer than that."
Marcus's gaze at last left the television long enough to look at his brother's head. He bit his lip, and in a tiny voice, said, "I'll try to make him proud of me."
I patted Marcus's arm. "He will be. He already is."
Marcus looked at me with a grateful smile, then turned back to the TV screen. "Can he tell how long it's been?"
Larry spoke again. "Have you been in the demo room yet?"
"Uh-uh."
"There's a big clock on the back wall. I've noticed Paul looking at it. There's a difference of opinion on whether you should watch it. I tried to ignore it the first few minutes, but for about the last five I couldn't take my eyes off it."
I said, "I'm not going to look at it. I feel like I'll be better off just concentrating on my moves and forget it's the Fifteen."
Leo laughed, and reached across Maverick to slap my thigh. "Oh, right, hon, you'll forget all about it. I'll bet anything you'll end up staring at that clock."
I grinned. "You're on."
Marcus pointed at the screen again. "If he faints after about fourteen minutes, they could still revive him when they let him down. Has he passed or failed, if that happens?"
From in front of the bed, Jack said, "Uhhh, I don't think you have the complete idea yet, Marcus."
Marcus looked down at Jack. "What do you mean?"
Jack pointed. "That's a special platform. See where the lever went after Blaise pushed it? Down there by the floor?"
"Oh, I wasn't watching it. Yeah, I see it."
"It's on a timer, and at the end of fifteen minutes it'll spring back up to where Paul can reach it with his feet. He'll have to kick it forward himself, and that brings the platform back up."
Marcus's eyes grew round. "So he..." He gasped. "Ohhhh!" Clearly he had understood suddenly. Blaise was not there to rescue Paul after fifteen minutes. Paul would have to do that himself. "But... so how long do they leave him, then? If he's fainted? They've got to take him down before the next session starts, at least."
I said, "That's part of why there's an hour between starts. Blaise would let him hang there to see if he revives somehow — a couple of boys in the past have actually done that, within the first minute or so. He'd wait until Paul's heart stops — he's holding a heart monitor. Then Blaise would leave him hanging there and go tell maintenance. They'd be the ones who'd actually take him down, and send him to the furrier. So it all takes awhile when a boy fails."
Marcus worked his mouth as if the words wouldn't come out. Finally he found his voice. "Do... do many boys... fail?" He chewed his lower lip, looking as if he might not want to hear.
I turned to the other side. "How many boys last year, Larry?"
Larry said soberly, "We lost two. I've heard the average is three. I know that sounds like a lot, but you know, that means about ninety percent pass."
I watched Marcus swallow this information. For the moment, I was able to stop seeing Marshall in him — all of the scared First Year in Marcus was visible. I stroked his arm. "Marcus, you've got two years of training ahead of you before you get to this point. You'll know everything we know now, and probably more, and you'll practice so much hanging will seem like the most natural thing in the world. This is something you'll get through. I know it." Marcus rewarded me with a guarded smile.
Maverick's upper arm pressed against mine, suddenly jumped slightly. He leaned forward. I spun my head quickly. "What is it, hon?"
Maverick said tensely, "He's out of his rhythm."
Everyone in the room grew still, concentrating on the kicking boy on the screen. I tried to focus on the boy's movements, but didn't feel sure where to look. I could never spot things quite as quickly as Maverick. "Is it bad?"
Maverick was silent for a moment, watching intently. "Can't tell yet. His head roll is uneven. It's like... I think it's the extra adrenaline. His heart's beating faster than he's used to, and he's trying to accomodate it with his head movements, but he can't quite find it."
Jack asked quickly, "What does he need to do?"
"He has to quit thinking about it. It's messing him up. That's the hardest thing to do, though. His body can adjust his movements naturally to the faster heartbeat if he gives it a chance." Everbody in the room except Marcus knew the sort of adjustments Maverick was talking about. When a Hanging Boy's heart is going faster, he can change his timing so that the blood comes up the carotid on every third beat, say, instead of every other one. None of the boys, though, had experienced a real runaway adrenaline rush, such as the Fifteen could inspire. "It's an unconscious response. A feedback mechanism that kicks in until everything feels right again. But he's not letting it happen. He's trying to force it — oh shit!"
All of the boys seemed to gasp out "What?" together.
"Now his kicking is off. Out of synch with his head. He's getting scared. He's got like... fifteen seconds to get it together, or he'll never get caught up... Wait." He leaned farther forward.
Every head was turned to Maverick, as he watched the figure on the screen. Maverick gave a tiny nod. "That's a little better. He's kicking for more head movement. And the rhythm is back. It's coming together." He watched a little longer, then sat back for the moment. "I think he's okay now. That probably cost him a minute, but I think he had enough margin over the fifteen; he should make it."
I let go of a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Marcus was sitting forward, looking at Maverick with a puzzled frown. I realized Marcus hadn't had the opportunity before to see the how attuned Maverick was to the entire process of hanging. There were two graduates in the room, but it was obvious we were awed by Maverick's ability. I'm sure Marcus was feeling amazed.
There wasn't another word spoken in the room; every boy was completely focused on the television. At last, just as I was about to look away from the screen to my clock, convinced that somehow the time had been carelessly exceeded, the lever arm swung up from the floor. Paul, still kicking weakly at that point, tried to reach out with his foot for the lever. He barely touched it with the first kick, and it took three tries before he managed to give it a firm kick. I put my hand to my chest in relief as I saw the platform rising to meet Paul's dangling feet.
Blaise had to help Paul remain standing as he loosened the noose, and let him sink down to sit on the platform's surface to rest before untying his hands. Paul, breathing in ragged gasps, had one of the biggest grins I'd ever seen plastered on his face. His ears were forward and his tail curled up behind him.
All the boys in the room suddenly spontaneously applauded. I heard the same from other rooms down the hall. Paul was too far away to hear it, but I hoped he could, somehow, anyway.