A few cars pulled up. More boys in blue uniforms ran into the building, apparently eager to get inside. Anyone equipped with a heart would certainly have found it warming at the sight—one parent was so enamored of the scene that he stood beside his van and videotaped the stream of boys running past and inside. But Cody and I simply sat and watched.
“They’re all the same,” Cody said softly.
“Just on the outside,” I said. “It’s something you can learn to do.”
He looked at me blankly.
“It’s just like putting on one of those uniforms,” I said. “When you look the same, people think you are. You can do this.”
“Why,” he said.
“Cody,” I said, “we have talked about how important it is to look normal.” He nodded. “This will help you figure out how to act like other kids. It’s part of your training.”
“Other part?” he said, with the first eagerness he had shown, and I knew he was longing for the simple clarity of the knife.
“If you do this part well, we will do the other part,” I said.
“An animal?”
I looked at him, saw the cold gleam in his small blue eyes, and knew there was no going back from he where he already was; the only thing I could hope for was the long and difficult shaping that had been done to me. “All right,” I said at last. “Maybe we can do an animal.”
He watched me for another long moment, and then he nodded back, and we climbed out of the car and followed the pack into the cafeteria.
Inside, the other boys—and one girl—ran around making lots of loud noise for the first few minutes. Cody and I sat quietly in our tiny, molded plastic chairs, at a table just barely tall enough to smack you in the kneecaps if you tried to walk around it. He watched the others at their noisy play without expression and without any attempt to join in, and that was a starting point, something I could do with him. He was far too young to be known as a brooding loner—we needed to get his disguise in gear.
“Cody,” I said, and he looked at me with the same lack of expression. “Look at the other kids.”
He blinked, and then swiveled his head to take in the rest of the room. He watched without comment for a minute, and then turned back to me. “Okay,” he said softly.
“It’s just that they’re all running around and having fun, and you’re not,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“So you will stand out,” I said. “You have to pretend you’re having fun here.”
“I don’t know how,” he said, a major speech for him.
“But you have to learn,” I said. “You have to look like all the others, or …”
“Well, well, what’s wrong with you, little guy?” a voice boomed out. A large and offensively cheerful man came over and put his hands on his bare knees so he could shove his face closer to Cody’s. He was bursting out of a Cub Scout leader’s uniform, and the sight of his hairy legs and large belly seemed very wrong. “You’re not feeling shy, are you?” he said with a huge and terrible grin.
Cody stared back at him without blinking for a long moment, and the man’s grin began to fade a little. “No,” Cody said at last.
“Well, good,” the man said, straightening up and moving back a step.
“He’s not really shy,” I said. “He’s just a little tired today.”
The man turned his grin on me, looked me over for a moment, then stuck out his hand. “Roger Deutsch,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m the den master. I just like to get to know everybody a little before we start.”
“Dexter Morgan,” I said, shaking his hand. “This is Cody.”
Deutsch held his hand out to Cody. “Hi, Cody, glad to meet you.” Cody looked at the hand, then at me; I nodded at him, and he put his small hand into the meaty paw held out in front of him. “Hi,” he said.
“So,” Deutsch said relentlessly, “what brings you to Scouting, Cody?”
Cody glanced at me. I smiled, and he turned back to Deutsch. “Have fun,” he said, his small, deadpan face looking like he was at a funeral.
“Great,” said Deutsch. “Scouting should be fun. But there’s a serious part, too. You can learn about all kinds of cool things. Is there anything special you really want to learn about, Cody?”