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hundreds—of other kids have lain on this very same spot. Is it their sweat you smell, or are you imagining it? Is this the same spot where they placed their faces? Thoughts like this fill me with revulsion, as I can’t escape the sense that I’m lying on the germs, the sweat, the smells of the hundreds who’ve lain here before.
    And that’s only a small part of the torture. What’s far worse is the mental torment. First there’s the monotony. Day after day, hour after hour, alone with your thoughts. Perhaps if you were sent to Lake Harmony because you dealt drugs or robbed somebody or stole a car, they would expect you to reflect on the error of your ways and see the mistakes you’ve made. But what if you haven’t done anything seriously wrong, what then?
    Only it’s not really about what I think is right or wrong, is it? My parents sent me here because it’s about what
they
think. And that’s a different story. School may have come easily to me; learning to live in my parents’ world was much harder. There it seemed that I was always making mistakes. School was black and white. You either knew the answer or you didn’t. You were either right or wrong. In my parents’ world black was sometimes white, but sometimes it was another color altogether.
    On the floor in TI these painful memories stand out like thorns on the stem of a rose. Like the time I was eight and we were having dinner at my father’s club. I was wearing my club “uniform”—blue blazer, white shirt, gray slacks. The only opportunity for self-expressioncame with my choice of ties. That night, I’d chosen a green bow tie.
    â€œYou know I don’t like that bow tie,” said my mother, who was wearing a red dress and white pearls.
    â€œOh, come on,” said my father. “He’s just experimenting.”
    The Frampsons, a family we knew, entered the dining room. Most of the women in my mother’s circle were so thin you might think they were emaciated. But Mrs. Frampson was the exception—plump, though certainly not fat. My mother leaned toward my father and me. Her streaked blond hair brushed across the rim of her wine glass. “Look at Hallie Frampson. She just had thousands of dollars’ worth of plastic surgery. I don’t think it did a bit of good.”
    Then she waved and smiled at the Frampsons, who came toward our table. As was the custom at the clubs we belonged to, my parents and I rose to greet them. Males shook hands with males. Females kissed females and males on both cheeks.
    â€œHallie, you look wonderful,” my mother gushed.
    The Frampsons stayed and chatted for a moment, then moved on. My parents and I sat down again.
    â€œWhy did you tell her she looked wonderful?” I asked. “A second ago you said all that plastic surgery didn’t do a bit of good.”
    My mother’s cheeks turned bright red as she stared past me. I turned and saw Hallie Frampson standing only a few feet away. She’d stopped to say hello to someone at the table behind us. Obviously, she’d heard what I’d said. Now her hands rose to herface and she rushed toward the ladies’ room.
    â€œYou little brat,” my mother snapped, then jumped up and hurried to the ladies’ room to make amends.
    You little brat…
The words stung worse than the hardest slap, mainly because I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong. But that was only the beginning.
    When I was nine years old and in third grade at the “prestigious” Governor’s School, we were assigned to write about our parents’ jobs. This is what I wrote:
    My father is a lawyer who works on mergers and acquisitions. He helps companies buy other companies. Suppose Bob’s Ice Cream Company wants to raise the price of its ice cream to $5 a quart. The problem is Max’s Ice Cream Company sells its ice cream for $4 a quart. Bob’s is worried