The Midnight Country

Chapter 11

Though the after-school visit had been scheduled for months—since shortly after my parents’ disappearance—it wasn’t until I opened the door to the counselor’s office that the reality of it really hit. This was it. Today would decide if I would be allowed to move on to Junior High or if I would be held back a year—and not, I knew, based strictly on poor grades.

“I’m here for my exam,” I said, chewing the last of my Snickers, feeling foolish, mainly because I didn’t even know what to call it: this test of my sanity; this test of my maturity and character. Are you even human? they seemed to be asking. Do you belong here in our public schools with our beloved human children? Or should you be farmed out—to the insane asylum, maybe, or the traveling carnie, with the rest of your kind?

“Mr. Smith,” said the counselor, not unpleasantly. “Let’s get this started straight away.” She pushed a pencil and some paper at me. “It’s college ruled, is that okay?”

I nodded.

“There’s a sharpener in the room, on the far side of the cabinet.” She tossed the hair out of her eyes, which swung, scintillating, like liquid gold. “Shall we?”

I nodded.

She escorted me into a back room, two walls of which had upper halves made of glass, one facing the hallway and the other facing her office. The room had light brown paneling and a single round table with three chairs, one of which she pulled out. Besides the cabinet on the wall and the pencil sharpener, there was only a framed print of some daisies and an enormous IBM clock, which ticked audibly.

The wooden chair creaked as I settled into it.

“I want you to tell me about your parents—okay? About a page should do. Just, whatever comes into your mind.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. No questions this time.”

And then she exited, closing the door behind her—firmly, completely.

I squirmed in the chair, the seat of which was hard as concrete, then looked into her office—saw the counselor re-seating herself ... hair scintillating.

The big IBM clock ticked, its seconds hand swinging on its fulcrum.

At last I picked up the pencil and placed its tip—which the counselor had sharpened to a fine point—against the paper, feeling the lead break a little as I wrote, WHAT I’VE LEARNED FROM THE DEATH OF MY PARENTS ...

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