Free Challenger Deep by Neal Shusterman Page A

The fact that I can’t stop my knees from bouncing undermines any sense of control, though.
    “You’re here because of your science exam.”
    “Oh, that.” I break eye contact, then realize you must never break eye contact with the school counselor, or she’ll find something deeply psychological in your downward glance. I force eye contact again.
    She opens a file. I have a file in the counselor’s office? Who else has a copy of my file? Who gets to put things in and take things out? Is it in any way related to my permanent record? What is a permanent record? When does it stop following you? Will Ihave to spend my life looking over my shoulder for my permanent record?
    Out of the file, Ms. Sassel (I like saying it, too) pulls out the Scantron from my science test, which has more than the usual number of circles filled in. “It’s a very creative . . . interpretation of an exam,” she says.
    “Thank you.”
    “Could you tell me why you did it?”
    There is really only one answer a person can give in a situation like this. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
    She knew I would say that. I know she knew, and she knows I know she knew. This is all like a formal ritualistic performance for both of us. Like Japanese Kabuki theater. I actually feel for her having to go through this with me.
    “Mr. Guthrie isn’t the only teacher who has expressed concern for you, Caden,” she says as kindly as she can. “You’re missing classes; your attention hasn’t been on your work. Historically that’s not like you.”
    Historically? I’m being studied like history? Are they filling out Scantrons about me somewhere? Are they giving letter grades on the subject of me , or is it pass/fail?
    “We’re concerned, and we just want to help you, if you’ll let us.”
    Now it’s my turn to sigh. I have no patience for Kabuki. “Let’s get to the point. You think I’m on drugs.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “Then neither did I.”
    She closes my file and puts it aside, perhaps a gesture to implyour conversation has just become informal and off the record. I don’t buy it. She leans a little closer, but her desk is like a wasteland between us.
    “Caden, all I know is that something is wrong. It could be lots of things, and, yes, drugs is one of those things, but only one. I’d like to hear from you what’s going on, if you’d like to tell me.”
    What’s going on? I’m in the back car of a roller coaster at the top of the climb, with the front rows already giving themselves over to gravity. I can hear those front riders screaming and know my own scream is only seconds away. I’m at the moment you hear the landing gear of a plane grind loudly into place, in that instant before your rational mind tells you it’s just the landing gear. I’m leaping off a cliff only to discover I can fly . . . and then realizing there’s nowhere to land. Ever. That’s what’s going on.
    “So you’re not going to say anything?” Ms. Sassel asks.
    I put my hands firmly on my knees, pushing down to stop them from bouncing, and I keep serious eye contact. “Look, I had a bad day, and I took it out on the test. I know it was stupid, but Mr. Guthrie drops the lowest grade anyway, so it won’t even affect my grade.”
    She leans back, a little bit smug, but trying to hide it. “Did that occur to you before or after you turned in the test?”
    I’ve never been a poker player, but now I bluff with the best of them. “C’mon, do you really think I would have done it if I thought it would affect my grade? Historically, I’m not that stupid.”
    Ms. Sassel only half buys it, but she’s a good enough counselor to know that pushing me will only be counterproductive.
    “Fair enough,” she says.
    But I know there’s nothing fair about it.

44. Boss Key
    The need to walk fills me more and more. I pace my room when I should be doing my homework. I pace the living room when I should be watching TV.
    Normal afternoon shows have