Free Uncle Vampire by Cynthia D. Grant Page B

head?
    â€œCarolyn!” Her hand is on my arm. Her look of concern is edged with irritation. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I was just thinking.”
    â€œThinking about what?”
    â€œNothing. Just a bunch of different things.”
    â€œLike what? Please tell me, Carolyn. I’m trying to help you.”
    â€œI appreciate your concern, but nothing’s wrong,” I say with such calm conviction that I almost believe it.
    Ms. Johnson’s eyes try to enter mine, but I’ve locked them. Then I throw away the key. Then I forget that the key existed. Then I forget that I forgot.
    All of this only takes a second.
    â€œâ€¦ lots of young people go through rebellious phases, but you’ve never been an average kid.”
    If she only knew. I almost crack up.
    â€œCarolyn, I understand that you wouldn’t feel comfortable ‘telling on’ Richie, but we’re very concerned. About both of you. I’ve tried to contact your parents. I’ve talked to your uncle several times, and he tells me he’s given your mother the message.”
    â€œMama hasn’t been well.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”
    â€œShe’s depressed.”
    I can’t believe that I’ve told the truth and not given the official family explanation: She’s tired. No one ever says what’s wrong with Mama, but the implication is that it’s a medical condition. Like sleeping sickness; not something in her mind but in her body. But if her mind is ill, then her body will be too, because you can’t have one without the other. No matter what you do, you can’t escape yourself. Everywhere you go, there you are.
    â€œâ€¦ so thin. Have you thought about seeing your family doctor? I know you girls like to be nice and skinny, but there’s a limit, Carolyn.”
    Really? Where is it? I think I’ve crossed it. What’s happening to me? Why am I in this office? My uncle’s been a vampire since I was little. Why is my life disintegrating now? Is he taking so much blood that he’s draining my brain? I want to close my eyes. I am so exhausted. I stayed awake last night. I heard the floorboards creaking, or mice squeaking. The mice are worse; the house is full of tiny turds.
    â€œâ€¦ this essay. Mrs. Bennett found it very disturbing.” Ms. Johnson is holding up a sheaf of papers. “You were supposed to write about To Kill a Mockingbird .”
    She hands me the papers, and I glance at the title in the center of the first page: “Does Evil Exist?” The essay runs to ten typed pages. I don’t remember writing it.
    My eyes sweep the pages, looking for something familiar. The sentences are coherent, but foreign. “Is evil another face of God’s?” “Is free choice a cross or a key to the kingdom of heaven?” “Babies are born guiltless into a world that is ancient with sin.”
    What have I written? Have I betrayed myself? No, it’s just me, going on and on about the sorrow and suffering in the world, etc. Just me, losing my mind on paper.
    â€œI was exploring the immorality of racism,” I say, “which, as you know, is the theme of the book. I examined the struggle between good and greed, which are the two dominating forces in the world.”
    Ms. Johnson’s eyes are troubled, and she’s very smart. But once again I have fooled her. I keep waiting for her to ask the right questions so I can tell the truth. But then she might say: “Go away, you’re crazy!” She would scrub her office clean with holy water.
    She says, “I guess Mrs. Bennett didn’t see the connection.”
    â€œThat’s how I read the book,” I say. “Maybe I was being too subtle.”
    I hate to lie to those honest eyes. You can see clear through them to her heart. But there’s nothing to say. I