head?
âCarolyn!â Her hand is on my arm. Her look of concern is edged with irritation. âYouâre not listening to a word Iâm saying.â
âIâm sorry. I was just thinking.â
âThinking about what?â
âNothing. Just a bunch of different things.â
âLike what? Please tell me, Carolyn. Iâm trying to help you.â
âI appreciate your concern, but nothingâs wrong,â I say with such calm conviction that I almost believe it.
Ms. Johnsonâs eyes try to enter mine, but Iâve 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⦠lots of young people go through rebellious phases, but youâve never been an average kid.â
If she only knew. I almost crack up.
âCarolyn, I understand that you wouldnât feel comfortable âtelling onâ Richie, but weâre very concerned. About both of you. Iâve tried to contact your parents. Iâve talked to your uncle several times, and he tells me heâs given your mother the message.â
âMama hasnât been well.â
âIâm sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.â
âSheâs depressed.â
I canât believe that Iâve told the truth and not given the official family explanation: Sheâs tired. No one ever says whatâs wrong with Mama, but the implication is that itâs 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 canât have one without the other. No matter what you do, you canât escape yourself. Everywhere you go, there you are.
â⦠so thin. Have you thought about seeing your family doctor? I know you girls like to be nice and skinny, but thereâs a limit, Carolyn.â
Really? Where is it? I think Iâve crossed it. Whatâs happening to me? Why am I in this office? My uncleâs been a vampire since I was little. Why is my life disintegrating now? Is he taking so much blood that heâs 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⦠this essay. Mrs. Bennett found it very disturbing.â Ms. Johnson is holding up a sheaf of papers. âYou were supposed to write about To Kill a Mockingbird .â
She hands me the papers, and I glance at the title in the center of the first page: âDoes Evil Exist?â The essay runs to ten typed pages. I donât remember writing it.
My eyes sweep the pages, looking for something familiar. The sentences are coherent, but foreign. âIs evil another face of Godâs?â âIs free choice a cross or a key to the kingdom of heaven?â âBabies are born guiltless into a world that is ancient with sin.â
What have I written? Have I betrayed myself? No, itâs just me, going on and on about the sorrow and suffering in the world, etc. Just me, losing my mind on paper.
âI was exploring the immorality of racism,â I say, âwhich, 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.â
Ms. Johnsonâs eyes are troubled, and sheâs 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: âGo away, youâre crazy!â She would scrub her office clean with holy water.
She says, âI guess Mrs. Bennett didnât see the connection.â
âThatâs how I read the book,â I say. âMaybe I was being too subtle.â
I hate to lie to those honest eyes. You can see clear through them to her heart. But thereâs nothing to say. I