Free Far-Flung by Peter Cameron Page A

in an effort to regroup, return to their lairs, and continue doing whatever it is they do behind these steamy glass doors.
    After a few minutes, a bell shrills, the halls clear; and the school regains its composure. I find my way to the guidance office, and Mrs. King, Ellery’s counselor. She asks me to sit down.
    “Mr. Groener couldn’t come?”
    “No,” I say. “He’s in the Philippines.”
    “Philadelphia?”
    “No, the Philippines.”
    “The Philippines?”
    “On business.”
    “Of course,” says Mrs. King, as if I were lying. “Well, I’ve taken the liberty of asking the school nurse to join us. I hope that’s all right with you?”
    I nod.
    “Ellery’s problems—or troubles—are not only academic. That’s why Mr. Katikonas wanted to speak with us.”
    “Who’s Mr. Katikonas?”
    “Oh, he’s the nurse. Miss Holloran retired, and, in an effort to update our health offerings, we’ve hired Mr. Katikonas. He has a background in drug and alcohol abuse, as well as adolescent psychology. Educational nursing has changed since our day.” Mrs. King pauses, and then adds, “Not that Ellery’s problems are stimulus-effected.”
    I smile.
    Mr. Katikonas enters the small cubicle. He is wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says “Say No” on its chest. If I had met him in the hall I would have thought he was a student. He shakes hands with me, and then with Mrs. King, as if he knows each of us equally poorly. Perhaps he does. He looks around for a chair, but there isn’t one.
    “Oh,” says Mrs. King. “You can get a chair from Willy’s office.”
    “That’s O.K.,” says the nurse. “I’d rather stand.” He leans against the wall.
    “Well,” says Mrs. King, “Mr. Katikonas and I wanted to talk to you about Ellery. Mainly about the sunglasses.”
    “I guessed,” I say.
    “You’re aware of the problem?” Mrs. King asks.
    “Yes.”
    “So he wears them at home?” the nurse asks. I pause, think about lying. But I don’t. “Yes,” I say.
    “All the time?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you have any idea why?”
    “No.”
    “Have you talked to him about them?” Mrs. King is obviously our group leader.
    “A little,” I say.
    “And what did he say?”
    “Nothing, really,” I say. “I mean, I just kind of kidded him … I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
    “He could be doing serious retinal damage,” the nurse interjects.
    “Oh …” I say.
    “I’m sure that’s true, John, but that’s not the point,” says Mrs. King. “I think the glasses are a psychological shield he’s building up around himself … they’re a symbol for a deeper problem. The problem isn’t really the sunglasses.”
    “Nevertheless,” says the nurse, “he could be damaging his eyes. I feel it’s important to make that point. From a health point of view.”
    “Thank you,” I say.
    “Mrs. Groener?” Mrs. King asks.
    “Yes,” I say.
    “Could this be linked with … I mean, Ellery’s record mentions his brother’s recent death. Since he’s a new student, I’m afraid I don’t know him as well as some of my other students. But do you think this is linked with that?”
    Ellery’s twin brother, Patrick, committed suicide last year. We’re still trying to adjust, I think. We moved to this new town, and now we’re getting ready to move to the Philippines, where my husband’s been transferred (at his own request). I don’t answer. I don’t yet know how to answer questions like these.
    “Excuse me,” Mrs. King says.
    “No,” I say. “It’s O.K. I just really don’t know.”
    “Of course,” she says. “To return to the matter at hand. This school has no specific policy regarding the wearing of sunglasses. However, we do forbid the wearing of clothes and accessories that are either dangerous or that divert attention from the purpose of education. I think the sunglasses could fall into either of those categories.”
    “Yes,” I say. “I suppose they could.”
    “So we’re