Monster

Forward

Oh god.  I remember why I sealed this book away forever.  This chapter demonstrated just how much I had to learn about writing.  I had some desperate need to thoroughly explain the layout of the school in painstaking detail.  Over 7,000 words of it.  What you will read is bad.  I even cut out quite a bit. 

If there is one chapter to skip, it’s this one.  Maybe the next one is bad, too.  I don’t know; I haven’t gotten there yet. 

For the sake of brevity, here are my other observations while reading this chapter:

• I had intended Warren to be smart, sarcastic, and likeable.  Looking back on him, he’s a whiny ass who happens to be an elitist as well.  If my memory serves me well, he becomes humble and mature as the book progresses, so it’s possible that I had unknowingly written a character with depth and growth.
• For some reason, I had some descriptions that were objectively racist.  I understand why adolescent Solomon thought they were fine, but the descriptions would not fly today and have been eliminated as such.
• We’ll ignore that I divided 1,200 kids between four staff members without the entire school falling into chaos.
• Let it be known that I wrote this book before every kindergartener had a cellphone.  This was an age before the cell phone became a third kidney. 
• The US were a strange invention.  I had never been bullied nor had I ever had a run-in with an elite student clique.  For whatever reason, I thought it would be good to have such a fantastical group in my book.

With that, enjoy.  Or not. 

*

Chapter 2 – The School of Brains

Summer went by quickly.  They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I didn’t enjoy any share of fun.  Maybe that proved time flew when it sucked too. Despite how hard I had tried to change my parents’ minds, they applied for the school.  Throughout the following weeks, more information arrived periodically.  I tried to destroy some of these letters, but after my parents caught me burning a pamphlet, they put a lock on the mailbox.  Letters could go in, but only Mom and Dad could get them out.  By the time I stole the key, the final application had been signed and sent away.

 So I had spent the summer in anguish, rotting in my room, showing my face only when I had to.  I called no friends; I had none.  I didn’t spend time with my parents; for all I cared, I had none.  I didn’t start anything, not a game, not a book, nothing.  I simply moped three months away. 

The black and tattered era of the School of Brains was to begin.  My clothes, possessions, and hatred were packed in two suitcases, the only items accompanying me into the new age.  Imprisoned in the back of the family car, I sulked, determined to force as much guilt as possible onto my parents before they deserted me.  As our small car sped towards our distant destination, my parents occasionally tried to talk to me, offering praises or pity, but I never answered them.  My angst was my final weapon, and they were going to get the full brunt of it.

At some point during the drive, I nodded off, falling into an uncomfortable but lengthy doze.  When I awoke, instead of cities or countryside, I found oak trees surrounding me.  The asphalt road had given way to dirt and rocks.  I briefly wondered if my old fogeys had gotten us lost, but the school came into sight shortly after. 

It looked like a prison.  Well, the top of the school and its middle portion looked like a prison.  The rest of the school was obscured by a massive brick wall that seemed to encase the entire school and its grounds.  Given my distant position, all I could discern was the school’s one story, but it was massive.  I couldn’t guess how long or wide it was, but it was definitely larger than any college or prison I knew of.

Our sedan slowly bumped into a clearing in front of the school’s closed entrance.  Judging from the number of people and cars in the clearing, it looked like the parents wouldn’t be going any farther.  Thank God.

After searching amongst an ocean of vehicles, Dad swung the car into an empty spot in the clearing.  He barely killed the engine before both he and Mom were out of the car and snooping for gossip about the school and my “rival” colleagues.  So much for waiting for their little baby.  Grumbling, I kicked my door open and threw my suitcases out of the car.  I slammed the door viciously once I stomped out, but my efforts went unrewarded.  I didn’t get a single curious glance.

I plodded over to my parents, suitcases in tow.  Unsurprisingly, they were already conversing with other parents and paid me no attention.  I dropped my luggage and myself five feet away from them, my idea of a rebellious move.

I gazed miserably ahead of me.  Everywhere I saw kids behave just as pathetically as I did.  Some unwillingly accepted the love of their parents.  Others still begged to be sent home.  Even more sat on their suitcases, watching apathetically as their lives slipped away. 

 A harsh groaning of metal against metal cut through the angst, gathering everyone’s attention towards the opening gates.  Mom and Dad beckoned to me as the other kids said their last goodbyes and headed towards the school.

Swallowing a protest, I willed myself off my suitcases and fell into my parents’ outstretched arms.  They embraced me lovingly; I didn’t do the same.  Even when I stared into their tearful eyes, I felt no remorse or sadness.  I mumbled a meaningless “miss you,” picked up my bags, and shuffled away.  I entered the crowd of children that marched to the school.  On a whim, I glanced back to see if my parents were still there, but I was pushed forward by the mob before I could recognize a face.

I could only march, down the dusty path, down to the school, down to hell.  I didn’t try to socialize with the students next to me.  They didn’t try to socialize with me.  In fact, no one did.  We were the lemmings racing towards the water.  No matter how deep our urge was to run away, we kept moving.  The best and brightest brains of the country ceased to work.

We marched on, passing few noteworthy landmarks.  Only a few trees spotted the grounds around us, bushes and boulders sparsely filling the other open areas.  Flowers and other decorative elements were nowhere to be seen.  Besides the trees and trimmed grass, the only other vegetation I could see was a type of pale, sickly mushroom that clustered in patches on the grass.   

I did not see a single football field, tennis court, or baseball diamond.  The only manmade items in sight were the enormous, tanned brick school and the enclosing walls.  As our column of students neared the school, I did catch an eyeful of another building, be it a small eyeful.  It looked like a cabin, but since it was situated deep in the farthest corner of the school’s yard, I couldn’t determine much more than that.  It seemed peculiar that the trees and boulders nearly hid the cabin from view, but this peculiarity was buried under my more pressing worries concerning the school’s lack of outdoor recreational facilities. 

My thoughts and our uniform parade broke apart when we came upon the open doors of the school.  As we entered, we broke apart and spread across the room, not caring where we were as long as we weren’t trampled.  The room we had entered was a gym, a gigantic one at that, containing two full basketball courts.  Even as the last kid stumbled in, we had more than enough elbow room.

None of us spoke.  Coughs, sneezes, and shuffles echoed everywhere, yet not a kid spoke.  Our uneasiness with each other was strong, but it wasn’t our main torment.  It was the thought that we were alone now; no parents to love us, care for us, or watch over us.  The thought paralyzed us, leaving us to worry and wait in our cemented positions.  When another door opened into the gym, we all brought our attention to it and the person who emerged.

“Welcome, children,” boomed the figure.  As it neared, “it” became “she.”  A pale woman dressed in black.  Her formal suit, her high heels, her hair, all black. 

 The woman clicked across the room and to the center of the gym, a walk that conveyed her confidence and power.  She took a moment to gaze around the room, passing a wry little smile over every student.  The whole room stared back.

“Welcome again, all 1,232 of you!” she boomed again in her sharp, high voice. “I am your principal, Ms Risped, who you have probably heard about over your summer vacation.  Whatever your feelings may be coming into the school, I know you will all come to enjoy your time here.  We have so much to show you, and I know something will appeal to everyone.

“Now, students, we will begin with a tour of the facilities here.  If time is kind to us, we will visit all of your classes, some of your teachers, the cafeteria and other rest spots, and, of course, your dorms.”  Excited murmurs past over the crowd, our timidity slowly washing away.  Ms Risped stopped her speech to let our attention reform. 

“After you see most of the building,” she continued, “you will be fed dinner and then assigned to your dorms, but the order in which these events happen may vary depending on your group.”

Ms Risped paused again, deliberately.  Like a smoke, the feel in the room changed to one of unease, and she hadn’t said a thing. “Before we begin, our purpose here at the School of Brains must be made known to all of you. This school was established to educate gifted young adults, not tolerate smart-alecks.  If any of you came to party, goof off, or otherwise disrupt the structure of this school, I strongly encourage you to inform us immediately so we can arrange you a safe return home.  If you disturb the peace of this school in any fashion, your punishment will be swift and severe.  The school staff does not wish to be harsh, but you are to learn here in the next few years, not treat this as an extended vacation.  Please keep this in mind during your stay here.”

The murmurs did not return.  I briefly thought of speaking out, but her tone had killed any defiant urge I had.  It wasn’t the introductory speech I had expected, but it certainly stirred me.

While the student body chewed on Risped’s comments, three more adults entered the gym.  They shuffled through the interspersed children, coming to flank the principal.   Again, the atmosphere seemed to change if only by how Risped changed her stance.  “Before we begin our tour,” she announced, fanning her hands out to display the strangers, “let me introduce these three fine men who will be some of your tour guides.

“This man to my right is Deon; he will be teaching arithmetic classes.” Risped pointed to a tall, thin man beside her.  Of the four teachers, he dressed the most casually, sporting jeans and a t-shirt.  This contrasted with his distinctly sharp physical features.  His cheekbones were high, his goateed chin pointy, and his short brunette hair spiked upwards.  He stood at rigid attention, causing his bony body to seem all the more jagged.  My initial thoughts wanted me to believe this Deon was going to be a hip teacher, but his cold gaze and pointed frown persuaded me otherwise.

“This is Mr. Drake, one of our social studies teachers,” continued Risped, her wiry fingers directing us to the man on her left.  Mr. Drake, out of the four, seemed the most normal.  He had the average height and weight of the stereotypical teacher, the average look, and the average dress.  He was probably one of those teachers who was likable but ultimately forgettable.  With his run-of-the-mill looks, at least he appeared to be the only “safe teacher” of the four.

“And lastly, Bodie Mann, one of our P.E. teachers,” Risped finished, pointing to the man beside Mr. Drake.  He was a burly dude, possibly six-and-a-half feet tall and apparently all muscle.  I would have expected him to be a bodyguard instead of a teacher.  Hell, he could have been a mob lord with his dress.  He wore a doubled-breasted suit for Christ’s sake!  Four gold watches, two on each of his arms, also hinted at his enigmatic income and an even more dubious fashion sense.  Why he would need four watches made no sense to me, but then again, not much was at this point.

“I will now split all of you into four groups to tour the school,” Ms Risped instructed. “If your last name begins with the letters A through F, you will stay with me where we will first tour the various entertainment facilities.  G to M will follow Mr. Drake to view the classrooms and visit with some of your other teachers.  N to S will go with Deon to be assigned to your dorms.  T to Z will begin with dinner in the cafeteria with Mr. Mann.  Please students, leave your luggage behind so our staff can distribute them to your dorms.

Gradually, three quarters of the students filtered out of the room. “Thank you for waiting, students,” Risped said, commanding our attention once more.  “We begin with our gym.  All assemblies, P.E. classes, and other sports activities will be held here.  When class is not in session, the gym is open to any student who wishes to work, talk, or relax.

“While we have arranged measures to prevent emergencies, if we do experience one, the entrance through which you came is your exit out of this building.  In all other circumstances, no student is permitted to leave the building without written permission of a member of the school staff.  Leaving without permission will result in consequences.  While I would not expect trouble from any of you, these rules are enforced for your safety.”  She gave a slight smile at this and began pacing in front of us.  “In addition, we ask that none you enter the north side of the school where we have our teachers’ quarters.  Our staff requires privacy just as you do.”  She offered a wink that was less than playful.

This all seemed a bit severe.  Take one wrong step and there was hell to pay.  This whole situation didn’t scream normalcy.  Strange teachers and oppressive rules?  Something wasn’t right.

“Now let us continue, students,” called Risped as she began walking to the west side of the building.  I left my suitcases behind as I was told and squeezed in with our now smaller stampede of teenagers.  Most of us followed her silently, but some outgoing kids had started visiting with one another.  I was relieved some of us were beginning to act like normal kids.  I didn’t participate in the discussions myself, but I was content with listening to the kids talk about how much the school rules sucked in the presence of the principal.

As we passed through a set of double doors and into a seemingly endless hallway, our group edged around a massive, winding staircase that seemed to descend into a bottomless pit. Although every teenager gaped at its infinite maw, Ms Risped passed it without a glance.  Judging from her indifference, I guessed I would have to trust the metal plaque by the staircase that said it led to the classrooms.  Still, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find fire and demons dancing down there.

Our march continued, bringing us deeper into the hall.  Not far from the stairs, we passed the open doors of the cafeteria.  Inside, for a brief moment, I glimpsed the students of group T-Z scattered about the room.  I could’ve sworn I heard some of them talk in there, but the sounds of their eating silenced everything else.  Utensils against plastic, shuffling clothes, chewing, slurping.  The noise was discomforting, but it and the feeling passed with the cafeteria.  Curiosity filled the emptiness as we approached a pair of thick glass doors farther down the hallway and to the left.  Marked in bold, black lettering upon the doors, “The Hippocampus Library” welcomed us heartily.

“As you have probably already read,” Risped stated as she brought us through the doors of the library, “this is the Hippocampus.”  Her arms stretched out as she spoke, as if to enhance the brilliance of the room.  She didn’t need to. 

There were no statues of famous people or decorative plants or paintings, and there didn’t need to be.  For what it lacked, the library compensated in books, rows upon rows of shelves of books, stretching as wide as the gym and half as long as it.  Only a wall-consuming window on one side of the room was free of books.  The rest of the library overflowed with books of varying colors and sizes, painting a vibrant environment of parchment.  It didn’t matter that I didn’t care for books.  Quantity was enough to amaze.

Risped led us around the library, guiding us through all the genres of writing and past the desks, couches, and computers that resided closely in a corner of the room beside the window.  She commented as she led us, “This library contains all the sources you may need for your assignments or for your leisure in your spare time.  Your spare time begins at 6:00 am—when you are permitted to leave your dorm—and ends at 11:00 pm—when you are required to return to your dorm.  Of course, spare time is only during the time you have no classes.  The library will be open throughout the day, so classes will not impede your ability to use this facility.” 

The long line of student snaked through the bookcases as she continued, “Now come along, we still have two more rooms to tour in the meager time we have.” We marched obediently behind her, trudging out of the library and farther down the hall to another set of glass doors.

As we entered the room, Risped turned to face us and whispered as if not to wake something, “This is the Stem Green Room.  This place is neither a center for classes nor a place for research materials but simply an area to study or rest.  We recognize many of you are disappointed you will not leave the school building, so we have created this room to offer you the closest we can get to an ‘outdoor’ experience with our limited staff size. Please mind your behavior here. If you damage any of the flora here, you might just find yourself helping the school groundskeeper in this room during your spare time.”

We walked through the glass room, observing all the botany bathing in the setting sun and the few, scattered sun lamps.  While the room wasn’t necessarily wide, it was long enough to stretch past the library’s outer wall, allowing us to see more of the school’s grounds.  The girls of the group seemed more intrigued by the garden, adoring each little pink-stained leaf or exotic flower they passed.  Most of the boys, meanwhile, grew restless, asphyxiated by nature and drowned in the room’s oppressive humidity.  How anyone could stand this room longer than ten minutes was beyond me.  We wandered for a time, and we breathed a sigh of relief as Risped signaled for us to leave.

We resumed our tireless march down the hall.  Silence accompanied our walk, newly refreshed by the garden’s beauty or dullness.  The silence didn’t last long however.  As the students caught sight of the plaque at the end of the hallway, excited whispers broke out.  This last room was to be a fitting finale.    

Ms. Risped deliberately slowed her movements, as if trying to build the anticipation.  When we could finally see what lay behind those doors, happiness erupted, coming forth in smiles, cheers, and whoops. 

“Welcome, students, to the Nucleus Accumbens, otherwise known as the School Game Room,” Ms Risped said quietly.  “This room is self-explanatory.  Do not break anything or take anything from the room.  You have ten minutes.”

We tumbled in, or at least tried to.  While the dumber of the bright kids pushed and shoved their way in the room, the smarter ones waited for the oafs to make a pathway.  Being a part of the dumber group, I entered the room with only a couple of scratches and bumps.  With the few moments I had before the crowd came, I saw close to what I could call a paradise.  It was a massive room (apparently a motif of this school), easily large enough for three times the size of our group. 

A game room seemed misplaced in a school, but none of us complained.  The nerdy and geeky intellectuals had ten plasma-screen TVs, sound systems, and enough video games and consoles to last well over four years.  The more “popular” kids had the game tables—multitudes of them from foosball to billiards—so many they dominated a third of the room.  If these didn’t fit your fancy, there was everything else, from the endless arts and crafts drawers to the couches, recliners and enormous bean bags to the mini-bars. 

“Time is up, students,” announced Ms Risped, clapping her hands simultaneously.  This was met with some groans and her consistent sharp smirk.  “Our tour of the ‘hang-out’ areas is now over.  Dinner is next, so let us hurry to the cafeteria before Drake’s group comes this way and causes traffic.”

Our group paraded to the cafeteria and arrived just as Mann’s group was exiting.  When they cleared out, we filed into the blindingly white room.  Much to our delight, we had our own little food court with eateries built along the walls, spanning from specialties in Chinese cuisine to American burgers.  To us, this meant four years of fine food.

“Before we eat,” said Ms Risped, positioning herself in front of us to stop us from advancing, “I have some information about the cafeteria.”  She pulled a large stack of red cards from behind her back.

“These Meal Cards,” she continued as she waved the stack of cards in front of us, “have your names, IDs, and other information on them.  These will allow you to get food.  They also inform our cafeteria staff what food combinations will best maintain your health.  After all, here at the School of Brains, we support the mind and the body, not bad habits. 

“Breakfast is served from 6:00 to 10:00 am, lunch from 11:00 am to 3:00 pm, and dinner from 6:00 to 10:00 pm.  Food is not to leave this room.  If any one of you feels like disrupting the peace inside this cafeteria, serious consequences will ensue.  Now, when I call your name, take your card and get your dinner.  First is Abigail Aden; next is…”

After roughly a lot of names, I was called.  Although I tried to take my card discreetly, it felt as if Risped’s gaze burned into me.  I avoided eye contact and scurried in line behind some students in front of a pizzeria.  As I waited, curiosity turned me around to see if she was watching me, and sure enough, she wasn’t.   I didn’t even see her until today, and I was still freaked out by her.

“Meal Card, please.”  I flinched, not realizing I had come to the front of the line.  Behind the counter, a skeletal man stood waiting for my Meal Card, not looking the slightest bit enthused.  Hesitantly, I handed him my bright red card.  In one swipe, he removed it from my hands, through the reader, and back into my hands.  As I placed the card in my pocket, the Stick Man, as indifferent as before, stared at a nearby laptop. 

 “Okay kid,” mumbled Stick Man, still facing the computer. “You’re relatively healthy.  Take your pick of what you want.  Just watch yourself or you’ll be eating tofu for the next few weeks.”

 I placed my order meekly.  The sickly man quickly arranged my order onto a platter and shoved it over to me.  A faint smile graced his lips as he watched me take my tray.  “Remember to finish your meal, kid.  Otherwise, we might find it offensive and have you helping us next week.”

Page 2

Forward

From the ages of 14 to 16, I wrote the Brain School, a horror novel geared towards young adults.  In the span of two years, I wrote over 300 pages of single-space, 12-point font.  Over the next year, I revised it, reducing the page count to 276.  Then, the book died.  Although I received only kind comments about my story, the general message was, “It’s not good enough.”  In time, I agreed with this. 

For over a decade, the Brain School has collected dust, and I had originally intended it to stay this way.  However, this summer, I changed my mind.  I came to realize that I had poured my very being into this book, and it does not deserve to be ignored, no matter its quality.  It represents my first steps as a writer, and it should be treasured.

I present to you the first chapter of the book, with more chapters to come.  This version of the book is theoretically its fourth draft, and this time, I have changed sections which did not make sense, and I cleaned up some descriptions.  The large majority of the book is the same as it was over a decade ago.  It’s still bad, but it’s mine.

Enjoy.

*

Chapter 1 – How My Troubles Began

I don’t like being smart.  Never did, and pretty sure I never will.  Sure, I could think better in certain ways, but I also earned that repulsive title, “gifted.”  Once that label had cemented, its brother, “social outcast,” found me too. 

My gifted privileges included “advanced classes” which shoved information down my throat like it was a garbage disposal.  The teachers lectured me on the importance of striving for some prestigious job in the medical or law field, but that meant nothing to me.  Gifted people didn’t get real jobs.  They either achieved worldwide fame or ended up on the streets, as my parents warned would happen to me “if I didn’t get my act together.”  

My only goal was to avoid the whole gifted system.  Up until 8^th grade, I acted “normal.”  When I was “normal,” I could be the athlete, the popular guy, the kid who didn’t do his homework.  For a time, I could fool everyone:  my parents who wished I was smart, the teachers who tried to prove I was smart, and my friends who thought I was average academically.  Then I stumbled, dropping my façade and exposing myself to the world.

It happened one afternoon after school; I was stuck with an English teacher for ditching his class during a test.  He began our session with some scolding and finished it by forcing the test on me and stomping out of the room.  Unfazed by his tantrum, I looked over the test.  A perfect score was possible, but a C+ was more fun.  Several bubbled-in designs and irrelevant historical references later, I had that desirable grade.  Satisfied with my genius, I crumpled up the test and tossed it onto the teacher’s desk. 

With an hour left of my testing detention, I stared aimlessly around the room and fiddled with my thumbs.  My eyes drifted to the dry-erase board in the front of the room.  Distracted, I allowed my attention to meander until an object caught my eye.  I didn’t know it, but a trap had been laid for me.

Feigning boredom, I pushed myself away from my desk and shuffled to the front of the class.  Acknowledging an invisible watcher, I acted as if I did not come up to see the particular object and scratched away at the dry-erase markings on the board indifferently.  I continued the charade until my impatience dried up.  Scooting over slowly, I came to the object and snatched it from the board.

It was a written IQ test of sorts, one geared to be extra credit for students who had finished their work early.  I abhorred tests, but the combination my boredom and arrogance had piqued my interest.  Maybe I wanted to know what knowledge I was masking; maybe I just liked the word “IQ,” but either way, I felt moved to carry the test over to my desk and pull out a pencil. 

For a moment, I did nothing and wondered why I had the paper.  I glanced through the first few questions, determining if I knew the answers.  My hand followed, bubbling in the correct letters.  As if on auto-pilot, I filtered through the pages of the test, applying myself like I hadn’t before.  In the back of head, I was somewhat dismayed.  Why now? Why was I interested now?

 I spent the next hour finishing the text.  I feel into a kind of meditation, allowing the text to fill my thoughts as I scribbled away.  Little did I know my English teacher had re-entered the room and watched me work.  I had barely bubbled in the last answer when he snatched the test from me and scurried to his desk.

I was dumbfounded.  How had I ignored he was there?  What would happen if I scored too well?  I watched him jump and giggle at his desk as he found correct answer after correct answer.  Judging from how many times he fidgeted, it seemed my façade was thoroughly killed.  Exactly what my score was I never found out, but what I knew was my score was too high.  Like spotlights, it exposed me, leaving me vulnerable.  Staring blankly at my hysterical teacher, I could my life eat itself

In my eyes, the gifted program was “the system.”  It’s like the one that lunatics rave about when talking about government conspiracies.  The system was any structure put in place to force us into a specific role or lifestyle. 

Among its annoyances, the system I had come to know was also a fortune teller of sorts.  Depending on a person’s traits, that person would get a few different readings.  If the person was smart but rebellious, he’d either be famous or a bum, like I explained earlier.  If the person was athletic and dumb, he’d probably become a sports star or some cab driver.  If he had no remarkable traits, he’d find his place in the great machine in society and live a life of comfort or suffer from knowing it’s all meaningless.  To correct myself, everybody would get an average of two choices on how to live life.  It was stereotyping, but it seemed to be the truth. 

Those who followed the system were the lemmings in the arctic that run off the cliff and drown in the ocean.  Of course, there were a few, the minority, who made it out of the system.  They were the lemmings that somehow broke from the crowd of instinct-driven fur balls and watched from the cliff as their family and friends plummeted to their doom.  Either way it sucked, but the life of a living lemming sounded better to me than a drowned one.  Breaking from the crowd would be difficult though; those automatons who lived to fuel the system (teachers and principals) buried me deep in lemming crap. 

After my English teacher had graded the I.Q. test, it channeled through several different people.  When it reached the Gifted Program director, she grabbed me from all my average classes and threw me in the “advanced” ones.  There, a threat was kindly made, “Get good grades or enjoy the 8^th grade again.”  I didn’t necessarily want to excel, but I sure didn’t like the idea of me stuck as a 15 year-old eighth grader, so I did what they said.

Things got worse from there.  My popular friends left me to the nerds.  I hadn’t been too kind to the nerds previously, so they also condemned me.  My parents began loving me more, which was awful.  Their constant bragging about their “brilliant boy” was almost as terrible as my ex-friends’ silence.  My parents got the intellectual they had always wanted but never dared to talk about while around me.  I didn’t know who to hate more:  all of the others or myself.

I wasn’t able to escape the system my 8^th grade year.  Although I had managed to pass, by the last day of school I found myself friendless with a future of hard classes, mountains of homework, and a spot at the outcast table for my high school years. 

When summer finally blessed me, I looked forward to breathing a little more easily.  I had hopes that the summer would give me a vacation from the system. It only took a couple of days for it all to fall apart. 

It was the first week of summer vacation when the system struck.  Catching me while I was mowing the front lawn, our kindly mailman unwittingly delivered my cold, black fate in the form of a letter.  The envelope lay on top of the others, its swooping, red letters bearing my name.  The mower was forgotten as I focused on the envelope.  I tore the flap tentatively, pulling out a collection of papers.  I found the system had hidden itself in a cover letter on thick parchment:

 Dear Warren Bent,

To answer the call for an advanced education program for gifted children, the School of Brains has been established this past year to provide a suitable learning environment for the brightest children of America.  In this visionary school, children who have never experienced intellectual challenge shall truly learn at their pace. Our boarding school offers skilled teachers who we have meticulously selected from across the country.  In a matter of a year, you will obtain all the credits needed for your high school diploma, allowing you to move onto college-level curricula for the remainder of your education. By graduation, you will emerge ready as a future leader of the world, wielding not simply a diploma but college credits and more knowledge than any other student their age.

After careful consideration, we have selected you, Warren Bent, to join our school.  Room and board will be covered by a generous scholarship donated by our sponsors.  Neither you nor your parents will be expected to pay for your education.  In exchange, we will ask of you to remain on campus grounds for the entirety of the four years.  Due to our rigorous curriculum, we ask for your dedication to our program and your time.  As such, communications and visitations may be limited.  We care for your ability to connect to the outside community and your family, and we also stress the importance of your commitment to intellectual advancement. 

We understand this wonderful opportunity may sound daunting, and we assure you your time at the School of Brains will be comfortable, enjoyable, and meaningful.   If you choose to join the School of Brains’ community, please fill out the included documents with your parents or guardians.  More information will follow explaining our program, its unique environment, and our expectations. 

We hope to welcome you through our school’s doors in the future.  Until then, may you enjoy your vacation.

Sincerely,

Ms Risped, Principal of the School of Brains

Great, now I could join a whole school of nerds.  I was thoroughly disinterested, yet, as I returned the papers to the envelope, I had to admit this was a new face of the system.  I never had heard of a school which emphasized that I had to stay there for four straight years, with “communications and visitations limited.”  The thought sounded about as pleasant as a long-term illness.  Knowing my parents would think otherwise, the letter would have to be destroyed. 

Destroying the letter ended up being more emotionally trying than I had assumed it would be.  As I walked inside and into the kitchen to throw away the letter, second thoughts flourished in my head.  Initially, they were easy to push aside, but just as I held that evil letter above the trash can, they made me hesitate.  Consequently, I thought more, and that was all my doubts needed to guide me to the kitchen table with the letter still in hand.

Anger immediately consumed me as I sat down at the table.  Why the hell was I even having doubts?  This was school; this was what I hated!  Screw the challenge and prestige; I didn’t want them or any nerdy friends.  If I was going to suffer, I was better to suffer at home than at some school anyway.

I cycled through these thoughts multiple times, but whenever I gathered enough will power to throw away the letter, more doubts assailed me.  Couldn’t this be my escape, from the teachers, from my ex-friends, from my parents?  I could start life anew at this school and leave behind all those jerks who betrayed me.  With all the crap that had happened to me so far, this was probably the best thing that could happen.

These thoughts urged me to celebrate, but always at the height of my rapture, the anger would return and strike me down.  Over and over again, anger and joy clashed inside my head, ripping my thoughts apart.  On one hand, my brain screamed that the letter was an invitation to hell; on the other, it cried that the letter was heaven’s messenger.  There was no middle ground, and thus, I was screwed.

Exhausted and torn, I let my head fall against the table and stay there.  More thoughts would just add to my problem.  I needed some action to spur a decision, but in my state, I couldn’t create that action.

If I had acted, the worse would’ve never happened.  Instead, my parents frightened me into action when they came in through the front door, having returned from grocery shopping.  Spurred by adrenaline, I made a decision:  there was no way in hell I was going to this school.  The known was better than the unknown.  The letter was going in the trash or—better yet—the garbage disposal.

Unfortunately, my body didn’t agree with me.  As I snatched up the mail and shot up from my chair, one of the chair’s legs caught my right foot.  My left foot could have easily come in and regained my balance, but it was already heading towards the trash can.  So it came to pass that my face connected with the tiled floor.  The chair fell on top of me, and the mail flew from my hands and scattered everywhere, a fantastic finish to the spectacle my parents witnessed.            

“What the hell?” my dad exclaimed as he rushed to my side, hoisting me to my feet.  My mom responded just as quickly, but it was the chair she picked up before swiftly moving to the letters.

“My goodness, Warren,” she fussed as she unknowingly scooped up that terrible letter and put it along with the others.  “What made you do all this?  It was like we frightened you or something.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” I whispered as she sat down at the table and rifled through all the mail.  A sickness in my gut grew as her hands came to my letter.

She paused as her fingers brushed against the back of the envelope.  She looked down at it and frowned.  “Warren, did you open this?” she asked accusingly, holding up the letter so I could see the torn side.  She gingerly took the papers from the envelope and began reading the cover letter’s contents.  As the meaning began to register, she became giddy.  Curious, Dad walked away from me and started to read the letter from over her shoulder.  The giddiness overtook him as well.

“Our son is invited to a top-notch boarding school!” Mom squealed.  She repeated herself over and over again and hugged Dad, who had started chanting the same words.

I watched horrified.  In a matter of minutes, my next four years were determined.  Damn it.  I couldn’t let my life slip away this easily.

“Mom! Dad!” I shouted.  They stopped cheering and looked at me excitedly. “I don’t want to go to this school.” 

Their smiles melted as the phrase registered, but before they could react, I created an excuse.  “I just don’t think I can do that well at the School of Brains.  I mean, I’m afraid I’ll get bad grades and be made fun of for being stupid.  Heck, they only found that I was smart this year.”  I dropped my head to the floor, feigning humility.

 “Oh honey,” Mom cooed softly, “why would you be worried about that?  Your IQ doesn’t just jump that high in one year.  You were born with that, so what’s the chance you’ll do badly at this school?”

“What about my friends, Mom?” I whined, clinging to anything that could get me away from going to this school.

Dad cut in now. “What friends, Warren?  You said all your ‘friends’ deserted you after you were placed in the gifted classes.  This school is a great opportunity to meet new people, better people.  With your personality, I’m sure you’ll make friends.”

“But what about you guys?” I cried in desperation.  “I won’t see you for four whole years…uh…I’ll be homesick!”  My head was screaming at them.  This was my last hope. 

They paused.

It was working.  Hallelujah!

“Warren, we know you’ve wanted to leave this house for years,” Dad answered quietly.  “You’ll love it at the school, and I know you just said all those things for us.”  Mom became tearful at this point while Dad’s voice choked as he continued. “We’ll miss you, and we love you for thinking of us, but we know going to this school is more important to you.” 

What?  No.  This wasn’t happening. They thought I was the one whowanted to go?  They were kidding me!  I couldn’t let this happen.  It didn’t matter what they thought; this was my life! 

In one last glorious attempt, I told them my real reason I didn’t want to go.  As I attacked and insulted the school, my parents listened, dumbfounded.  Although I didn’t know it then, “dumbfounded” was a bad thing.

 “What the hell has gotten into you, Warren?” Dad growled once I had finished. “Many people would give everything to have your intelligence, and you don’t want it?  Do you know what you’re wasting?  If you don’t value your ability, it’s best your mother and I value it for you.”

 I stared at him in frustrated bewilderment.  Use your ability to its fullest?  All around the world, people with my “ability” were emptying garbage cans or bussing tables for a living.  They chose that life, didn’t they?  They chose not to use their “ability.” Why couldn’t I do the same? 

“Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I have to act like it!” I retaliated one last time, more to rebel than anything else. “You guys don’t seem to get that.  I don’t need to go to some nerd school just because I’m smart.  You idiots are the ones who want to go there, so why don’t you guys sign up instead?  Wouldn’t that make everyone happy?”

I glared at my parents to sustain the tension.  They returned my gaze impassively.  

“Go to your room,” Dad said after a few moments of silence, his tone calm but commanding. “We’re doing what we think is best for you.  You’ll thank us in four years.”

I gritted my teeth and screamed through them.  As I turned my back to my parents, I damned the system.  I swore I’d get my revenge.

Chapter One End