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.
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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 8th 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 8th 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 8th 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