“To think I once qualified for Boston,” Sofia wheezed.
I startled. Outside of class, the staff rarely brought up their lives before Wisewood. “The marathon?”
She nodded, composing herself.
After one more deep breath, she grabbed the door handle and pushed me into the pitch-black void of the building. I squeaked in protest at the same time the cold room flooded with light. I squinted, trying to adjust to the change.
We were inside what resembled an old schoolhouse. Teacher sat at the head desk at the front of the classroom, hair coiffed, clothes dry. Next to her desk was a tripod with an empty phone mount fixed to the top.
She rose, gesturing to a desk in the middle of the front row. “Please take your seat.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The rest of the IC had filed in behind me.
“Don’t worry about what the others are doing,” Teacher said.
I nodded and walked toward the front of the room, holding her gaze the entire way. I sat in the student’s chair, wooden and hard, and heard my peers slip into their own desks. I didn’t dare look away from those violet eyes until they’d released mine. My muscles twitched, heart palpitated.
Teacher walked up and down the rows, greeting each student with a squeeze of the hand. Some members bowed their heads; others grinned. Gordon approached the tripod, pulled an iPhone from his pocket, and settled it sideways into the mount so the back of the phone was facing us. He tapped the screen a few times, then stepped away, back against the chalkboard, watching the phone.
Fear slithered down my spine. He was recording us.
For the millionth time I wondered what, exactly, Gordon’s job was at Wisewood. Ruth and I taught, Debbie cooked, Sofia healed. Raeanne managed the garden, mowed the lawn, shoveled snow, cared for the land. Sanderson drove the boat, made grocery runs, had a head for plumbing and electric. Jeremiah balanced Wisewood’s books. None of us knew what Gordon did other than hang around Teacher’s office and occasionally disappear on top secret missions.
Teacher returned to the front of the room and waited for the group to settle. I wiggled my toes, still couldn’t feel them.
“Kit, I’m thrilled to welcome you to your q1, the Quest of Judgment.” Teacher sat gracefully atop her desk. She steepled her fingers, brow furrowed. “Why have you been chosen for the IC?” My mouth fell open as I scrambled for an answer. “Why have all of you been chosen?” She peered at the others. “The people in this room have been through the worst of life’s tribulations. You have suffered unimaginable grief, losing the people who mattered most to you via death or rejection, sometimes both. You have been beaten bloody, had your spirits broken. You have lost your battles with addiction.”
I snuck a peek over my shoulder. Most of the students had their heads down, tracing the wood grains of the desks with their fingers, but Raeanne and Sofia were staring at Teacher, unblinking, breath held.
“When I look at your faces, I don’t see victims,” Teacher said. “I see survivors. I see fighters.”
Sanderson beamed at his desk. Ruth nodded. Raeanne whooped.
Teacher began to pace the front of the room, speaking more loudly. “Each of you has the chance to exemplify fearlessness, to assist greatness in others.” She stopped and wrung her hands. “I hope the veterans among you will provide that assistance tonight. I cannot do the work alone. I need every single one of you right now.” She examined us. “We must push forward as one.”
“Hear! Hear!” Sofia said. The others bobbed their heads. I leaned my ears into my shoulders, trying to warm them on Jeremiah’s coat.
Teacher turned to me. “During your time here, Kit, you’ve addressed specific fears with me. But the Quests of Fearlessness are about mastering universal fears, fears that almost every human being struggles with at one point or another. The first of those fears is of judgment.” She smoothed and resmoothed invisible creases in her black wool trousers, put her hands in her pockets. “We waste so much time during our brief lives worrying what others think of us. We fear their reactions to our outfits, our weight gain, our hair loss. We fear what they’ll think if we dance at a wedding or down the sidewalk.”
I nodded, rubbing my upper lip against my nose to warm it, chiding myself to quit fidgeting and pay attention.
Teacher sighed deeply. “But we also fear judgment of our bigger decisions. We worry others won’t approve of our jobs or our homes or our partners. At Wisewood, we believe it’s impossible to reach our Maximized Selves so long as we’re worried about other people’s judgments. Q1 is a way to move past that judgment.”
Though I wouldn’t have worded it that way at the time, fear of other people’s judgments was one of the reasons I’d signed up for Wisewood. I would do whatever it took to be rid of the fear. I vowed to exemplify fearlessness, to make Teacher proud.
She winked at me. “You don’t have to look so anxious. You’ll be fine.”
I realized I was gripping the desk. I let go and forced myself to breathe.
“Better,” Teacher said. “We host q1 in this former schoolroom to remind ourselves that we are all students—yes, even me—constantly learning and evolving.” She paused. “Close your eyes.”
I fought the urge to bolt from my seat and out the door. The rain started coming down harder, bouncing off the shingles. I did as she’d said.
“Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever done. You might have to dig for it, but most likely, it surfaced right away. It’s something you’ve never forgotten, probably a guilt you carry. Nothing to do with your mother—that’s ground well covered by now. Are you thinking of something?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“That guilt is heavy, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, eyes shut.
Save for the driving rain, the room was sarcophagus quiet.
“Now,” Teacher said, making me jump, “imagine removing that guilt from your shoulders. Would you like that?”
I nodded again.
“I’d like it too.” Teacher’s voice was getting closer to me. My eyelids fluttered. “What you’re going to do is share that misdeed with everyone here, so that you may be free of it. Once you release the burning secret, you’ll begin to recover. And with recovery, you inch closer to your Maximized Self. You may open your eyes.”
When I did, her face was up close to mine, her irises glowing. She took both of my hands in her own papery palms. “I know you can do this.”
I opened my mouth, but she cut me off before I could say a word. “Begin by stating your full name, Kitten.”
“Katharine Frances Collins.” My face burned. “One time I got behind the wheel after a night out and drove home. It wasn’t a long trip, but still, I could’ve gotten a DUI. Or worse.”