I pitied Darren for all the days he’d spent like this. I vowed to never be off task again. I would stop pouring glue on my hand and pretending it was an old-man-hand. I would stop trying to deconstruct Emerald’s perfect hair. I would take a vow of silence and do my freakin work.
Needless to say, when I told my mom how I’d spent my day, she did not take it well. The following morning she walked me into class, a protective arm around my shoulder, and demanded to know if Mrs. Nethercutt had locked me in a box.
My teacher started to stutter that the hyperactive child thrives in such a situation. They could focus without all the overwhelming stimuli of windows and bright colors and other children. They were happier this way.
“Happy?” Mom shouted. “My child was traumatized!”
That was an exaggeration. I was bored, definitely, but it wasn’t like I stayed in there all day. I got out for lunch, recess, the bathroom, and a million other times to ask questions.
Mrs. Nethercutt looked panicked. “It was an experiment.”
I think that was a poor choice of words as far as my mom was concerned. I remember her saying something about the Stanford Prison Experiment, and then she said a lot of other things neither of us is proud of, and Mrs. Nethercutt started to cry. In front of the entire class.
When Darren got back to school the next day, he was pissed at me because the principal had confiscated his little room. But I didn’t get why he was so upset. Why would anyone want to spend their day inside a box?
My hidden room is darker than usual. It’s drizzly and gray outside, so very little sun makes it through the porthole. It’s quiet, the echoey kind that throbs inside your ears, and it will stay quiet since Miss Carlisle took back our dolls today. I pull my peanut butter and jelly sandwich from my backpack and take a small bite.
All morning I’d been planning my answer for the question I knew Adam would ask: Anything interesting happen today? But when I went into the hall to meet him last period, he wasn’t there. I kept waiting, counting time. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty.
Then I saw Dr. Whitlock striding down the hall. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I assumed if you didn’t see Adam, you’d come on your own.” She explained that he wouldn’t be coming at all today, but she wouldn’t tell me why.
I take another bite of my sandwich. My father used to pack them in my lunchbox every morning. It seems like they’d be easy to make, but now they never taste right.
It’s strange how many ways there are to miss someone. You miss the things they did and who they were, but you also miss who you were to them. The way everything you said and did was beautiful or entertaining or important. How much you mattered.
When I was little, thoughts would always fill my head, because I knew as soon as school ended, my mom or dad would want to hear them all. When you know you’re going to tell someone everything, you see your day through your eyes and theirs, as if they’re living it alongside you.
But when you don’t, it isn’t only not seeing double—it’s not seeing at all. Because if they aren’t there, you aren’t either.
“JULIAN?” DR. WHITLOCK’S careful tone catches my attention. “Would you like Adam to join us today?”
While Adam and I walked from my Art class to her office—slower than normal, because he was limping a little—he told me he’d been in ISS on Friday. He said it wasn’t all that bad, since after an hour or so the teacher warmed up to him. “Do you want to go back?” I asked, and Adam said, “Do you mean am I going to intentionally get myself thrown into ISS so I can spend the day playing poker for Oreos with Miss Agnes?” I nodded. “You’re funny, Julian.” He laughed, but he never answered my question.
And I haven’t answered Dr. Whitlock’s yet.
Of course it would be much better if Adam were in here, but Dr. Whitlock is watching me with such intensity that I don’t know what answer to give. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, and Adam probably won’t want to come in anyway. So it becomes awkward, because neither one of us is speaking.
“It’s fine,” she finally says. “I just thought you might prefer it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“He can. If he wants.”
She nods and leaves the office. A couple minutes later he bounces inside and starts digging through the games. “Yes!” he cheers. “Jenga. Wanna play this?” He’s already grabbing it and kneeling down in front of the bright purple coffee table.
“How do you play?”
“You’ve never played Jenga?” Normally a statement like this would embarrass me, because it’s usually followed by some kind of insult. But his smile is good-natured and doesn’t feel mean.
He dumps the box on its side and dozens of small wooden blocks tumble out. I slide off the couch to kneel down by the table like he is.
“We can play Sorry next,” Dr. Whitlock says a few minutes later. “I know how much you like it.” I don’t like Sorry. I’ve never liked Sorry. But I can see she’s trying to be nice.
“I like this game.” I peek up, hoping I haven’t offended her.
She doesn’t look offended. Her smile is as big as Adam’s.