The Girl from the Well

Soon the teacher leaves, and the yellow-haired, eighteen-year-old girl from before takes her place. As part of the lesson, she wheels in a large cart.

“Mrs. Donahue’s still out on maternity leave, so it looks like you guys will be stuck with me for another week,” she says with a grin. “I promised last time we’ll be conducting our own experiments in static electricity, right?” The students sit up, interested.

The tattooed boy is done with his own classes for the day, and at that moment he is passing through the hallway, where he stops to watch his cousin at work. The young woman sees him and smiles, and the boy lifts a hand in greeting. She gestures at him to enter the classroom.

The little girl, Sandra, is the first to see the tattooed boy. The smile slowly slides off her face.

“This is my cousin, Tarquin Halloway. Say hi to Tarquin.” A chorus of “Hi, Tarquin’s” echoes around the classroom. “He’ll be assisting me in this experiment.” Tarquin shakes his head, waving his hands to show just how terrible he thinks the idea is. “Don’t be shy, Tarquin. Class, would you like Tarquin to help out today?”

Another choruses of yeses from the class, and a whimpered “no” from the girl called Sandra, whom no one hears.

The boy does not know which is worse: social activity, however brief, or turning his cousin down and losing face in a classroom full of ten-year-olds. In the end, he sighs and opts for the former.

The young teacher brings out several lightbulbs and dozens of combs. The boy places his backpack on her desk.

“I’ve wrapped all the bulbs in transparent tape because I know some of you are all thumbs—yes, Bradley, that means you.” More students laugh. “I don’t have enough lightbulbs for everyone, but I do have enough combs, so I’ll be dividing you all into groups of four.”

The students troop up to take the lightbulbs from the cart, until only one remains on the teacher’s table. The teacher’s assistant gives each student a plain silver comb. “Now, we’re going to need absolute darkness. Shut all the windows while I turn off the lights.”

This is done promptly, and from inside the dark there are whispers and giggles, until a flashlight switches on. The young teacher sets it at the edge of the table, light trained up at the ceiling. I begin to count. One bulb, two.

“This is the best part. Bend your head my way, Tark.” She picks up a comb and runs it briskly through Tarquin’s hair. The boy looks resigned to his fate. The students giggle again.

“You can rub the comb against your sweater or anything fuzzy if you’d like, but make sure to do it for as long as you can and let it charge up.” Some of the students copy her movements; others all but scrub their combs against their shirts, switching hands when the first one grows tired. Three, four.

“Ta-da!” the young woman says, and taps her comb against the lightbulb. There is a faint sputter, and inside the bulb, little lights begin to dance briefly at its center before winking out, like small handmade fireflies. Five, six.

There are several oohs and aahs, and more bulbs begin to spark and twitch around the room as students press their combs closer. Seven, eight.



Nine.



Nine

bulbs, all bearing strange little fireflies.

“That’s how normal electricity works, too, but to a much greater extent, of course. Otherwise, you’ll have to keep brushing your hair thousands of times just to watch a half-hour episode of your favorite show.”

No

nines.

Not-nine,

Nevernine.

The girl named Sandra eyes me strangely.

“Whenever you do things like comb through dry hair, or wear socks and shuffle your feet along a really fuzzy carpet, you generate what’s called static. Remember what we talked about last time, about electrons? One way to move electrons from one location to another is by—”

NO

NINES!

The teacher’s table rattles, like something has taken hold of its legs and is knocking them hard against the floor.

No nines

no nines never

nines NO

NINES NO

NINES

NO NINES!

The lightbulb on the young woman’s table ex

plodes