In the Dark of Night – Part 7
I managed to finish a project last week.
Not a blog post. Not even a Medium post. No, it was an honest to goodness story. One that will be released in a publication. One that will begin the process of accumulating rejection letters.
I managed to complete a ten thousand word project in the middle of a pandemic. More than that, nearly eight thousand words of it were done in one night.
Bear in mind, the usual writing session for a lot of extremely successful authors is anywhere from four hundred to a thousand.
In one long, tempestuous, glorious evening I managed to get more done than I would normally manage in half a month. I managed this despite the fact that we (Americans) are living through an intersectional crisis of multi-generational scope.
They will write endless books about this time. It will be studied for the remainder of our lifetimes. And I, Justin G. Wallace, managed to batten down the hatches and sail my ship across seven thousand words worth of waves.
I think it was temporary madness. Weaponized jealousy is also a possibility. Mostly, I believe it was my soul screaming into the dark abyss of 2020 that I am here. I am writing, and I still dream of more than stocking the same twenty feet of shelving until my body breaks.
However it happened, whatever the results may be, to say that I am proud is to shoot a perfectly friendly word right in the face. With a bazooka!. I feel like I just climbed the Empire State building with both arms tied behind my back. Blindfolded. Juggling chainsaws with the toes of my right foot the whole way up.
I felt euphoria that bordered on divinity. I sincerely pray to whatever powers that be I never experience anything like it again. Pacing yourself is the FAR better option, for the sake of both health and sanity. I could smell colors and taste each keystroke by the time I got to ‘The End’. It was ungood.
Be that as it may, it’s time for some freaking magical nunchucks and goat demons. Let’s do this!
In the Dark of Night – Part 8
“Let me get this straight:”
Mr. Cushinberry adjusted his suit as he leaned over his desk, back ramrod straight as it had surely been since the day of his birth.
“You snuck a weapon into my school, proceeded to play with it like it was a toy, and because of your actions one of my students ended up with three bruises.”
He ticked each offense on his fingers as he went.
“Do I have that correct, Miss Miller?”
I sat there, holding an ancient ice-bag to my aching ribs, praying it would ease my swelling shame too. The bag had come courtesy of Nurse Dieter. The heaping side-order of guilt to go with it was all Mr. Cushinberry.
Officer Davis, finding me upon the floor, had done the bare minimum to get me to the Nurse’s office. Obligations thus discharged, he had unceremoniously dumped me onto Nurse Dieter’s frayed exam table. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, but he looked mad enough to chew nails. Whether his rage was directed at me or at his failure to confiscate my nun-chucks, I didn’t know. He had stormed out in equal silence, muttering all manner of recriminations under his breath as he went.
Nurse Dieter had fussed over me with her usual dedicated concern. After making absolutely (and painfully) certain that it only felt like I had broken my ribs, I was walked to Mr. Cushinberry’s office with far more attention paid to my well-being.
Nurse Dieter had prattled the entire time, asking after my family then telling me about hers before I could even attempt to answer the question. It was the soothing drone of a horse whisperer. I wanted so bad to hug her.
“Yes, Mr. Cushinberry. In my defense, the only one I hurt was…”
Before I could finish my pathetic defense, Mr. Cushinberry leaned over his desk, wielding his finger like a rapier.
“You are one of my students, too, Miss Miller. You are not allowed to harm those placed in my care. Not even yourself. Is that understood?”
I swallowed, loudly. With a squeak that sent searing fire through my ribs, I began nodding enthusiastically. Mr. Cushinberry never frightened me. Quite the contrary, I had absolutely no doubts he would run into a burning building for every last one of us. That didn’t stop him from looming over me like wide-shouldered indignation in a tan three-piece personified, however.
He sat back, re-sheathing his finger as he went. He nodded once, a king receiving his expected tribute. His backward movement continued, his well-loved office chair creaking as it did. He tented his fingers under his nose, rocking while maintaining constant eye contact.
“What am I to do with you, Miss Miller?”
I stammered, a few ‘uh’s’ and ‘umms’ failing miserably to fill the silence. Nothing really useful came to mind. My chest was a howling wreck and the victory in the bathroom felt like a dozen lifetimes ago. I was trapped in the meticulous office of Mr. Cushinberry, doomed to his not-so-tender ministrations upon my character.
Mr. Cushinberry plowed over my stammering as though I hadn’t been saying anything. In his defense, I hadn’t been.
“Here’s what I see. I see a student who causes zero trouble, despite the provocation and occasional garbage thrown her way every day. I see a student who gets exactly 85% in every single class. Yes, Miss Miller, your English teacher is not the only one to have noticed that.”
I shut my mouth, attempting to slouch in my chair out of habit. It sent a fresh wave of agony across my chest, which made me grunt and bolt straight upright. Which caused even more pain, making me shut my eyes and hiss out a breath.
Mr. Cushinberry gave me time to compose myself and find a comfortable position before he continued.
“It goes without question that I will be confiscating both your weapon and the book you damaged. A book which you will repay the school for.”
He waved a hand, stalling my protest before it could start.
“I am aware of you and your mother’s situation. I shall not be placing any additional financial burdens upon either of you.”
He leaned forward, hands upon the desk; once more looming paternally.
“What I want from you is this, Miss Miller. I have already written a letter of recommendation to my alma mater with regards to you.”
My heart stopped, then started skipping beats to make up for lost time. KU. He was talking about KU. It was my dream, a chance to get out of a place where everyone hated me to a city where everyone would understand. KU, where Dad had gone. Where dad met the man who would become an uncle to me. The same man who recommended his city and school when our family needed a place to rebuild. The same man sitting in front of me now with challenge and concern in his eyes.
“I will not retract that letter, at this time.”
The last three words were delivered with surgical precision.
“However, if I hear even a rumor that you have snuck another weapon into my school, Miss Miller, I will shred that letter and not lose a wink of sleep.”
He let the silence after his proclamation linger.
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled. The second thing that you will have to do to repay me for the cost of the book that I will now be required to pay out of my own salary is this: The ACT is in two weeks. I want you to ace it.”
He held up his hand in firm negation of whatever I had been about to say as my mouth fell open.
“No excuses Miss Miller. Getting an 85% in every class doesn’t just magically happen. The only way you could manage getting things strategically wrong is by knowing what all of the correct answers would be.”
He leaned forward, once more wielding his finger. He dialed the intensity to 11.
“I want your word, Miss Miller, that you will do everything in your power to stand out with your ACT score.”
I blanched. He was asking me to give up my armor. I had meticulously built up a shield of mediocrity. Some days it was the only thing that kept me sane. Mr. Cushinberry had a habit of posting ACT scores for the whole school to see. Granted, he would chop the names off, but he didn’t bother to shuffle the order in which they appeared, so we all knew each other’s scores anyway. Last year’s testing results were still in the hall outside his office.
Everyone would know. Karen, Officer Davis, the teachers who hadn’t caught on to my scheme. They would all know. I would no longer be allowed to slouch through my days at school.
Mr. Cushinberry knew exactly what he was asking, too.
His expression softened as he saw my distress at the enormity of what he was asking of me.
“You have to figure out how to withstand sticking out, Miss Miller. One way or another, all eyes will be on you. Nothing you or I can do will change that.”
I closed my eyes, tears falling as I nodded one final time.
He wasn’t wrong. I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t keep hiding if I wanted to make my life happen. It had been such a comfort to remain invisible. I wasn’t ready to give it up just yet. Yet Mr. Cushinberry would brook no argument.
I tried not to let too many tears fall. It would hurt my ribs and my pride to let him see just how scared I was in that moment.
Neither of us were fooled.
Berryfully,
The Unsheathed Quill
