The School Of Self Destruction
Elizabeth - Competition.
The start of a new school year is always the hardest.
It's all the changes I can't stand.
All the possibilities of change.
The constant metamorphosis of the world.
People who decide;
Things are gonna be different this year
I'm gonna get out of here this year
I went home for Christmas.
We sat around the tree Christmas morning.
Me.
My mother.
My father.
The tree glistened with lights and decorations,
the green needles choking in the festivities,
drowning in celebration.
As my mother and father spent the day sending emails to their closest friends;
their work colleagues,
their employees.
They got their driver to deliver me to Saint Jude's.
Mother sat in the front, over sized sunglasses to keep out the world around her.
Applying yet another layer of lipstick.
We pull up at the gates.
"The guidance counsellor said I might be able to stay home for a whole week next time." I told my mother.
The driver opens the door for me, and carries my bags to the gate.
I shut the door behind me, and my mother winds down her window.
I lean in to kiss her on the cheek.
The driver gets back in and drives off.
And my mother kisses her lipstick goodbye.
Before I left for the holidays, the guidance counsellor told me that I was improving.
I was getting better.
I was going home if I kept things up.
If I stayed away from competition.
Have I told you that I don't get graded anymore?
Have I told you that there are no sports for me?Have I told you about the story-writing competition I entered while I was at home?
On Christmas Eve, my parents went out.
I was alone in the apartment.
Not a creature was stirring.
Not even a mouse.
I charmed the old Hispanic maid into getting me the paper before she left.
She handed me the New York Times, and pressed a finger to her lips.
Then she vanished into the subway.
Have I told you that I'm not allowed to read newspapers unless somebody removes the "destructive" articles first?
They cut them out like malignant skin, removing the bad from the indifferent, then hand me what remains of the cadaver.
Inside this body of carcinogenic text was a section on a competition for high-school seniors.
Write a short story.
Win the contest.
Get it published.
Fame. Glory. Honor.
The adulation of parents and peers.
My father had left his briefcase in his study.
Inside, his laptop.
Fully charged. Of course.
I open the lid and press the smooth round button.
The screen illuminates the room, a green-blue glow that warms my heart.
Have I told you I'm only allowed to write under observation?
I submitted it by email.
Using my father's email address, because he and my mother will be the ones I want to know of my victory.
Everyone at Saint Jude's has their own guidance counsellor
I call mine Sally.
Have I told you that we aren't allowed to know the real names of our counsellor?
Every other day I see Ms. Sally.
I'd been back at Saint Jude's... two, maybe three hours before I was called to Ms. Sally's office.
I had a phone call.
Ms. Sally put the phone on speaker.
"Here she is Mr. Hanson."
"Hello Elli. I just got an email saying you've won a writing competition. Well done. Your mother is having something sent over to celebrate your efforts. Anyway, I'm going into a meeting, so bye now darling."
There was a click as the phone disconnected, and the smile vanishes from my face when I see Sally's look of dissatisfaction.
"We had an agreement Elizabeth."
Have I told you that the only time they notice me is when I win something?
It's all the changes I can't stand.
All the possibilities of change.
The constant metamorphosis of the world.
People who decide;
Things are gonna be different this year
I'm gonna get out of here this year
I went home for Christmas.
We sat around the tree Christmas morning.
Me.
My mother.
My father.
The tree glistened with lights and decorations,
the green needles choking in the festivities,
drowning in celebration.
As my mother and father spent the day sending emails to their closest friends;
their work colleagues,
their employees.
They got their driver to deliver me to Saint Jude's.
Mother sat in the front, over sized sunglasses to keep out the world around her.
Applying yet another layer of lipstick.
We pull up at the gates.
"The guidance counsellor said I might be able to stay home for a whole week next time." I told my mother.
The driver opens the door for me, and carries my bags to the gate.
I shut the door behind me, and my mother winds down her window.
I lean in to kiss her on the cheek.
The driver gets back in and drives off.
And my mother kisses her lipstick goodbye.
Before I left for the holidays, the guidance counsellor told me that I was improving.
I was getting better.
I was going home if I kept things up.
If I stayed away from competition.
Have I told you that I don't get graded anymore?
Have I told you that there are no sports for me?Have I told you about the story-writing competition I entered while I was at home?
On Christmas Eve, my parents went out.
I was alone in the apartment.
Not a creature was stirring.
Not even a mouse.
I charmed the old Hispanic maid into getting me the paper before she left.
She handed me the New York Times, and pressed a finger to her lips.
Then she vanished into the subway.
Have I told you that I'm not allowed to read newspapers unless somebody removes the "destructive" articles first?
They cut them out like malignant skin, removing the bad from the indifferent, then hand me what remains of the cadaver.
Inside this body of carcinogenic text was a section on a competition for high-school seniors.
Write a short story.
Win the contest.
Get it published.
Fame. Glory. Honor.
The adulation of parents and peers.
My father had left his briefcase in his study.
Inside, his laptop.
Fully charged. Of course.
I open the lid and press the smooth round button.
The screen illuminates the room, a green-blue glow that warms my heart.
Have I told you I'm only allowed to write under observation?
I submitted it by email.
Using my father's email address, because he and my mother will be the ones I want to know of my victory.
Everyone at Saint Jude's has their own guidance counsellor
I call mine Sally.
Have I told you that we aren't allowed to know the real names of our counsellor?
Every other day I see Ms. Sally.
I'd been back at Saint Jude's... two, maybe three hours before I was called to Ms. Sally's office.
I had a phone call.
Ms. Sally put the phone on speaker.
"Here she is Mr. Hanson."
"Hello Elli. I just got an email saying you've won a writing competition. Well done. Your mother is having something sent over to celebrate your efforts. Anyway, I'm going into a meeting, so bye now darling."
There was a click as the phone disconnected, and the smile vanishes from my face when I see Sally's look of dissatisfaction.
"We had an agreement Elizabeth."
Have I told you that the only time they notice me is when I win something?