Dear Olive

“Charles, are you okay? You look a little flushed.”

Olive leaned toward me and placed her hand on my forehead. Her skin felt cool and dry against mine. She pressed her palm down and then her fingers brushed against my hairline.

I enjoyed the sensation of being close to her for just a few seconds.

Then I moved away and said, “No, I’m not okay. I haven’t been for a while now. I don’t expect you to understand what I’m feeling. I do have an important question though. Do you feel anything at all?”

Her lips formed that stupid fucking smile that I was starting to hate so much. It was plastic, like the rest of her. It wasn’t quite wide enough to be genuine and seemed more like a reflex than an emotional response.

She smoothed down the nonexistent wrinkles in her ladylike skirt and said, “Of course I feel things. I feel happy, focused, and empowered to be and do anything I want.”

“You sound like your reciting an advertisement. Are you experiencing real emotions or just vomiting up words that they taught you to say?” I asked her sharply. My voice betrayed some of the anger and pain that couldn’t quite surface inside me.

Olive went on the defense and said, “I don’t know who “they” is supposed to be. You make it sound like a conspiracy. I wanted this, Charles. No one is teaching me to say anything.”

She went to her locker to gather her books. Her back was turned to me like our conversation was over. I put my hand very gently on Olive’s shoulder and felt her muscles tense.

“My grandmother died, Olive. Her funeral was yesterday. That is what my letter said. I asked you to be there for me and her. How could you though? How could you be there for anyone, when you’re not even here. You’re far away in my memories and dreams. You left me all alone in this world, Olive. I fucking despise you for that.”

She snapped around to face me. Her creamy pale skin was tinged red and her eyes were bright. Olive pointed toward the exit doors at the other end of the hall and said, “Go.”

I followed her orders and left without another word. I walked from my school to the closest clinic. It was only about a mile and a half away.

I opened one of the heavy glass double doors out front and stepped inside. The carpet in the lobby was soft and the room smelled very clean. The walls were all white with several large advertising posters on them.

Everyone in the posters was wearing the same fake smile that Olive did. If I hadn’t know better I might have thought that I entered a dental office. I knew exactly where I was though and had made a decision on what I planned to do.

The receptionist sitting at the check in desk welcomed me. She was tall and extremely thin. Her hair was in some stylish knot on top of her head and I thought she looked too pretty to be working as a clerical person.

“How are you this evening?” she asked brightly.

I ignored her question. She really didn’t know how I was, because that explanation would probably take us all day. I gripped the edge of her desk and leaned in.

“I’m here to start the paperwork,” I said.

Her eyebrows formed a little v as she flipped though the calendar in front of her.

She said, “Mondays are a little unusual for someone so young. Are you still in school, because I can find you something this Friday.”

“I don’t care if I miss a few days of school. I want it done.”

I understand that you’re very eager, but don’t you think -”

“No, you don’t understand,” I almost shouted.

I felt the tears that wouldn’t come start to spill onto my cheeks. I tried to stop them, but they just came faster.

Every horrible feeling I’d been suppressing threatened to rise up and choke me as I pleaded, “I can’t stay this way any longer. I need you to change me.”

The receptionist opened her mouth and then paused. She looked down at her computer screen and then asked, “What was your name?”

“Charlie, or actually Charles. Charles E. Monroe.”

“Oh yes, I’ve found you. You’re actually a bit overdue. You turned 16 in October was it?”

“The 10th to be exact. Olive’s birthday was right after mine on the 21st. We celebrated together at my house and my Nan make us a giant chocolate cake.”

“Who’s Olive?” the pretty receptionist asked.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I replied quietly as I fidgeted with the pen that I'd stolen off of her desk.

“Well, Dr. Edelstein might be able to squeeze you in if you’re willing to wait for a while. I’ll go speak with him and see what he thinks. I should ask what your primary motivation is for this procedure and do you have a method of payment?”

“I don’t have the money yet, but I will and I’ve heard you work with people. Maybe we could do a payment plan until I get the rest of the money?”

“Fair enough, and your reason?”

I wiped away the tears still streaming down my cheeks and trickling off the end of my nose. Then I looked at the smiling faces on the walls again.

I nodded at the picture of a boy my age and said, “I want to be like him. I don’t want to feel scared, sad, or alone. I don’t want to feel anything at all. If you change me, I’ll be perfect just like you. Just like her…”

“Olive, you mean? Is she your reason?”

“She used to be my reason for everything, but not this. This is my choice.”