It's really not about the coffee machine

At the moment it happened I was living in the biggest city in Argentina: Buenos Aires. My uncle and aunt offered me to go live with them, but they lived in another province. For an extensive series of reasons, it was agreed that I would not leave my hometown and would finish my studies at the school I'd been attending since I was a child. It was a bit of a poshy place, I feel obliged to say, but the people were alright. Can't speak for everyone, though.

For obvious reasons I couldn't really stay in the apartment where I used to live with my family, so that was sold off. I went to live with some friends of ours, who pretty much qualified more as family than my uncle and aunt ever would. As for how legal the whole process was, I have honestly no idea. But that kind of stuff didn't matter much back in the old country, and honestly, it probably never will.

I must have been about fourteen. No, wait. It was before September, so I was still thirteen. Our school headmaster had called for me to go see her at her office.

You see, when she did that, it was never to give me a prize. I didn't hang around school burning kindergarten children, but I was probably the worst nightmare that institution might have ever had. After a certain point they noticed I never paid attention, never did my homework, never worked too hard for my grades and sometimes I wouldn't even bring a backpack or a pen... I was so mediocre it hurt, but I would always end up saving my case at the last minute and with the minimum effort. I guess I'd always been some form of an academic-asshole.

Anyway. I'd heard it so many times, that speech. "Amelia, but you're so smart!" and then, followed with a concerned sigh "If you would only work a little you could be a rocket scientist/find the cure for cancer overnight/win the Nobel prize..."

In my head, I would wonder what gave them that impression. How could they know? They'd never seen me do anything. As far as they were concerned, I was the dense motherfucker I seemed. The hell did they know...

However you still felt pretty much like crap, and no matter how much irony you tried to apply on the subject, on the way going up those stairs it would be inevitable that you felt anxiety building up in your chest. It was the guilt of failing society and the whole rest of the ecosystem. As I went up, I thought of every important homework I should have had delivered days ago and hadn't.

I knocked on the door but forgot to wait for a "Come in" from inside. I would often forget that asking for permission wasn't just a mere modality. However, luckily for me, the mistake passed unmarked.

There was another man in the room whom I hadn't really seen before. The headmaster herself had her face focused on her computer screen and signaled me to wait for her to write a one last paragraph. I had spent so much time in that office I could understand whole sentences from single hand movements.

Finally she called my name, smilingly, of course. She would always smile before a death sentence. For shyness reasons I had hoped the stranger had been gone by the time I'd be told off, but I guessed you can't always get what you want.

"Hey, Amelia, how are you doing?" She told me as I sat down.

Trick question. Why I hate formalities.

"Fine, thanks." I replied almost whispering and, as my natural state commanded, suspiciously so. I forgot to ask her how she was doing, but I guessed it would have been as legit as a discussion about the weather. I just wanted to get told off and be gone.

"You know why I called you in today?"

My math results? The history research paper? The coffee machine fraud?

"No." Yet another formality.

She smiled and jokingly said:

"It's not about the coffee machine."

Damn... Every. Time.

She saw I was now genuinely confused so she finally found a will to explain:

"Amelia, I'd like to introduce to you to Mr. Quillsh Wammy."

"Nice to meet you." I heard from my back.

I turned to see an extended hand, which I automatically shook with yet more suspicion. These two were cooking something. And at the time, it seemed more like meth than cookies.

I learned that Mr. Wammy came from Britain, but that was probably the only palpable piece of information I was given about him in the first 20 minutes of introduction. Whatever they seemed to be postponing, the woman could talk.

I submerged into my inner world, feeding them with the illusion that I was listening, periodically using a few "uh-huh"s and "I see"s. That was until the word "orphanage" came into question, and my head went from "Oh"s to "Eh...?"

"Sorry, what did you say about an orphanage?" That's the problem with entering the 'selective listening' mode. If eventually, a conversation that ranked "3" in relevance suddenly becomes, at least, a "7", your cover blows off.

She cleared her throat, fiddled her thumbs and tried again. Mr Wammy back there had an orphanage.

"Oh..." Good for him?

Did she want me to write an article about that? There hadn't been a single record of my visits to her office that didn't end up with me having to write an article about something.

"He's got a proposition that I thought you should pay attention to."

He finally took a sit next to me and turned it so that we would be facing each other. The headmaster excused herself and said she'd give us room to talk. I turned to him and forced myself to look at him in the eye as to signal attention. His eyes carried exactly what you'd expect to find in the look someone who's wise and calm. Feeling unworthy of their attention, I looked away but listened.

"Listen, Amelia..."

I liked the way he talked. It was smooth. Not a hint of a condescending manner, as I'd noticed among other adults I'd talked to. It was what you'd hope to recognize as respect, I suppose.

I sat and listened without uttering a word. I really listened. He kept talking about an education more suiting for someone like me.

"What do you mean with 'someone like me'?" I finally interrupted.

He smiled to himself.

He went on about how, sometimes, some children were born that did not seem to quite find their place.

I don't want to bore you with them, but he expanded on a couple characteristics that gave me, for the first time in my existence, a feeling of identification. Of being understood without a single question mark. And when he spoke of how he had found a place for them, a place for us, I knew that wherever this place was, I needed to be there. You see, I had chosen before I even knew what it was that would be proposed to me. Before I knew what I was saying yes to.

Maybe I should have done the connection myself, but it was quite likely that I had not wanted to do so. After the whole Neverland speech, he came less relative about the things he was saying. It was revealed that his orphanage was in Britain and that he wanted me to come with him.

By the time I'd noticed, we'd probably been silent for about ten minutes.

Because... So what if I actually did leave with him? It was stated very clearly that, chances were, I'd never come back to the life I knew again. Why? It was not said. How was that a decision for thirteen-year-olds to make?

I imagined saying goodbye my best friend, to the family I was living with, which I loved. Saying goodbye, but, forever. I thought of it really hard and I kept thinking of it. I was sacred, because I kept thinking I wouldn't be able to do it. Or worse. That I actually would.

"Mr. Wammy," I snapped back "I find it specially hard to believe that my school would have called you thinking they had one of those weird... special children for your orphanage."

He frowned when I said "weird" so I changed it for special. Which means weird, if you ask me.

He chuckled slightly nonetheless.

"Your school didn't call me. I came here looking for you."

"Why? Did you know my parents?"

"No."

"Then how are we connected? How did you know of me?"

Picture the following: all of your life, you've felt misplaced. After your parents die before what you thought should have been their 300th birthday, some guy, whom you have never seen or heard of before, shows up speaking of having found a place for you.

Vat iz going on.

"Tell me, Amelia" He pronounced my name weird. He said it like 'A-mee-lia' instead of 'A-meh-lia'. "Do you remember Dr. Ruvie?"

Oh. Yeah, I remembered. Co-worker of my dad's, annoying laughter. He was a shrink. I was made see him three times a week after my parents passed away. It didn't make a major change, but the guy was alright I guess. Only he asked too many questions and made me do a lot of puzzles, drawings, etc. I have probably written every psychology test there is and will be. I'm not sure anymore, but I wouldn't be too surprised if between those tests I also agreed to a tarot reading or a live autopsy.

"Well, he is a friend of mine, whom I visit every now and then." He went on "And while we were talking, you came up in our conversation."

I did, huh?

"Well, what did he say?"

"He told me a lot of things about you."

Again with the precision.

"Now Amy," He looked down and serious for a moment. I stopped to think how nobody ever had called me Amy. "I would like you to consider the option of coming with me to the Wammy's House, where you'd be most joyously welcomed. I'll be leaving in 15 days, so you can take as much time as 12 days to decide, at most, since there are a lot of things related to paperwork and other etceteras to handle." He wrote down something on a piece of paper from the headmaster's desk "This is the number of the hotel, and this is my room's number. I'll also add and address at the bottom."

He gave it to me, I folded it and put it in my pocket. I mean, 'Amy' was rather unlatin. Would everybody call me that in Britain? It didn't sound bad... it just...

"Mr. Wammy?" I looked up. He was gone. I stood silent for a minute to observe the room. The ticking noise from the clock's wall had suddenly become quite aggressive.