Merton's ears picked up the sound of high-heels clicking sharply down the hall toward the door. It opened, allowing a tall, smartly-dressed woman with auburn hair and glasses. She looked him over briefly as she closed the door behind her, then walked over to the file cabinet at the other side of the room.
"I understand you've been having some trouble with other students, Mr. Dingle," the guidance counselor said airily, opening a drawer and sifting through the papers inside. She pulled out a manilla folder and walked over to sit down at the immaculate desk. "Care to tell me about these problems?" She was opening the folder now, not making eye-contact with Merton or even glancing at him.
Mrs. Pierce had this way of listening without really hearing. She was one of those people who just couldn't stay still. It was very hard to tell her anything, but when she was speaking, you were in hot water if you weren't listening. The woman was just what her surname implied: something sharp and not to be messed with.
Merton Dingle, freshman and bully-magnet of Pleasantville High, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He'd only been here five minutes before wishing heartily that he was somewhere else. Before the teachers had realized that he wasn't even partly responsible for starting the fights he'd been involved in, they had been sending him with the other boys involved to the principal. There he was either yelled at or assigned detention.
Today, however, a teacher had seen the fight and how it started. Now Merton was in this hell-hole of an office decorated with posters encouraging him to be original and go against the crowd. A living contradiction to these messages sat at the desk across from him, regarding him like a member of the 'Trench Coat Mafia.'
Not that he could blame her. He knew she didn't approve of either his appearance or his interests. Merton delved with relish into the macabre and the dark side of things. There was many a teacher who would regale you with tales of discovering Bram Stoker's Dracula or a book of Wiccan spells before the young man instead of the required textbook. Aside from that, Merton stood out from the other kids in his usual garb of all black, with a pentacle hung around his throat on a silver chain. It was quite toned-down compared to the other goths he had seen. Nevertheless, his wardrobe seemed enough for bells to start ringing in this guidance counselor's head.
"Why do you think the other kids pick on you? Do you feel that it's because of your religion?" she asked, placing a very unflattering tone on the word 'religion.'
"No, it's not," he answered evenly, trying not to let her ruffle his feathers.
"Allright then," said Mrs. Pierce, settling back. "What do you think it is?"
"I think it's because they think I'm weird."
"How so?"
Merton paused, unsure how to reply to this. Finally, he seemed to grasp the right words and answered with, "Well, I like to read a lot --"
"There is nothing wrong with reading," Mrs. Pierce interrupted him. "Everyone needs to read. That's at least ninety-percent of what school is all about."
"And," continued Merton, trying not to let on that he was peeved at being cut off, "The stuff I read is kinda different."
Mrs. Pierce readjusted the glasses on her nose and blinked. "How would you define different?"
"Well, I'm not sure how to define it, exactly . . ." Merton was becoming more uneasy by the minute.
"Just think about how you've made yourself different for a while. Dressing all in black, reading horror, claiming that you're Wiccan and that you can cast spells. Is it just a fad, you think? To be original?"
"No, it's not," Merton snapped, on the defensive. "And I never said I could cast magic spells." So much for not letting her upset him. But she had touched a raw nerve on the topic. Even Merton had to admit to himself that he wasn't actually a Wiccan. He loved the mysteriousness that came with it, and for that purpose, to add a little mystery to his character, he had said he was Wiccan. Merton knew enough about Wicca to know he wasn't even close to being one. But still, it wasn't something he liked to admit to other people, and especially not guidance counselors. They'd just see it as a 'cry for help' or something. Although, the way Mrs. Pierce was looking at him now, he wished he hadn't said anything at all.
She opened one of her notebooks, slid it over the desktop in front of her, uncapped a pen, and began writing something.
Merton didn't know what she was writing, but he knew it couldn't be good. Desperately, he tried to find the right words to redeem himself. "I guess what I mean is, I tend to think about things people don't normally want to think about. I enjoy it. Death doesn't bother me the way it bothers some other people, and I guess the other students have a problem with that."
Merton had been beaten up a total of three times in the past week. He had never gone to a teacher about his problems. She assumed he had never gone to his parents because they had never filed any complaint with the school. Merton always isolated himself from the other students, but according to the teacher who had witnessed the fight the other day, two students had approached him at lunchtime, demanding something. Merton had retaliated with a smart comment, and all hell had broken loose. The teen was a loner . . . an outcast because he chose to be, as far as Mrs. Pierce could see. Otherwise, why would he have such ludicrous beliefs? Wicca, as far as she was concerned, wasn't a religion. In fact, it was nothing more than a fashion statement of Celtic tattoos, séances, and incense-burning. A lot of mumbo-jumbo and hocus-pocus that let kids like Merton believe they could take vengeance on bullies and rivals.
Merton, in turn, was watching Mrs. Pierce as she turned over a new page, having filled the previous one almost completely. He wished she would put the pen down and hold still enough to look at him, just so he could know if she was listening to his answers. "Merton, when other students pick on you, how do you react?"
"I ignore them and get on with my life."
"You don't call them names? Fight back?" she asked. The pen in her hand almost looked as if it had a life of its own and were lying in wait to pounce on the notebook paper.
"Well, yeah, if they call me something bad, I usually retaliate. But I try to avoid the kids that want to pick a fight. Last time I fought back, I just got beat up even worse. And sent to the principal's office."
Mrs. Pierce jotted down a sentence or two, letting Merton wait in uncomfortable silence. "Do you have any thoughts of doing anything to them?" she asked next.
Merton frowned, puzzled. "You mean, daydreaming?"
"Yes. Tell me what you do to them in your daydreams."
She looked at him expectantly, and he stared back at her, his head buzzing with questions. What does it matter what I think about doing to those jerks? he thought to himself. It's not like I'm actually going to carry it out.
"Well," he said, trying to be humorous, "sometimes I daydream that they've all got the stomach-flu and they're not being able to come to school for a week or two. Talk about a vacation." Merton smiled at her, hoping she'd buy it. Fat chance.
"Have you ever thought of physically harming them?"
Merton suppressed a loud sigh. He was afraid the questions would turn into something like this. So he dressed in black and claimed he was Wiccan and lived the unconventional outcast student's life. So he was abused and picked on. He had all the warning signs, and because of that, it automatically meant he was going to take his father's gun to school and kill somebody. What a load of bullshit. Thank you, Mrs. Paranoia, for classifying me as a poor little misunderstood soon-to-be-murderer. It's been the highlight of my freshman year.
He had thought about taking the gun to school once or twice, but the daydream consisted only of laughing as the worst of his classmates cowered in fear before him. He would never actually shoot anybody. He knew if he did, the cops would take him down and who'd be laughing then? In any case, just because most of his classmates gave him hell, he didn't want them dead.
Mrs. Pierce leaned forward, disturbed by his quietness. "Merton, I need you to tell me the truth. Have you ever thought of hurting them physically? If you say yes, you won't get into any trouble."
Oh please, give me some credit for brain-power.
Merton shook his head, not hesitating this time. Mrs. Pierce leaned back, her chair creaking as she did so. The rustling of her blouse against the back of the padded seat was the only sound in the room for a couple of moments, then the bell rang, signaling the next class period.
Thank God.
"You may go," Mrs. Pierce admitted, and Merton got up, eager to leave.
When school ended, Merton was one of the last kids out of the classroom. "Hey, Dingle, think fast!" jeered a fellow classmate, and a paper wad zoomed past his ear, just missing him.
"Just ignore them," Merton muttered, under his breath. "They're not worth it."
A paper wad hit him squarely in the back. Merton did not lower himself to acknowledge it, but the sound of a gun's safety clicking off echoed in his mind. He shuddered involuntarily. The gun had never made a noise until now. It had been waved around, once even shoved into a bully's face, but it had never fired. "I won't let it," Merton swore to himself quietly. "When you lose control over your daydreams, that's when they become reality."
A foot stuck out unexpectedly and Merton caught himself from falling down as he stumbled. He glared at the jock who had tripped him and received an obscene gesture of salute in return. His finger pulled ever so slightly on the trigger. Merton closed his eyes briefly to compose himself and kept on walking. As he did, he envisioned emptying the gun. The shining bullets clattered to the ground one by one, harmless where they lay.
Anything . . . anything to keep it from firing.