Chapter 3
Again, I awoke due to another searing headache. It screamed for attention until I finally got up and took a shower. After that I went downstairs, I ate my cereal, took some pills that were supposed to lighten my headaches, and grabbed my backpack. "I thought you weren't going to school," said Ian as he grabbed his backpack. "No, I'm goin'," I replied as if he had just heard wrong. "Didn't mom and dad say they thought you should stay home today?" "Yeah, but," I thought for a second. "I don't want to stay home, and all I would do is sleep all day and do nothing, and I've been doin' that all week." "So, you need to stay home," Ian said he as if he was speaking in Laymen's terms. "No, I won't need to sleep. I've slept enough this month to last a year. Plus," I added, not letting him get a word in, "if I need to sleep, I can just go to the nurse's office. She can call mom, and then I'll come home." "Fine," said Ian, knowing he wasn't going to win this one, "get in the truck, but if you even start getting a headache, I want you to go and ask to go home."
Ian and I rode to school, not even bothering to tell my mom that I wasn't home. We arrived at the school, only to find an ambulance with its lights flashing as paramedics carried a covered stretcher from the main entrance. "What happened?" I asked my friend, Ryan, as the stretcher neared the ambulance. "Well, I've heard a bunch of stories, but they all say that Ms. Reeds was found dead in a janitor's closet," answered Ryan. "The funny thing is, I saw her in her room about a minute before whoever it was found her in the closet." Ms. Reeds was my first period English teacher-not to mention, my favorite teacher. This news was one of those things that made you rethink the whole year. For a second, I just couldn't believe it, but almost as quickly as that unbelief flew by, a sudden feeling of deep sorrow came. She had always been a bit strange, but I could think of no reason anyone would want her dead. Things like these weren't that uncommon now a day. It all had started about the time that the new mutant race was starting to become public knowledge. My mom still had a clipping of that headline story at home, in her desk. She always told my father who had tried to get her to throw it out that one day it would be worth a lot. "One of these days Kurt, that article is gonna change our life. We'll be as rich as possible. Just think about it, we'll retire early and get that sailboat you always wanted," my mom had told my father. "One of these days." She was right. That one article made such an impact on the world already. You can't even turn the TV on without hearing about a new mutant found in some suburb. People went hysterical, wondering who might be a mutant, what the president knew before the report was public knowledge. "The world is an ever changing place," he had announced on all the news stations the night of the article's release. "We will never know everything without something new coming into the spotlight." "A new kind of human is upon us," read the article, A New Kind of Human. "Mothers and Fathers, be afraid for your children. Husbands and Wives, fear for your spouses. Children, pray for you parents. A new kind of human is upon us," it repeated in a kind of poetic fashion.
"No longer classified evidence tells us that the human gene pool is spawning a kind of mutant. These so called 'mutants' are the work of a new gene dubbed the 'X-gene.' The 'X-gene' can turn a human into a ruthless
killing machine. It can give unique gifts that invade privacy, have strange advantages over the typical person, and can be used to harm, even
kill, a person!" The article continued describing; sounding like it was from first hand experience, that people shouldn't trust anyone. It went on and on about how these mutants can do so many wrong things. People didn't know what to think about it at first, or at least I didn't. Ever since A New Kind of Human people were going crazy wondering who was human and who wasn't. The head of the Loudoun County School Board had described it as, "taking out the rotten fruit," when they had voted to ban any found mutant from our school system. It had become a nation-wide witch hunt. Aside from the daily mutants found, was the killing of any supposed mutant. Unfortunately, a good many of the killed 'mutants' were found to be regular people who had no X-gene. It isn't like I had no view point on these tortures of mutants, but when issues like these come about, I've learned that you should keep to yourself and find others view points so that you know how to approach the matter with them. "Does this mean we don't have school today," I asked Ryan as we neared our lockers. "I heard that some of the teachers wanted to not have school today, and the police chief advised the superintendent to cancel school, but he wouldn't have it. I heard he got all mad about the idea and went around saying that Ms. Reeds had always been a bit quirky and how he thought she had more than one skeleton in her closet; if you know what I mean." All I could say was, "Hmm," and wait for my friend to start rambling on as I could always count on him to do so well. "I don't think he's wrong either. That woman was always a bit secretive. She always seemed to be ready for anything, like she was just waiting for someone to jump in through the window-like she was waiting for a mutant to just come in! Wait a sec! Wasn't she your first period teacher today?" "Yeah?" I answered, waiting for him to give me some incite into his too fast mind. A moment went by and he finally opened his mouth. "Well, you can find out what happened. Maybe you can find out what happened to her." This is why Ryan was always embarrassing me. He may have been a great friend but other than his way of always being uncomfortable in the quiet, he had this way of being naïve-even to his own thoughts. "I'll see," I answered trying to muse him. Our conversation continued and drifted until the bell rang. I went to the library, which they had announced was the replacement room for the late Ms. Reeds' classes. Expecting to see the principal or some other familiar face, I found what appeared to be a substitute teacher. How they had found a substitute at such sudden notice was beyond me. Later I found out how. As the remainder of my class wandered in, the teacher started, "My name is Ms. Joubert." She spelled the name on a dry erase board that had been wheeled into the room, then continued, "Now, I'm sorry about your Ms. Reeds, but I'm here for the next four weeks of school and I have to get to know what you know and what you don't!" She paced in front of the board as her voice grew louder and louder to the librarian's dismay. "Now for role." She took a clip board from the table in front of her, and started role more intensely than any other teacher I had heard. "Rodney Aldamos.Alexis Alphie. Timothy Biggins,"-She pronounced every word perfectly and with what seemed like mounting anticipation and the end of her rope-"Andrea Bakers.Harry Bedwin.Sarah Bordeaux.Roger Budby." She breathed a sigh of relief and under her breath, said what sounded like, "Finally, the C's. Andrew Calloway.Cassidy Carlson.Mariah Chadwick.Rachel Chee.Kaitlyn Cobble.Edward Cornwall.Dane Cozens." She smiled a so-that's- him smile and continued with role. What was it? What did I do? I could see into her beady eyes, those illusive yet inescapable eyes that knew something. They were that easy to read. She knew something-something that I didn't, and that's what agitated me. I was anxious to know whatever it was that she knew but didn't let it show. I knew it wouldn't do any good to entertain the thought, but I had to be ahead of everyone else; whether it be in knowledge or skill. In analyzing her, I might be able to find more about her than she knew about me, thus finding a link. After all, I did have the remaining four weeks of school to find out as much about her as I could. She was the essence of every stubborn teacher. With a face like a mule and the smile of one too, she had a face only teachers have. Blunt and flat footed she scowered the area, readying her class. She had a plain grey suit, thick glasses, and the scowl of a bull dog with eyes that seemed to pierce an iridescent, unrevealed color. "From what I can tell from the late Ms. Reeds' notes, you were reading 'The Tell-Tale Heart' in groups. Is that right.eh," she said, looking at her clipboard. ".Dane." "I don't know Ma'am. I wasn't here yesterday." "Oh, well Andrew, did you read it in groups yesterday." "Yep," he answered lifting his head from its pillow made of his two folded arms. "Thank you, but if you would be so kind, would you wipe off your string of drool and wake up!" commanded she, stretching her long neck. Slightly red, Andrew erected his back and wiped off his mouth. "Thank you," she said. "Would you all now get in your groups?" After everyone else got into their pairs, I found that I was the only one absent the day before. "Ma'am, what should I do?"
She looked up from her lap-top and gave me one of those not-now looks, but it seemed that she was almost expecting it all the same.
Closing the lap-top, she smiled and went on, "Why don't you just read it on your own. Then you'll only be responsible for half a project."
Somewhat amazed and gracious, I looked at her. Now that I realized it, any other teacher would just assign a group of three, but this.this was no ordinary teacher. That was apparent. She was proving to be careless and more involved with her laptop than a teacher that was strict and stubborn.
I went back to my table and began to read alone.
"True!-nervous-very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses-not destroyed-not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in Hell. How, then, am I mad: Hearken! And observe how healthily-how calmly I can tell you the whole story," read the first paragraph and the character became steadily more naïve to his own thoughts and even more analytical. I had read the story before, and I considered it the best short story out there. No author can surpass Edgar Allan Poe's brilliance.
I finished the story again, picked up the project's papers, and began on them while Ms. Joubert seemed to be talking to someone through her laptop. The bell rang just as I finished the last question on the first page of the project, and I gathered my things and went to my next class, French. French continued normally, which wasn't a good thing as French teachers are always a bit snobbish and rude, but I survived through her lectures. The third class of that day was art. This, above all, was my favorite subject since I was one of the best in the school and possibly the county. The teacher, Mr. Evans, was far from a good teacher, but the fact that my skills were so advanced from six years of private lessons made his lack of teaching skills bearable. At that time, I was trying to catch up on a still life the class had painted. It wasn't a boring one like we usually got. It was almost classy with a half opened melon, an almost completely melted candle, and a silver plate behind the two, with a raspberry red drape for the backdrop. Luckily enough, the project was a watercolor, my favorite medium other than pencil. I finished the drawing, filled my palette, and began the painting in about an hour. First, I started with the candle and plate, being that they had the lightest colors. Then the greens were added on the melon. I was just about to start cleaning up after the first layer, being that the class only had five or ten minutes left when the blaring intercom spoke into the room. "Mr. Evans?" "Yes?" he answered. "We need Dane Cozens for early dismissal." "Okay, he'll be down there soon." I continued packing, put the painting in a portfolio that I was going to take home to catch up on, zipped up my back pack, and went to the main office. The second I walked in, my mom frantically grabbed my wrist and headed for the door. "C'mon, we've gotta go!" she said acting like I was sinning by not running. "Wait!" I said trying to stop her nails from piercing me, "Where are we goin'? What happened? Shouldn't I sign out? She just pulled harder and quickened her pace. "The doctor called my school," she said referring to where she taught, "and he sounded really frantic like it was dire situation. He told me to get you and bring you to the hospital as fast as possible! Why weren't you at home?" By then we were at the car. My mind was already swimming through thoughts of elation that they must have discovered was wrong with me and dread that it sounded so terrible. My head was doing laps between one wall of happiness and the other of dreariness. I didn't need her agitated remarks of why I would disobey her. The car ride didn't help either. It was complete silence with the exception of her agitated rants. I really didn't need this. It was enough that I was building this appointment up to a possible cure, but I wasn't the type of person who likes the spotlight on him. I just wanted her to stop complaining about me, so that I might be able to hear myself think. After all, I knew that this headache thing was trouble for the family and that I wasn't exactly helping the family save money for a trip to the Caribbean by having them spend so much money on appointments to the doctor, but she didn't seem to think I knew. Eventually, the silence turned into a one-person argument. With lungs that were so perfect for yelling at pupils, she started going into a full-scale holler. "Dane, what's wrong with you? Don't you even think of you poor mother? I went to the house thinking you'd be there, but no! I thought you'd be home, but oh No! Yeah, you were at the school! Usually you don't mind sitting on your can all day, but you're such a spiteful imp! Deliberate disobedience! That's what you are!" At this, a head-ache struck like lightning. I winced at it, but tried to wade it out. "Oh another head-ache is it! Suits you well! You deserve what you get! Spiteful imp! Hmmp!" There was something in those nasty shouts. I knew she didn't mean any of it, but the noise was unbearable with the pressure. Soon, the headache started to get steadily worse like a worsening storm. The first step, sensitivity to bright lights, came while noise seemed to melt into a numbing hum. As we stepped out of the car, I noticed that there were at least ten police cars parked at random points in the parking lot. The hospital seemed a lot cleaner in the day light. Its stucco white walls and brick areas seemed a lot crisper as apposed to the morning of my operation. All the same, I felt a sense of foreboding that other than my headache, something was wrong. Something was different and strange. My mom and I neared the front door. She was still mumbling under her breath about my disobedience as I tried to pin point what was different about the hospital. The doors opened and we walked in to find more policemen inside the building. As I stepped in, the cops livened and they too became more aware. "Is he there yet?" asked a walky-talky. The policeman wearing the device- quickly, almost dropping it-pulled the device from his vest and hurriedly scrolled down what I guessed was the volume, and then mumbled in it. Something was definitely up but what was it? "Is he there yet?" the question plagued my mind as my mom guided me. Who? Was there a burglar in the hospital? Maybe a mad man? Things like these never happened in Loudoun County. It wasn't that it was small county-in fact it was a pretty huge one. It was just.nothing ever happened there. D.C. wasn't too far, and things were always happening there-whether it be a law being passed or a murderer on the loose-but Loudoun, Virginia, it was a rich and populated area that knew how to keep things mundane. As we walked through the grey halls, we found scattered cops standing everywhere. It felt and even looked like we were being followed, but it was hard to tell since the fluorescent lights blinded me in my head-ache. "Oh, good you're here!" announced the doctor that had spoken to me after my surgery. "How are you?" "I've got a headache again," I answered half mumbling-half complaining. "Good," he answered in a surprising tone. "Now, Mrs. Cozens," he said to my mom, "this may come as a shock to you, but there's something you should know." I hated this! It seemed like everything was happening around me, but I knew nothing about whatever it was. I just wanted to ask someone what was happening. I was tired of all these strange remarks, curious glances, unexpected tones, and smiles that said I know something you don't know. Where were the answers? What were the answers? "Ma'amme, I think you should come in here with me," said the doctor indicating a door. They walked in and I was left standing there trying to read there lips through the window. What was he saying to her that he couldn't say in front of me? Suddenly, my mom's eyes seemed to bulge in disbelief. The expression was clear on her face as a tears formed in her eyes. All I wanted to know was what he was saying. I wanted answers- answers he had. I knew he had them. Why wouldn't tell me? It had to be the answer to the question I wanted so badly. My luck always worked that way. I heard clinks and chings and other sounds one doesn't usually hear in such a quiet hospital. Four walls surrounded me with two big brown doors that separated the room I was in from the hallway. I couldn't tell what was going on out there, but I could see the shadows shifting under the doors. Finally, the door creaked open and I saw my mom whose face read sorrow, and pity. What could make a woman as tough as my mom cry? The only other time I had seen her cry was at funerals. Funerals! No one was dead were they? No, we wouldn't be called by a doctor to come to the hospital immediately due to a death, plus none of our family lived near enough to go to this hospital. Most of them lived in Arkansas or California except for one aunt who lived in Alexandria, VA. What was disturbing her? Whatever it was, I was going patiently crazy, trying to figure out what it was. "Dane," said the doctor with a voice of intolerance and disgust. "You.you're." All of a sudden my mom just started weeping on the spot and she put her hand on my shoulder and pulled my ear to her mouth. "Run," she whispered. "Fast!" "Dane, you're a mutant." The sentence was short and simple, but filled with so much meaning. I totally understood it and could connect the dots. It was a straight line that connected the head-aches, the policemen outside of those doors, and the strangeness of my life since these head-aches had started. Suddenly my head-ache worsened. It grew cold, almost freezing. The smell of the hospital stung my nose, and my sight became crisper and almost illuminated. I didn't need this now. Even more, I didn't want this now! It was the cherry on the top of the poisonous ice cream. I began to sweat, partially from trauma, and the other half from instinct. "Now Dane," started the doctor, "They're some men on the other side of those doors that are going to take you away. If you choose to fight, under Virginian law, you are enabling them to use their guns." The doors swung open, and for a second time stood still. Right then, a strange and innate feeling covered me. It felt like every part of my skin was opening, as at least a hundred invisible eyes flew out of my skin. They dispersed, flew around the room as some entered the hallway. At least fifty-probably more- cops were standing, guns in hand, ready to take me to what I guess would have been my death. I had heard of the reports on what happened to mutants-the crucifixions, the hangings, and burnings. What had happened to some was definitely not going to happen to me. I had wanted to know what was happening. Now I knew.
Again, I awoke due to another searing headache. It screamed for attention until I finally got up and took a shower. After that I went downstairs, I ate my cereal, took some pills that were supposed to lighten my headaches, and grabbed my backpack. "I thought you weren't going to school," said Ian as he grabbed his backpack. "No, I'm goin'," I replied as if he had just heard wrong. "Didn't mom and dad say they thought you should stay home today?" "Yeah, but," I thought for a second. "I don't want to stay home, and all I would do is sleep all day and do nothing, and I've been doin' that all week." "So, you need to stay home," Ian said he as if he was speaking in Laymen's terms. "No, I won't need to sleep. I've slept enough this month to last a year. Plus," I added, not letting him get a word in, "if I need to sleep, I can just go to the nurse's office. She can call mom, and then I'll come home." "Fine," said Ian, knowing he wasn't going to win this one, "get in the truck, but if you even start getting a headache, I want you to go and ask to go home."
Ian and I rode to school, not even bothering to tell my mom that I wasn't home. We arrived at the school, only to find an ambulance with its lights flashing as paramedics carried a covered stretcher from the main entrance. "What happened?" I asked my friend, Ryan, as the stretcher neared the ambulance. "Well, I've heard a bunch of stories, but they all say that Ms. Reeds was found dead in a janitor's closet," answered Ryan. "The funny thing is, I saw her in her room about a minute before whoever it was found her in the closet." Ms. Reeds was my first period English teacher-not to mention, my favorite teacher. This news was one of those things that made you rethink the whole year. For a second, I just couldn't believe it, but almost as quickly as that unbelief flew by, a sudden feeling of deep sorrow came. She had always been a bit strange, but I could think of no reason anyone would want her dead. Things like these weren't that uncommon now a day. It all had started about the time that the new mutant race was starting to become public knowledge. My mom still had a clipping of that headline story at home, in her desk. She always told my father who had tried to get her to throw it out that one day it would be worth a lot. "One of these days Kurt, that article is gonna change our life. We'll be as rich as possible. Just think about it, we'll retire early and get that sailboat you always wanted," my mom had told my father. "One of these days." She was right. That one article made such an impact on the world already. You can't even turn the TV on without hearing about a new mutant found in some suburb. People went hysterical, wondering who might be a mutant, what the president knew before the report was public knowledge. "The world is an ever changing place," he had announced on all the news stations the night of the article's release. "We will never know everything without something new coming into the spotlight." "A new kind of human is upon us," read the article, A New Kind of Human. "Mothers and Fathers, be afraid for your children. Husbands and Wives, fear for your spouses. Children, pray for you parents. A new kind of human is upon us," it repeated in a kind of poetic fashion.
"No longer classified evidence tells us that the human gene pool is spawning a kind of mutant. These so called 'mutants' are the work of a new gene dubbed the 'X-gene.' The 'X-gene' can turn a human into a ruthless
killing machine. It can give unique gifts that invade privacy, have strange advantages over the typical person, and can be used to harm, even
kill, a person!" The article continued describing; sounding like it was from first hand experience, that people shouldn't trust anyone. It went on and on about how these mutants can do so many wrong things. People didn't know what to think about it at first, or at least I didn't. Ever since A New Kind of Human people were going crazy wondering who was human and who wasn't. The head of the Loudoun County School Board had described it as, "taking out the rotten fruit," when they had voted to ban any found mutant from our school system. It had become a nation-wide witch hunt. Aside from the daily mutants found, was the killing of any supposed mutant. Unfortunately, a good many of the killed 'mutants' were found to be regular people who had no X-gene. It isn't like I had no view point on these tortures of mutants, but when issues like these come about, I've learned that you should keep to yourself and find others view points so that you know how to approach the matter with them. "Does this mean we don't have school today," I asked Ryan as we neared our lockers. "I heard that some of the teachers wanted to not have school today, and the police chief advised the superintendent to cancel school, but he wouldn't have it. I heard he got all mad about the idea and went around saying that Ms. Reeds had always been a bit quirky and how he thought she had more than one skeleton in her closet; if you know what I mean." All I could say was, "Hmm," and wait for my friend to start rambling on as I could always count on him to do so well. "I don't think he's wrong either. That woman was always a bit secretive. She always seemed to be ready for anything, like she was just waiting for someone to jump in through the window-like she was waiting for a mutant to just come in! Wait a sec! Wasn't she your first period teacher today?" "Yeah?" I answered, waiting for him to give me some incite into his too fast mind. A moment went by and he finally opened his mouth. "Well, you can find out what happened. Maybe you can find out what happened to her." This is why Ryan was always embarrassing me. He may have been a great friend but other than his way of always being uncomfortable in the quiet, he had this way of being naïve-even to his own thoughts. "I'll see," I answered trying to muse him. Our conversation continued and drifted until the bell rang. I went to the library, which they had announced was the replacement room for the late Ms. Reeds' classes. Expecting to see the principal or some other familiar face, I found what appeared to be a substitute teacher. How they had found a substitute at such sudden notice was beyond me. Later I found out how. As the remainder of my class wandered in, the teacher started, "My name is Ms. Joubert." She spelled the name on a dry erase board that had been wheeled into the room, then continued, "Now, I'm sorry about your Ms. Reeds, but I'm here for the next four weeks of school and I have to get to know what you know and what you don't!" She paced in front of the board as her voice grew louder and louder to the librarian's dismay. "Now for role." She took a clip board from the table in front of her, and started role more intensely than any other teacher I had heard. "Rodney Aldamos.Alexis Alphie. Timothy Biggins,"-She pronounced every word perfectly and with what seemed like mounting anticipation and the end of her rope-"Andrea Bakers.Harry Bedwin.Sarah Bordeaux.Roger Budby." She breathed a sigh of relief and under her breath, said what sounded like, "Finally, the C's. Andrew Calloway.Cassidy Carlson.Mariah Chadwick.Rachel Chee.Kaitlyn Cobble.Edward Cornwall.Dane Cozens." She smiled a so-that's- him smile and continued with role. What was it? What did I do? I could see into her beady eyes, those illusive yet inescapable eyes that knew something. They were that easy to read. She knew something-something that I didn't, and that's what agitated me. I was anxious to know whatever it was that she knew but didn't let it show. I knew it wouldn't do any good to entertain the thought, but I had to be ahead of everyone else; whether it be in knowledge or skill. In analyzing her, I might be able to find more about her than she knew about me, thus finding a link. After all, I did have the remaining four weeks of school to find out as much about her as I could. She was the essence of every stubborn teacher. With a face like a mule and the smile of one too, she had a face only teachers have. Blunt and flat footed she scowered the area, readying her class. She had a plain grey suit, thick glasses, and the scowl of a bull dog with eyes that seemed to pierce an iridescent, unrevealed color. "From what I can tell from the late Ms. Reeds' notes, you were reading 'The Tell-Tale Heart' in groups. Is that right.eh," she said, looking at her clipboard. ".Dane." "I don't know Ma'am. I wasn't here yesterday." "Oh, well Andrew, did you read it in groups yesterday." "Yep," he answered lifting his head from its pillow made of his two folded arms. "Thank you, but if you would be so kind, would you wipe off your string of drool and wake up!" commanded she, stretching her long neck. Slightly red, Andrew erected his back and wiped off his mouth. "Thank you," she said. "Would you all now get in your groups?" After everyone else got into their pairs, I found that I was the only one absent the day before. "Ma'am, what should I do?"
She looked up from her lap-top and gave me one of those not-now looks, but it seemed that she was almost expecting it all the same.
Closing the lap-top, she smiled and went on, "Why don't you just read it on your own. Then you'll only be responsible for half a project."
Somewhat amazed and gracious, I looked at her. Now that I realized it, any other teacher would just assign a group of three, but this.this was no ordinary teacher. That was apparent. She was proving to be careless and more involved with her laptop than a teacher that was strict and stubborn.
I went back to my table and began to read alone.
"True!-nervous-very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses-not destroyed-not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in Hell. How, then, am I mad: Hearken! And observe how healthily-how calmly I can tell you the whole story," read the first paragraph and the character became steadily more naïve to his own thoughts and even more analytical. I had read the story before, and I considered it the best short story out there. No author can surpass Edgar Allan Poe's brilliance.
I finished the story again, picked up the project's papers, and began on them while Ms. Joubert seemed to be talking to someone through her laptop. The bell rang just as I finished the last question on the first page of the project, and I gathered my things and went to my next class, French. French continued normally, which wasn't a good thing as French teachers are always a bit snobbish and rude, but I survived through her lectures. The third class of that day was art. This, above all, was my favorite subject since I was one of the best in the school and possibly the county. The teacher, Mr. Evans, was far from a good teacher, but the fact that my skills were so advanced from six years of private lessons made his lack of teaching skills bearable. At that time, I was trying to catch up on a still life the class had painted. It wasn't a boring one like we usually got. It was almost classy with a half opened melon, an almost completely melted candle, and a silver plate behind the two, with a raspberry red drape for the backdrop. Luckily enough, the project was a watercolor, my favorite medium other than pencil. I finished the drawing, filled my palette, and began the painting in about an hour. First, I started with the candle and plate, being that they had the lightest colors. Then the greens were added on the melon. I was just about to start cleaning up after the first layer, being that the class only had five or ten minutes left when the blaring intercom spoke into the room. "Mr. Evans?" "Yes?" he answered. "We need Dane Cozens for early dismissal." "Okay, he'll be down there soon." I continued packing, put the painting in a portfolio that I was going to take home to catch up on, zipped up my back pack, and went to the main office. The second I walked in, my mom frantically grabbed my wrist and headed for the door. "C'mon, we've gotta go!" she said acting like I was sinning by not running. "Wait!" I said trying to stop her nails from piercing me, "Where are we goin'? What happened? Shouldn't I sign out? She just pulled harder and quickened her pace. "The doctor called my school," she said referring to where she taught, "and he sounded really frantic like it was dire situation. He told me to get you and bring you to the hospital as fast as possible! Why weren't you at home?" By then we were at the car. My mind was already swimming through thoughts of elation that they must have discovered was wrong with me and dread that it sounded so terrible. My head was doing laps between one wall of happiness and the other of dreariness. I didn't need her agitated remarks of why I would disobey her. The car ride didn't help either. It was complete silence with the exception of her agitated rants. I really didn't need this. It was enough that I was building this appointment up to a possible cure, but I wasn't the type of person who likes the spotlight on him. I just wanted her to stop complaining about me, so that I might be able to hear myself think. After all, I knew that this headache thing was trouble for the family and that I wasn't exactly helping the family save money for a trip to the Caribbean by having them spend so much money on appointments to the doctor, but she didn't seem to think I knew. Eventually, the silence turned into a one-person argument. With lungs that were so perfect for yelling at pupils, she started going into a full-scale holler. "Dane, what's wrong with you? Don't you even think of you poor mother? I went to the house thinking you'd be there, but no! I thought you'd be home, but oh No! Yeah, you were at the school! Usually you don't mind sitting on your can all day, but you're such a spiteful imp! Deliberate disobedience! That's what you are!" At this, a head-ache struck like lightning. I winced at it, but tried to wade it out. "Oh another head-ache is it! Suits you well! You deserve what you get! Spiteful imp! Hmmp!" There was something in those nasty shouts. I knew she didn't mean any of it, but the noise was unbearable with the pressure. Soon, the headache started to get steadily worse like a worsening storm. The first step, sensitivity to bright lights, came while noise seemed to melt into a numbing hum. As we stepped out of the car, I noticed that there were at least ten police cars parked at random points in the parking lot. The hospital seemed a lot cleaner in the day light. Its stucco white walls and brick areas seemed a lot crisper as apposed to the morning of my operation. All the same, I felt a sense of foreboding that other than my headache, something was wrong. Something was different and strange. My mom and I neared the front door. She was still mumbling under her breath about my disobedience as I tried to pin point what was different about the hospital. The doors opened and we walked in to find more policemen inside the building. As I stepped in, the cops livened and they too became more aware. "Is he there yet?" asked a walky-talky. The policeman wearing the device- quickly, almost dropping it-pulled the device from his vest and hurriedly scrolled down what I guessed was the volume, and then mumbled in it. Something was definitely up but what was it? "Is he there yet?" the question plagued my mind as my mom guided me. Who? Was there a burglar in the hospital? Maybe a mad man? Things like these never happened in Loudoun County. It wasn't that it was small county-in fact it was a pretty huge one. It was just.nothing ever happened there. D.C. wasn't too far, and things were always happening there-whether it be a law being passed or a murderer on the loose-but Loudoun, Virginia, it was a rich and populated area that knew how to keep things mundane. As we walked through the grey halls, we found scattered cops standing everywhere. It felt and even looked like we were being followed, but it was hard to tell since the fluorescent lights blinded me in my head-ache. "Oh, good you're here!" announced the doctor that had spoken to me after my surgery. "How are you?" "I've got a headache again," I answered half mumbling-half complaining. "Good," he answered in a surprising tone. "Now, Mrs. Cozens," he said to my mom, "this may come as a shock to you, but there's something you should know." I hated this! It seemed like everything was happening around me, but I knew nothing about whatever it was. I just wanted to ask someone what was happening. I was tired of all these strange remarks, curious glances, unexpected tones, and smiles that said I know something you don't know. Where were the answers? What were the answers? "Ma'amme, I think you should come in here with me," said the doctor indicating a door. They walked in and I was left standing there trying to read there lips through the window. What was he saying to her that he couldn't say in front of me? Suddenly, my mom's eyes seemed to bulge in disbelief. The expression was clear on her face as a tears formed in her eyes. All I wanted to know was what he was saying. I wanted answers- answers he had. I knew he had them. Why wouldn't tell me? It had to be the answer to the question I wanted so badly. My luck always worked that way. I heard clinks and chings and other sounds one doesn't usually hear in such a quiet hospital. Four walls surrounded me with two big brown doors that separated the room I was in from the hallway. I couldn't tell what was going on out there, but I could see the shadows shifting under the doors. Finally, the door creaked open and I saw my mom whose face read sorrow, and pity. What could make a woman as tough as my mom cry? The only other time I had seen her cry was at funerals. Funerals! No one was dead were they? No, we wouldn't be called by a doctor to come to the hospital immediately due to a death, plus none of our family lived near enough to go to this hospital. Most of them lived in Arkansas or California except for one aunt who lived in Alexandria, VA. What was disturbing her? Whatever it was, I was going patiently crazy, trying to figure out what it was. "Dane," said the doctor with a voice of intolerance and disgust. "You.you're." All of a sudden my mom just started weeping on the spot and she put her hand on my shoulder and pulled my ear to her mouth. "Run," she whispered. "Fast!" "Dane, you're a mutant." The sentence was short and simple, but filled with so much meaning. I totally understood it and could connect the dots. It was a straight line that connected the head-aches, the policemen outside of those doors, and the strangeness of my life since these head-aches had started. Suddenly my head-ache worsened. It grew cold, almost freezing. The smell of the hospital stung my nose, and my sight became crisper and almost illuminated. I didn't need this now. Even more, I didn't want this now! It was the cherry on the top of the poisonous ice cream. I began to sweat, partially from trauma, and the other half from instinct. "Now Dane," started the doctor, "They're some men on the other side of those doors that are going to take you away. If you choose to fight, under Virginian law, you are enabling them to use their guns." The doors swung open, and for a second time stood still. Right then, a strange and innate feeling covered me. It felt like every part of my skin was opening, as at least a hundred invisible eyes flew out of my skin. They dispersed, flew around the room as some entered the hallway. At least fifty-probably more- cops were standing, guns in hand, ready to take me to what I guess would have been my death. I had heard of the reports on what happened to mutants-the crucifixions, the hangings, and burnings. What had happened to some was definitely not going to happen to me. I had wanted to know what was happening. Now I knew.
