conversation then?”
She hesitated. “Maybe we could put it on hold—if I saw you were truly making an effort.”
Why should I have to make an effort? Why couldn’t I be an introvert without being treated like I was broken? Why was Mother so set on turning me into something I wasn’t?
I couldn’t bring myself to voice my thoughts, though. Instead, I said, “Fine. Set up the date.”
Article
The following article first appeared in the October 10 issue of the national tabloid Weird World News.
JFK RETURNS!
The town of Lansburg, Pennsylvania, is on the fast track to becoming the paranormal capital of America. Recently the site of multiple alien abductions, Lansburg has now become home to another phenomenon—former president John F. Kennedy has been spotted roaming the streets.
Is he an apparition, risen from his grave to share a final message with us? Was his assassination a hoax, and he’s lived out the remainder of his life in small-town Pennsylvania? Or could it be that the barrier between dimensions runs thin in Lansburg, and Mr. Kennedy crossed over from a universe where he was never killed?
Most important: How is this new phenomenon related to the current extraterrestrial invasion?
It’s been theorized that the sixty-three-foot lava lamp at Lansburg’s town center acts as a lightning rod for paranormal activity. If that proves true, we might soon see these lava lamps spreading across the country like wildfire.
Event: A Plea for Help
Date: Oct. 11 (Wed.)
With the influx of Seekers, media, and myTality™ groupies in Lansburg, Super Scoop was busier than ever. Meaning my job had become considerably more annoying. Did the people flocking to town have an affinity for ice cream, or was Ye Olde Ice Cream Parlor simply located in a convenient spot? I considered collecting data in an attempt to answer that question, but decided I had enough on my plate.
Besides having to deal with increased social interaction, there was another issue with the constant stream of people in Super Scoop—I previously used my downtime at work to do homework. Without those free hours, I was falling behind. Especially in English.
I hated English class. I despised it. It was bearable when we worked on grammar or learned how to write proper citations. But I struggled with English literature. The work became subjective. Subjective!
It was schoolwork. There should’ve been a right answer and a wrong answer. We should’ve read a passage and drawn conclusions from it, actual conclusions, not just a sense of how it made us feel.
Books were filled with symbolism. (Why not just say what needed to be said?) Entire lessons were devoted to the inner workings of a character’s mind. (How could anyone guess what was in someone’s mind—especially a fictional character?) There were meandering conversations about why an author wrote a particular work, and what it meant. (Why not just ask them?)
Worst of all was poetry. The bane of my existence.
During a lull between customers, I attempted to analyze “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.” (A poem by Randall Jarrell, published in 1945.)
“It’s amazing how complicated a five-line poem can be,” I complained to Owen.
Owen grinned. “Come on. It’s not that bad.”
“Mr. Fiore tried to interest us in poetry by talking about music,” I said. “Because all music is poetry with melodies attached.”
“I remember that,” Owen said. He’d been in Mr. Fiore’s class the year before. “Did you do the project where you brought in your favorite song lyrics?”
“Yes,” I grimaced.
I didn’t have a favorite song, hence no favorite lyrics. I did an internet search and chose a random Beatles song. I got an okay grade because Mr. Fiore said I technically did the assignment. But he “questioned the passion I put into it” and felt I’d “missed the point.”
“I loved that assignment,” Owen said. “It made me see poetry in a whole different way.”
“I hated it.”
Owen laughed. Not meanly, but in an oh, Gideon way, the way that said he knew me well. It gave me a warm, contented feeling, and I laughed too.
We continued serving ice cream to people, most of them Seekers. You could tell by their T-shirts proclaiming I want to believe or showing pictures of the American flag on the moon with the words It never happened.
When the bell on the door chimed again, I glanced over, expecting another conspiracy theorist. Instead, I almost dropped my ice cream scoop.
It was J. Quincy Oswald. In my workplace. Infiltrating yet another aspect of my life.
“Oh, wonderful,” I mumbled.
Oswald scanned Super Scoop wildly, as if something might jump out at him.