Part 15 (1/2)
”Something hurting, Sarah?” Professor Isabella asks. ”Your period?”
She laughs at my confused expression.
”I forgot, that's a thing of the past. You all get implants now. I remember that when I left the Home they decided I was too old to waste one on. So, let me change my question. Is your stomach hurting?”
I am tempted to nod, but instead I try and explain. ”I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, with va.s.sals and serfs at my side.”
”That sounds like a nice dream,” Professor Isabella says. ”Why are you so troubled? Want to go back?”
A sudden shaking seizes me, so violent that I spill my juice on the floor. Abalone leaps up but instead of wiping up the juice, she flings her arms around me.
”It's okay, Sarah. It was just a dream.”
I hug her back, wis.h.i.+ng I could explain the fear I suddenly felt. Terror of returning to the Inst.i.tute, where surely I had seen Dylan. Fear of learning what I may.
My smile is crooked. ”To sleep: perchance to dream; ay there's the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
I pause and Abalone finishes the lines.
”When we have shuffled off this mortal coil/Must give us pause; there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life,” she recites.
”You know Hamlet Hamlet very well,” Professor Isabella says conversationally, with a sidelong glance to where I am trying to gather my composure. very well,” Professor Isabella says conversationally, with a sidelong glance to where I am trying to gather my composure.
I feel Abalone tense, but she picks up a napkin and begins to mop the floor. Perhaps sensing that I am still shaken, she decides to answer the implied question.
”Yeah, I did it in high school. I was the youngest member of the cast. Did lots of little stand-in roles so I was onstage a lot. Heard the play over and over and knew it better than the leads, I think.”
In the pause that follows, I hold my breath, knowing with certainty what Professor Isabella will say, dreading Abalone's response.
”That's quite an achievement-Hamlet at fourteen. Your parents must have been very impressed.” at fourteen. Your parents must have been very impressed.”
”Twelve,” Abalone bursts out. ”I was just twelve. If they were pleased, they were sure funny how they showed it. They wanted me to get Ophelia, y'see, and never quite let me forget that a grown-up got it.”
”Grown-up?” Professor Isabella lifts an eyebrow. ”This was an adult's production? I thought it was your school's.”
”School's?” Abalone laughs bitterly. ”I never had a school-not for long anyhow. I started doing commercials before I was out of diapers. Except for a year when I was seven, I was never in school more than a semester. The other kids hated me for getting what they figured were vacations.
”Hah! That's how I got good with this.” She taps her computer. ”I did all of my cla.s.ses on it.”
”So your parents kept you educated,” Professor Isabella asks carefully, peering over her coffee cup's rim.
Abalone stands up, ignoring that the napkin in her hand is dripping orange juice down her pant leg. For a moment, I think she is not going to answer.
”Educated?”
Again that bitter, barking laugh.
”Oh, I got educated. Mom and Dad read tapes to me when I wasn't even born yet-'prenatal' tutoring, y'see. It got more intense when I was around to work with. They had me talking eight months early, walking six months early, and reading when I was three. The theater and film stuff was just a sideline to pay the rent.”
She finally notices the juice and stops to stare at her soaked pant leg.
”So?” Professor Isabella probes.
”So? I did it all. I was going to be the girl genius, darling of the media. Brilliant, talented, and lovely. Funny thing happened, though.”
She stops and the look that crosses her face is so ugly that I must force myself not to look away.
”There was this big shot, the type who makes or breaks dreams like my folks had for me. One day I was told that I had an interview with him. Just me. No Mom. No Dad. They dolled me up, took me to this golden gla.s.s tower, escorted me to the right floor, and left me on my own. I wasn't all that scared. When you're-young-one big shot is pretty much the same as the others. Parents are what really matters.
”I walked into that office and a slim, baby-faced man ushered me right into the Presence. I went in, took the chair I was offered, and parroted the proper responses to familiar questions. Mr. Big seemed kind, if sorta gross: fat and over-dressed.
”At one point, he asked me to stand up and read a script for him. I did and while I was, he got up and walked around me. I was used to being looked at, but something about the way he did it, staring and circling closer and closer, gave me the creeps. Then he came up behind me, slid his arms around me, and grabbed my b.r.e.a.s.t.s-what I had. I flipped out, dropped the script and everything. I think I made some excuse about needing the bathroom, because Mr. Big pointed to a door.
”I got through there and sure enough, there was a fancy little bathroom. My Mom was there, too, and I was so scared that I didn't even wonder how she got in there. I started to blab everything to her, but she hushed me and said, 'I know you were startled, but he's a very important man. I want you to think about that.'”
Abalone's eyes have grown very wide, but not one tear mars their brightness.
”I thought. Then I went back in there and let that b.a.s.t.a.r.d f.u.c.k me, knowing Mom was hearing every bit-h.e.l.l, she might have been filming it for all I know. When I left there, Mom and Dad took me to a fancy restaurant, showing me the contract that Mr. Big had signed.
”That night, I left. All I took was the computer and I started stealing right off, replaced my old board and...”
She shrugs.
I reach out and squeeze her. ”One fire burns out another's burning; one pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.”
”Your dream stop bugging you?” Her smile is almost genuine. ”That's good. Anyhow, I'd kinda wanted you to know all that, but it's not easy to talk about and I really don't want anyone else to know. I think if my folks find me, they still have legal right to me.”
”Your secret is safe with me, Abalone,” Professor Isabella promises, her face drawn and tight.
I hug Abalone again. ”The rest is silence.”
She hugs me back. ”I trust you, Prof, and Sarah, you'd be impossible to get anything from, even if you would tell. I'm safe with you. Now we have to make you safe from them.”
Twelve.
A WEEK GOES BY BEFORE THE OWL BEGINS TO COMMUNICATE WEEK GOES BY BEFORE THE OWL BEGINS TO COMMUNICATE with me. At first, all there is are sighs and vague feelings, similar to those I had gotten from the apartment house. Within two weeks, it was calling to me in little chirps and hoots. with me. At first, all there is are sighs and vague feelings, similar to those I had gotten from the apartment house. Within two weeks, it was calling to me in little chirps and hoots.
Professor Isabella had been reading to me about saw-whet owls, so I knew what to expect. Betwixt and Between rea.s.sure me that words will come in time.
”We didn't talk People at first,” Betwixt confides when Between is napping. ”At least I don't think so.”
He pauses as if puzzled. ”I don't know what we were talking; all I know is that Dylan started understanding us better and we did him.”
This raises something I have been wondering about, but I must search for words and even when I find some I know they are not quite what I want.
”Speech is civilization itself,” I say. ”The word, even the most contradictory word, preserves contact-it is silence which isolates.”