Text and Hubris

“And then I left,” she said rather smartly to the stuffed bear who sat next to her on the bed. “Mrs. Smithson said she looked everywhere for me but I told her not to fib. I was in that room reading my book all day and she never looked in there so she didn’t look everywhere.”

Abigail paused slightly and patted the bear. It’s fur was rough and scraggly. The yellow fabric was worn and and it had only one eye which stared blankly at the girl as she told her tale. Her voice was barely a whisper now. “That was when Mrs. Smithson called Mr. Draper to come and get me.” She grabbed the bear and wrapped it in her arms. Its fur, as it had done so many times before, absorbed the quiet tears that fell from her eyes. “She didn’t know we had run away but she does now. I’m sorry Teddy but we can never go back. No, never…”

She laid down on the bed and looked out through a hole in the boarded window. The moon had risen and its light made her smile. “See, Teddy, we still have a nightlight. I told you.” She slept then and the moon looked down upon the her with its one, lonely, eye.

She moved through gray half-lighted hallways and passed by tall white doors where muffled voices spoke of things she had yet to explore. Behind her, fading in the distance, someone called. They were looking for her. She pressed herself against the slick white walls of painted concrete and looked for a door that offered silence and an empty place to hide while, above her, a large round clock kept a steady time.

The click clack of uniformed shoes on hard floors pressed her to action. It all came as a rush of movement. There was her hand on the doorknob. She felt it turn and pushed. The door opened slowly and she almost screamed as she drove herself against it. The click clack got louder, time on the clock ticking down. She almost stumbled as she slipped inside the room letting the door close with only the smallest of clicks. She turned then smiling in quiet triumph at the straight lines of empty desks. For their part, the desks seemed to regard her with silent equanimity as if they were still deciding what to do with her.

Her heart was beating a bit faster now. It was a feeling she was beginning to like.

“Name?” his voice was rough and bored. She looked down, paused a moment, readying her thoughts. He was looking at her now. “Name?”

“Abigail,” it had been a while since she had spoken and her voice was softer than she expected.

“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up,” his voice teetered on the edge of annoyance.

“Sorry. Yes. My name is Abigail. Abigail Grey.” The man made a series of marks on his paper. She was cataloged and categorized and an old women who smelled of boiled beets and cigarettes took her photograph. It was somewhere between the click and the bright flash that Abigail decided she didn’t like this place and she resolved to leave. The old woman turned from the machine smiling through crooked teeth.

Abigail was already gone.

Dawn entered the room as slices of light that slid in between the wooden boards on the windows. The musty smell of dust, mildew, and neglect filled the air and the slight young girl who had sat up with a start coughed a little as she looked around.

This was not the usual place.

She peeled back the tattered covers, a quilt of light red, blue and yellow patches that seemed to crumble in her hands and slid her feet into her shoes – black, patent leather, polished to a shine – that had been carefully placed by the edge of the bed so that she need never touch the floor. She stood and let the silence of the place hold her. She breathed deep, turned and pulled a small mirror from her makeshift pillow, a backpack adorned with the cracked and faded image of a cartoon giraffe. She looked into the mirror, into the pale blue eyes that stared back at her.

“Abigail. My name is Abigail.”

“I can’t!” she whined and tried to fit the pieces together. “They just won’t go.” The rest of the class knew she was being difficult. She was always pretending that the pieces could connect in different ways and that she could design and build the structures rather than follow the instructions to make the good ones she was supposed to build. This was absolute silliness and they all just wished she would do as she was told. It was to be recess soon and they didn’t want to be kept in again.

“Everything must be in its place,” the teacher replied, “and every piece must fit as it should. You know how they fit. Now do it right. Don’t make me call your mother, again.”

The girl paused, tears still welling in her eyes. When they first called her mother she was glad they did. Her mother had always been there for her and she expected her teacher and principal would soon get a very stern talking to like she did when she made her sand castles in the living room using up the last of her mothers potting soil. Things were different, though. This school was different. “You’re there to learn, Abigail,” her mother was angry with her but there was tremor in her voice as well. Abigail didn’t know that parents could be afraid or else she may recognized it. “Stop playing foolish games and do the work. If you want to be anything you have to follow instructions.” She had tried to argue. She tried to tell her mother that the pictures in her head were so much more beautiful and that she could make things, real things that shimmered like butterflies and moved and danced. Her mother wouldn’t listen, though. “Please, Abby, enough with this foolishness. Just do what Mrs. Anders tells you.”

And there Mrs. Anders was, glaring down at the girl daring her to break the rules. Abigail turned the pieces over and slid them together until a soft click was heard. The class cheered and Mrs. Anders actually smiled. “See my dear, you could do it. I knew you could. You get a gold star. I am sure your mother will be quite proud.”

Abigail smiled happily and took her gold star from Mrs. Anders. She placed carefully in the square on her chart and took her seat.

Today was going to be a good day.