Chapter Seventeen

I stood outside after school, waiting for the van that picked me up every day. I skimmed cars as they drove by and watched the parking lot, but so far, I had been standing there for fifteen minutes and saw no sign of it. I sat down on the curb, setting my backpack beside me.

“Hi,” I heard a voice say and looked up to see Michael. “Your ride not here yet?”

I shook my head, still scanning the road.

“I could give you a ride,” he offered, cocking his head to look at me.

I smiled in gratitude. “Well, they’ll probably be here soon,” I told him truthfully.

He sat down next to me, pushing my backpack farther back so he could sit closer. “Well, I’ll wait here with you then.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Okay.” I went on scanning the road for the van, although I was silently pleased he had joined me. Another roller coaster feeling surged through me and I couldn’t help but cringe at the thought that I was behaving like just another boy-crazy, teenage girl.

“So what do you think, you’re gonna do your English assignment on?” he asked, apparently unaware of my distress.

“Ugh. I haven’t even thought about it,” I replied, feeling myself relax with the topic. “What about you?”

“Dunno yet. I could help you think of something if you want.”

I considered his offer. I had no idea what to write about and Michael actually could be of some help. I looked into his eyes. “Okay, thanks.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes and soon the parking lot was empty. Still no sign of the van.

“I could just give you a ride,” Michael offered again.

“Well...I guess...” I said, giving one last glance to the road before turning in his direction.

“Good.” He stood, offering me his hand.

I let him pull me up, although the feeling of his hand on mine was strange, sending a shiver up my arm. We walked across the parking lot to his car and I climbed in the passenger side. “Same place right?” he asked and I nodded. He started the car and we were on our way.

“So, any ideas for my paper?” I asked him, feeling that this subject was overused, but thinking of no alternative conversation starter.

“Hmmm ... well, have you taken Miss Clark’s advice?”

I turned away. Ugh. Had I ever. I had spent hours staring into my eyes through a mirror and nothing could convince me there was anything there worthy to be called a soul. And how could I write something from deep within my soul, as Miss Clark had put it, if I didn’t even have one in the first place?

“Come on, you’re going to be a writer someday, remember? High school English class has to be a piece of cake,” Michael said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I laughed. “You were the one who picked that certain career for me.”

“Well then, what do you really want to be?”

I paused. What did I want to be? Did it even matter? There was a huge barrier between what I wanted and what I was forced to accept. Would wishing for something I could never have just be a waste of my time? But being a writer did sound like fun...

“I’d like to be a writer,” I confessed.

Michael beamed proudly. “See? I knew it.”

“But that still doesn’t solve my problem for the paper,” I replied, staring out the window at the sidewalk whizzing by. “I tried to take Miss Clark’s advice, about the soul thing, but I don’t know if there’s anything there to write about.” I barely whispered the last part.

“Sure there is,” Michael told me. “What do you really care about? That’s all she wants us to write about. I don’t know ... something you really want, something you’re feeling, something you admire ... stuff like that.”

Suddenly, I was filled with a sensation of happiness. I wasn’t sure why. All of a sudden, I wanted to smile at him, talk to him, just sit in his car. I liked talking to him; I liked how he talked to me. I liked how he encouraged me and I liked his smile. And he did have really nice eyes...and hair...

Oh gosh. What was wrong with me? This was not normal. Was it? I was a machine. Everything inside of me worked rationally. Right? I felt my old self slipping away and I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to hold onto her or let her go.

“Drew?” Michael asked, pulling me out of my frenzied thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Where do I turn again?”

I pointed at the road sign and Michael took the turn.

“So, what are you writing your paper on?” I asked him.

He shrugged.

“Well how can you offer to help me think something up when you can’t even think of something for yourself?”

He gave me a guilty look. “Dunno. Maybe ‘cause helping you is much more fun.”

Just then I noticed we were only a few blocks from the Institution. “Stop here,” I said quickly.

He stopped the car. “Which house is yours?” he asked.

“I can walk from here,” I told him.

“No, its fine, I can drive you,” he urged and started to drive forward again. I knew he would see the Institution if he drove only a few more seconds and I panicked.

“Stop,” I said, and when he didn’t react I opened my door.

Michael slammed on the brakes. “What are you doing?”

“I need to get out here,” I said, climbing out before he could continue driving.

“Um ... okay,” he replied uncertainly.

I grabbed my bag. “Thanks so much for the ride.”

He looked confused. “See you at school.”

“Bye.” I stepped back and watched him drive away.

I walked up to the Institution, but as soon as I passed through the doors I was confronted by a man I recognized to be David, my driver. “Where were you?” he demanded.

“Where were you?”

“Okay, I was a little late,” he admitted.

“More like thirty minutes. Someone offered me a ride so I took it. I didn’t know where you were.”

“Fine. But you still need to tell me your observations,” he said, beckoning for me to follow him.

We reached the recording device lying on the table and I began to recount my day.

Afterwards, I hurried into my room to work on the paper. I sat on my bed thinking for nearly twenty minutes, wondering what to do. What Michael had suggested had helped, but I was still unsure. What did I care about? What did I truly care about? I cared about my friends at the Institution. I cared about my friends at school. I cared about things that happened to me and what I would do every day. But something else came to my mind. It seemed so small, so simple. So insignificant. It was nothing more than a dream. Michael had talked to me about it like it was something he knew was truly possible, but I knew better. He made it sound so easy, so fun. It was a chance at a real life.

I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to express what I was feeling, not just be told what I was, what I was to do, and the way things were. I wanted to write, and I wanted people to listen. I wanted to pour out my heart and soul into words on a piece of paper. I wanted to express my soul in writing. In a way, I wanted to prove that there was a soul inside of me; that I wasn’t just a metal shell filled with wires and databases and programs. I wanted to prove I was real, to others and to myself.

That’s what I truly cared about.