The Tragic Age Read Free Page A

Don’t speak unless spoken to and then with as few words as possible. Do not volunteer. Do not join in. Get Bs and Cs, not As. Never raise your hand, and if called on, answer all questions with a puzzled expression. Run from the light. Keep to the shadows. Stay as far away as you can from the line of fire.
    It doesn’t always work.
    â€œYou haven’t applied to college.”
    It’s the second week back from summer vacation and I’ve been called into the guidance office. The guidance counselor, Miss Barber, is new this year. She’s young and sort of attractive and she obviously thinks she can make a difference.
    She’ll get over it.
    Right now, though, she has my transcript up on the computer screen in front of her and she has me on the spot.
    â€œWell?” she says. “Why is that?”
    â€œI thought I’d take some time off,” I say.
    â€œIt seems to me you have been,” she says. “Reading and math at a college level by the fourth grade. Over the top on your S10 series in fifth grade. You hit sixth, you disappear completely.” She seems not so much puzzled as suspicious. “Care to explain?”
    â€œIt got tougher,” I say.
    â€œMmm,” she says. Which is a way of saying both something and nothing at the same time.
    She studies the computer screen for a moment and then glances at me, eyes never quite settling on my face, not wanting to stare. One of the polite ones.
    To consider.
    We unconsciously distance ourselves from disfigurement, even when we know the condition is not contagious.
    â€œAny ideas what you’d like to do, any plans for the future?” says Miss Barber.
    â€œI’d like to find a deep cave and hole up in it for about eighty years,” I say.
    Actually, I don’t say that.
    â€œI’m not sure yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”
    What I’d like to say is that planning for the future, any future, but especially one where it’s predicted that by 2050 the worldwide population will level out and start dropping as if off a precipice, is ridiculous. This is because by 2030, thanks to out-of-control birth rates, bankrupt economies, and a global lack of natural resources, fresh water, and food, people will have begun getting very busy killing one another.
    Just another thing to look forward to.
    Miss Barber “mmms” again. She sits back in her chair. She taps a pencil. She looks at me as if I’m a question she’s supposed to answer. “So how are things at home,” she says. As if it’s a casual question and not a fully charged death ray.
    â€œGood,” I say. “Really great.”
    â€œGet along with your parents?” she says.
    â€œMmm-hmm,” I say. Which is a variation on “mmm.”
    â€œYou’re the only teenager I know that does,” she says. Miss Barber looks down a moment and then she looks back up at me and I know exactly what’s coming.
    â€œMay I ask about your sister?”
    Dorie.
    I’m eleven years old and I’m in a hospital room and my twin sister, Dorie, lies in a hospital bed. Even with her hair lost to chemo, she’s really beautiful. She’s pale, almost translucent, unblemished. Like a Dresden doll.
    Point of reference.
    A Dresden doll is tiny, collectible figurine whose body is made of fabric, whose head is made of unglazed porcelain, and whose eyes are made of clear glass. Dresden is a city in Germany that was firebombed by Allied Forces at the end of World War II. A minimum of one hundred thousand people died. Most of them were civilians. Most of the civilians were women and children.
    Sidebar.
    Porcelain is inflammable. People aren’t.
    Dorie opens her eyes. It’s silly how bright they are. Fever makes them this way. She sees me and smiles her Dorie smile.
    â€œHi, Billy,” she whispers.
    Acute lymphocytic leukemia is the most common type of leukemia in children.
    â€œMom and