Mister Spain leaned forward in a friendly manner. He was good at doing things in a friendly manner. After twelve years as a councilor at Oak Ridge Middle School, he could talk in a friendly manner, gesture ina friendly manner, or call security in a friendly manner without even thinking about it. Right now, he was trying to smile in a friendly manner, but that was harder than it looked. It seemed like these kids got uglier every year.
“Now, Becky,” he said. “A lot of young people your age have difficulty adjusting to the new environment when they reach middle school. . .” He let his voice trail off, hoping that Becky would pick up the cue.
She didn’t. Swinging her legs back and forth, the sixth grader slumped in the chair across from him, watching him with bulgy eyes that weren’t quite lined up right.
Forcing another smile, Mister Spain went on. “Sometimes it can make them angry or frustrated that other people seem to be getting along better, and they can try to vent all those feelings in lots of different ways. For example, they may start disrupting class, or doing things just to get attention, or maybe they start hanging out with a group of friends that, well, minght not be the best people to hang out with.”
“They’re not my friends,” Becky said.
“Now, Becky, I’m not talking about you specifically. I’m just talking about people in gen-”
“Yes you are, and they’re not my friends.”
He mentally backtracked, searching for another route. “Well, okay. If they’re not your friends, who are they?”
“They’re my worshipers.”
Mister Spain opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He stared at the girl for a few seconds in silence, then opened his mouth again, and then closed it again. “I’m sorry?” he finally managed.
“They’re my worshipers.”
“Um. . . Okay.” Mister Spain retreated into the manila folder on his desk- Becky’s permanent record. He hid there, shuffling the papers, and giving the occasional “Hmm. . .” or “Oh, I see. . .” as if her vaccination history held all the answers. He stayed there for as long as he could, clinging to the vague hope that she would just go away.
But Becky refused. He could feel her staring a hole through his bald spot. When Mister Spain looked back up, Becky was still slumped against one arm of the chair, swinging her legs back and forth. The sight of her made his stomach lurch.
“Listen, Becky, a lot of young people your age have difficulty adjusting to the new enviroment when they reach-”
“You already said that part.”
“Ah, yes, well, what I’m getting at is that sometimes they make up things that they think will make their lives seem better and more exciting. And there’s nothing wrong with that, nothing at all, but it’s still important to know what’s real and what’s make believe. Understand?”
Becky didn’t answer. She just sat there, swinging her legs back and forth. Her face was blank and her mouth was a small straight line. Mister Spain made another dash into the folder on his desk.
Alright, Roger, pull yourself together. She’s just a kid. Dealing with kids is your job. Could she at least blink, though? Would that be so damn hard? No, no, no, Roger, forget it. You’re a professional.
Flipping through the papers, he found a yellow sheet marked, PERSONAL HISTORY– Myers, Rebecca, and started skimming through it.
“Your mother has some medical problems, doesn’t she, Becky?”
“She’s mad.”
“Now, Becky, that’s a very strong word. Whatever difficulties your mother is dealing with, I’m sure that she loves you very, very-”
She’s mad. Every night she tears at her bloody womb, screaming into the darkness, cursing the day I was born.”
“I see.” Taking a pen from his breast pocket, Mister Spain wrote, Hostility towards mother, in the margin of Becky’s file. He underlined it twice and drew a little arrow pointing towards the words. Then he moved on.
“And let’s see. Your dad’s name is Cuth. . .Cuth. . .”
“Cthulhu,” Becky said.
Coo-thoo-loo,” Mister Spain parroted. “Is that his first name of his last?”
“That is the name whispered in the deepest shadows of the Earth. That is the name that drives madness and terror intot he hearts of brave men. That is the name uttered by a thousand shattered races of a thousand dead stars. That is the name of the Terrible One, the Reaver, the Great Devourer.”
Mister Spain nodded. “So, are you telling me that your dad is sometimes an angry person, Becky?”
The girl snorted. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Someday soon, every man, woman, and child on Earth will cower under his reign.”
“And is he ever mean to you, Becky?”
“No. I am one of the chosen, his disciple. When the new age comes, I will dance by his side to the screams of the damned.”
Taking his pen again, Mister spain wrote, Idealizes strong male role-model? in her folder. Then he scribbled through the question mark, underlined it three times and circled it once.
“Well, okay. But are you sure that he never yells at you, or maybe hits you? I promise it’s okay to tell me, Becky.”
Becky shook her head. “Right now, he’s mostly dead.”
“Uh huh. And when you say ‘mostly dead?’”
“Dead but dreaming on his basalt throne in ancient R’lyeh.”
The gears in Mister Spain’s head freewheeled, trying to make any sort of sense of this. “So. . . He lives in North Carolina?” he ventured.
Becky rolled her eyes. “Not Raleigh. R’lyeh. The primeval corpse city, its stone spires sunk beneath the ocean’s waves eons ago.”
There was a dull stab of pain between Mister Spain’s eyes. Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic. Isn’t enough that I spend my day trapped in a school with seven hundred yapping hyenas? Does God hate me this much? Just great.
Mister Spain scribbled, PARANOID WHACK-JOB! NEEDS DRUGS! in Becky’s file. He underlined it, circled it five times, and spent a full minute drawing little arrows around it. He had started rummaging through his desk drawers for a highlighter when Becky spoke up again.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Well, Becky.” He shut the drawer and smiled at her. In a friendly manner. “I’ll admit it’s a little hard to swallow. What I mean is, sometimes people come to see me, and maybe they’ve been treated badly by other people, so they make up stories to try and make themselves feel better. For instance, one girl may tell her friends that her mom is a famous super model. Another may tell people that her dad is a, um, is a. . .”
“Terrible being of wrath and damnation, with nothing but contempt for the whole of human civilization?” she offered.
“Yes. That. And maybe after telling people the same story over and over, they start to believe it themselves. Now, does that maybe sound a little familiar, Becky?”
“Cthulhu is my dad,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “And nobody is ever mean to me. The passing of my shadow make them tremble with fear.”
“Uh huh, but maybe there was somebody who didn’t tremble? Somebody who was mean to you despite all that?”
“No.”
“Okay, Becky. I believe you. But I just want you to to know that-”
“Stupid Veronica Woodham called me ‘squid-head’ at lunch last week, and all her friends laughed, but they just think they’re so great because they went to the My Chemical Romance concert last month, and Veronica’s dad is like their lawyer or something, so they got to go back stage, big deal, like I care anyway, plus I heard that Heather Lawrence got so nervous she threw up all over Gerard, and the security guards kicked them out and almost had them arrested because they thought she did it on purpose.”
“Well, that wasn’t very nice of Veronica, but-”
“And I tried to summon the Beast of Vhogg to rise up from its pit and devour her, but it didn’t work, and all that happened was the cafeteria smelled like rotten eggs for two days. And they all laughed, and started yelling, ‘squid-head, squid-head’ at me.”
“Well, Becky. It wasn’t very nice of Veronica and her friends to call you a name like that, but maybe you should have tried talking to her instead of. . . Summoning things. Did you ever think about that?”
“Yeah, whatever. Stupid Beast of Vhogg.” She kicked the leg of his desk. “Can I go back to class now?”
“Actually, Becky, that’s what your teachers wanted me to talk to you about. You see, they all think you’re a very unique, very creative girl. And sometimes unique and creative people have trouble getting along with other people. What your teachers think might be best for you is if you were in a class-”
“Oh, God, you’re sticking me in Special Ed?”
“No, no, no, Becky, no. This is just a place where you can be as. . . unique and. . . creative as you like without worrying what other kids might think or say. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“I can’t believe you’re sticking me in Special Ed,” she wailed.
Mister Spain closed his eyes. Why didn’t I just become a hotel clerk like my brother? Wear a little uniform, stock towels all day, not a care in the world. But no. I wanted wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help children.
“Alright, Becky,” he opened his eyes again. “You want to know the truth? Yes. We are sticking you in Special Ed. Know why? Because you’re creepy, that’s why. You talk creepy. You act creepy. And you creep everybody out, including me. There. Are you happy? You’re a creepy, creepy, very creepy little girl, and you’re going to Special Ed, and you’re going to play nice with the other short-bus baboons, got it? Now get your stuff, get up, and let’s go.”
Becky didn’t say anything. She grabbed her backpack as she stood up, slinging one strap over her shoulder. Ignoring her scowl, Mister Spain lead her out of his office.
Classes were still in, and their footsteps echoed through the empty halls.
“Do you know what your problem is?” Mister Spain hissed at her as they walked. “Books. Most kids your age spend every waking moment of their lives sitting in front of the TV. And sure, they’re all turning into sex-crazed diabetics, but at least they’re all turning into the same thing. But kids like you, oh no, nobody ever knows what you’re going to come up with. I had a boy in last week. He’d just read On the Road and wanted to jump a freight train and travel across America. This kid’s afraid of spiders forChrist’s sake, and now he wanted to ride the rails.”
They stopped in front of a closed door at the very end of the hall. A low clamor rose through its pebbled glass. Mister Spain put his smile back on and straightened his tie.
“Let me give you some advice, Becky. Watch MTV. Watch lots of it. It’ll be good for you.”
All the Special Ed kids were gathered around work tables, surrounded by scissors and glue sticks, ankle deep in scraps of yellow construction paper. Looking at them all together, Mister Spain wondered if there was something wrong with the city’s water supply. Every one of them was weird looking, with too-wide mouths and pale, greenish skin. He spotted the seventh grader that the teachers had nicknamed Catfish Boy for the thin quivering tentacles that trailed down from his upper lip.
They were all very intent on whatever the hell it was they were doing, decorating paper stars with magic markers and glitter, and then pinning them up onto the bulletin board in the front of the class. The Special Ed teacher stood nearby, probably just making sure nobody swallowed a thumbtack.
When they came in, he walked over. He looked kind of special himself, rail-thin, with sharp features and slicked-back hair. He wore a pinstriped suit that looked like it came from the thirties.
“Becky, this is Mister. . . Ah. . .”
“Lovecraft,” the teacher said. And you must be Becky. How do you do?”
They shook hands and stared at each other for a long time. Mister Spain watched them just stand there, grinning at each other like idiots. “Yes, well,” he finally interrupted. “It looks like you’ve got quite a project going on here, Mister Lovecraft.”
“Oh, yes. Today we’re studying astronomy.” He waved a fine-boned hand toward the bulletin board. “Would you like to help us, Becky? The stars have to be just right.”
“Cool,” Becky said.
Mister Lovecraft led the girl over to one of the work tables. As Mister Spain started to leave, Becky glanced over her shoulder at him.
“That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange-”
Mister Spain pulled the door shut, cutting her off mid-sentence. He couldn’t imagine anything that she had to say being worth listening to. He was just thankful she was somebody else’s problem now.