Capítulo 6: Test, One...Two...Testing, Testing
"When there's a troubled teen, we won't hesitate to smack that discipline right into him. It is this conventional process that has made Judy's Academy for Juvenile Delinquents the number one program for troubled teens in the entire New York, California, and Florida regions."
My dad jotted down some notes. Mom's finger shriveled towards an object the woman clenched between her jagged fingernails.
"What. Is. That?"
The woman pondered down at her hand. "Oh, this? This is my slapping stick. Shall I demonstrate?"
✎✎✎
Remember how I said that my parents took little interest in me unless I was messing up? This is a fine example of one of those times.
My parents and I had six more one-sided discussions over the course of five hours. Their decision was final. We needed another professional to pick at my Tiny Person and make me normal, just like my beloved siblings. Teams of experts researched hundreds of thousands of the best programs, psychologists, and doctors. This came at no cost to my parents, ruling it necessary for Peterson's (the dude Dad works for) campaign strategy. Devoting time to help a troubled teen get the help he needs? What a saint.
From there, the campaign team set up even more interviews with Doctor Conner and all of the trusted psychologists who I've had in the past. The top fifty were sent to talk with my parents.
Of course, Peterson wasn't present at these interviews. I was.
Don't worry, I won't describe every single discussion. That would be a novel in itself. A much more interesting one at that.
Instead, I'll give you some highlights:
The first ten names proved to be boringly unexceptional. Mary Sue. John Doe. Mary Doe. John Sue… Then, we hit the interview with Ryan Littleman. He was a self-proclaimed expert in experimental brain surgery.
Things got interesting.
"Doctor Littleman." Dad coughed. "Let me be frank. We've interviewed twelve people today, and so far, I've heard nothing-"
"With a wow factor?" Ryan Littleman waved his hand around and said, "Believe me, Mr. Wood, I understand your frustration, but this is not like any other old program. My team believes that all problems stem from the brain. Therefore, the best way to fix issues is to start with surgery. It's a bit of an…experiment. To enhance our understanding of the mind and what makes a youth such as your own so different from others undergoing adolescence."
Mom and Dad exchanged a glance.
Mom swallowed. "So, what is the success rate of these experiments of yours?"
"Well," Ryan the rut elaborated, "There are many variables to be considered when researching cognitive development in a young adolescent. During the most recent experiment, with a shock ray as a stimulus, our subjects had a point four percent increase in brain activity. We found by reducing the means of survival, cognitive development increases during childhood. It would be a great step forward to see these experiment's effects on a human test subject not only for scientific purposes, but for the benefit of mankind."
The edges of Mom's face widened as if the man had performed some voodoo ritual on her. Her pulse strummed against my wrist when she grabbed it.
Dad eyed me and frowned. "You mean to say that you haven't had any human test subjects?"
"Your son would be the first! Now, what do you say?"
That got shot down faster than Lincoln at the theater. There were several other psychologists and scientists eager to get their hands on me. Most aren't worth mentioning, but there were a few others who stood out from the rest.
Here's another conversation…
Mom: We love our little Ben so much. We just want what's best for him.
Dad: And we're tired of the special treatment. We need someone who is willing to crack the whip and get the message across.
Psychologist: Well, I'm no miracle worker.
Dad: But…
Psychologist: That's it. I'm no miracle worker. But please, Mr. Wood, wish Peterson the best of luck in the oncoming elections. God knows he'll need it.
Dad: We have another year.
Laughing Psychologist: You'll need well over a year to sort out this fiasco. Have a nice day now.
Sometimes people can be so weird. They don't know when to shut up. They don't know when to start talking. They don't know when to ignore people. They don't know when they should listen.
That being said, I can tell you what we got out of three weeks of interviews. Nothing.
We were back at stage one. Election predictions for Peterson tore to the negatives, skyrocketing any insensitive thing he'd ever said about children. Mom moped around the house. Dad developed a rash on his neck as he buried himself in paperwork, reworking a plan to make his boss likable again. That's when we were visited by a very insistent reporter.
As you know, my departure from the police station was televised, along with many theories as to how I had gotten there. From bank robbing to kidnapping the governor, tall tales spread like wildfire.
It was all very educational.
✎✎✎
I sat on the couch. My hands hugged my knees as I watched films about teens with cancer. Our living room smelled like sweat.
The doorbell chimed. (Our bell doesn't ring. It sings.) With my parents off on another floor of our mansion, I rolled off the couch and groaned. Tiny Person clinging to what little dignity I had left, I watched my feet stumble for the archway of our door and snatched the metal handle.
If a glass had been in my hand, it would've shattered.
Beneath the round arch stood a woman with an unnatural face and bath bombs shoved up the upper part of her V-neck. She spoke like the feminist lead of a musical. "Benjamin Wood? Hello, I'm Nancy Clemmings. I have an interview set with your parents for the inside scoop."
My eyes fell to her neck. "Inside scoop of what?"
"Well, your father is responsible for the image of Mr. Peterson. If his previously clean-record campaign manager has a deluded background of family drama, I can only imagine the backlash on Peterson. Especially after his remarks on children while in the mayor's office. But that's another story, of course."
I told you it was educational.
I blinked and tried to shut the door.
"Oh, how precious!" she said, eyes scanning the foreground. "Now, if you'd excuse me, I would really love to talk to your parents…"
If you stare at the spot between someone's eyes, it's supposed to make them uncomfortable. They'll start fidgeting, act like you're holding a gun to their head. As I blocked the entryway, I stared at this spot as if I was Medusa and Nancy Clemmings was an unfortunate demigod.
She laughed in quick, high spikes. "Alright, alright, just let me in now."
"My parents never mentioned an interview."
Her eyes widened. "Why, of course, they wouldn't tell you! That would spoil the surprise!"
Now she was talking down at me. Literally. Those heels brought her hairline a foot above my head. "Well. Your parents warned me of your…um…tenacity…but never in my life…Ben, maybe, you would feel more comfortable if you told me how you ended up at the police station?"
I was unaware of her intentions to sneak a story out of me. Still, I had no plans to sob about my misfortunes to her soulless face.
"Ben?" Mom appeared and turned to the strange, hourglass lady. "Oh…hello…who are you?"
A triumphant grin met my face.
"Nancy Clemmings." The reporter held up a hand buried in ruby nail polish. "Please, Mrs. Wood, if I could just have a moment of your time-"
If Mom was a bear, she would've growled. Her hand readied against the hinge of the door. "No interviews."
The floorboards creaked. "What's going on?"
Dad.
"Nancy Clemmings, Sir!" The reporter struggled past my mother and snatched his hand. "I've heard that you're on the prowl for a new approach to Ben's unforeseen psychological issues." (I mumbled something offensive about horses.) "How are you approaching this issue?"
"We're researching candidates," my mother said, "Now, if you'd excuse us…"
The reporter pinched her lip between her teeth. Lipstick smudged against white stains. "Have you considered Dr. White, who recently started a group therapy program said to have found untold success?"
I didn't like the double negatives of that sentence.
Mom actually made eye contact with this lady. "Dr. White?"
The interviewer's eyes glowed. I smelled a run-on sentence coming on.
"Why, of course!" Nancy Clemmings said. "His group meets at Delcoph High, proud home of the Delcoph Wolves. I hear it's a difficult program to find and get into, but I'm sure someone of your social status and importance and relation to Mr. Peterson would have no difficulties."
An exclusive group for the psycho children of rich people in New York? Sounds promising.
Dad cut into the conversation. "Um, of course we've been looking into Dr. White." He glanced at my mother, who shrugged. They didn't look at me, but I shrugged too. "After all, like you said, everyone knows of his success. We were just about to call him…when you came and intruded on my privacy. Goodbye!"
The door slammed on the reporter's face. Mom dialed Dr. White. They set up a meeting, and I was going to be there.
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