Chapitre 3: Processing
Gavin and his parents stood in front of the gates of St. Hibbard's Very Special Academy and stared up at the enormous building in awe. The stone facade looked ancient and weather-worn - a cold, grey brick face broken here and there by dark windows through which nothing could be seen. The gate itself was a wrought iron archway peppered with odd designs depicting scenes of mayhem and madness.
"I thought Mr. M. FIlligan said this was a new school," stated Gavin's mother.
"It looks like a fortress," offered Gavin's father. "Well, Mr. M. FIlligan did say students who went here tended to be bullied by the outside world." He turned to his son. "Nobody's going to bully you here, Gavin."
Taking in the edifice before him, Gavin wondered if the question wasn't if anyone would bully him, but rather if once inside he'd ever be able to get out again. The place had all the charm and vibrancy of an abandoned prison.
They waited patiently at the gate a moment more, not daring to cross the threshold. M. Filligan had been specific about that. Finally, a woman exited the building and came down the front steps. She looked old, with long, grey hair and a wrinkled face. She walked stooped over and looked like she might fall over any second. Yet her steps were sure and firm, and she walked without a cane or any other form of aid. The Mallards waited as patiently as possible for the slow-moving woman to arrive, each one looking away from time to time for fear of seeming to stare.
Finally, the old woman reached the gate, looked up at the Mallards, and smiled.
"Welcome to St. Hibbard's Very Special Academy," she said. "Thank you oh so much for honoring our wishes and remaining outside the gate until you were met." She concentrated her gaze onto Gavin. "It is a sign of good character when a student shows the patience to do as he or she has been asked. We approve of students with good character here."
Gavin shrugged. Staying outside hadn't exactly been his decision, after all, but that of his parents. He had wondered if they would remember M. Filligan's request not to cross the boundaries of the school uninvited, and for some reason was quite relieved they had.
"Are you here to show us to his room?" asked Mr. Mallard.
The woman suddenly let loose with a violent sneeze which she then wiped onto her sleeve before returning her attention to her guests. "My name is Mrs. Gruber," she said, appearing to ignore the man's question. "I am Headmistress here at St. Hibbard's. It is I who has the final say - and responsibility - over your child. I promise you, he shall be well looked after and his education shall be unparalleled."
The woman smiled and blinked.
Mr. Mallard shifted nervously before trying again. "His room?" he asked. "If you'll just show us, we can wheel his suitcase in and get him all set up."
"Oh, just leave it. It will be taken care of." Mr. Mallard opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs. Gruber waved him away. "We have people. Now then, young Gavin needs to be processed."
"Processed?" asked Gavin, not sure he liked the sound of that.
"Oh, yes. We have forms to fill out, questions to answer, the usual." She looked up at Gavin's parents. "Goodbye."
Mr. and Mrs. Mallard jerked their heads back in unison, startled. "I beg your pardon?" asked Mrs. Mallard.
"You can go. You've delivered your son. He's mine now. Shoo. Shoo." She made a shooing motion with her hands.
"Oh. Well." Mr. Mallard looked at his wife, confused, then back to Mrs. Gruber. "Don't we have to sign something? You mentioned paperwork..."
"That's all for Gavin. You're done. Go away. You'll see him at Christmas." She did the shooing thing again.
Finally, Gavin's parents slowly stepped back. "Alright. Alright," muttered his father. "Be good, Gavin. Learn things."
"Enjoy your new school," added his mother. "We love you."
With that, the two adults turned and headed back to their car, Mrs. Mallard throwing the occasional glance back at her son. Gavin stood watching them go, his feelings mixed. He was curious to discover what life with an ability was going to be like, but he also didn't love the way this parting had gone down. It seemed rushed. As if his parents weren't important.
"I thought they'd never leave," said Mrs. Gruber. "Honestly, parents can be such a bother. Come along, Gavin, it's time for you to be processed."
"How long will this take?" he asked, as they ambled back toward the building. "I mean, it's just a bunch of paperwork, right?"
Mrs. Gruber stopped and turned to face Gavin. A chilling grin spread across her lips. "Oh, no, Gavin," she said ominously. "It's much, much more than that."
***
If the exterior of St. Hibbard's Very Special Academy was imposing, the interior was downright menacing. The windows, he now saw, had been blackened, and electric lights were few and far between. The result was patches of darkness broken here and there by small pools of light, giving the entire place the feel of a theatrical stage lit by spotlights. What lay between the lights was left to the imagination.
Gavin stopped a few steps in, his muscles tight and tense. He felt like something was there in the darkness watching him. He felt like prey.
"Keep up, Gavin," said Mrs. Gruber, startling Gavin out of his daze. "I have other things to do, you know."
He swallowed down his fear and quickened his steps, falling into line behind the strange, unfriendly woman. She came to a door labelled 'Processing' and pushed it open.
Inside were a series of cubicles, each with a man or woman seated at a desk furiously typing away on an actual, manual typewriter. The lack of overhead lighting was even more pronounced in here, and each cubicle was lit by a single desk lamp shining not the keyboard and giving the impression that the typewriters were typing all by themselves.
"It's so dark," mentioned Gavin.
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Gruber. "You get used to it." She pulled a clipboard off the wall and peered down at it. "Now then, let's see. Who... Ah! Perfect. Ambrosia. Cubicle eighteen." She handed the clipboard to Gavin, who took it, eyebrows raised quizzically.
"What am I...?" he began.
"Cubicle eighteen," repeated Mrs. Gruber. "Ambrosia. Shoo. Shoo." She made her shooing motion again and Gavin backed away. Satisfied, Mrs. Gruber headed back out the door they had entered and Gavin was left to his own.
He stood there a moment, standing next to his suitcase and gazing at the door through which the only person he'd thus far met at this school had left him. It was as if he'd been abandoned on the beach of a strange, unknown tropical island and left to fend for himself. He felt truly alone, and wondered if this was what the world had in store for him from now on. Would his ability further isolate him from everyone?
Clutching the clipboard, he turned to look at the first cubicle. He couldn't see any number or name anywhere. Finally, he stuck his head in. "Excuse me," he said timidly. "I'm supposed to go to cubicle eighteen?"
"Ambrosia," said a deep, seemingly disembodied voice from the darkness in front of the typewriter. "In the back corner. To your left." He didn't stop typing as he spoke.
Gavin thanked the spectre, exited the cubicle, and went left, dragging his suitcase behind him. Once he hit a wall, he turned left again and followed the outskirts of the cubicle farm until he reached the back corner. He stood for a moment in front of an equally-anonymous cubicle, before daring to stick his head in.
"Excuse me. Is this cubicle eighteen?"
The enigmatic typing on the typewriter paused, fingers hovering above the keys. Finally, a soft, soothing voice answered. "Are you Gavin?"
"Yes!" Gavin entered the cubicle, surprisingly relieved. "Are you Ambrosia?"
"Sometimes," came the answer. "Have a seat, Gavin."
Gavin looked around, but couldn't see any chair in the darkness. Finally, he shrugged, rolled his suitcase against the cubicle wall and sat on the floor. "I have the clipboard here," he said, holding it out. "Do I give it to you or..."
"I'm going to process you," said the voice that belonged to a woman who claimed to sometimes be called Ambrosia. "What that means is that I'm going to ask a series of questions. They may seem odd. You may become confused. That's natural. From time to time I'll ask you to write something down. Are you ready?"
"I don't have anything to write with," Gavin pointed out.
"That's not important. Let's begin. What is your ability?"
"Uhmmm..." Gavin shook his head, confused. "Don't you know? Or are you asking me to demonstrate again? Because Id' really rather not get punched in the face again. It's getting old."
"No, you are mistaken and confused. I told you that would happen. Just answer the question."
Her voice remained soothing and kind, but Gavin sensed an edge. This woman who was sometimes called Ambrosia was not someone to be trifled with. "OK. My head is squishy," he said.
"Interesting." The fingers typed away at the typewriter for a moment. Gavin couldn't see what they were typing. Finally, they stopped. "Do you like cats?"
"What? Uhm... sure."
"Interesting." More typing, then, "If I offered you an ice cream cone, would you take it?"
Now Gavin was completely confused, but he figured he might as well just go with it. "Sure," he said. "Depending on the flavor."
"Interesting."
There followed a long period of typing. Gavin shifted nervously, waiting for the next bizarre question. Finally, the typing stopped.
"Hold still," said the woman.
"Hold still? What do you mean- OW!" Gavin felt a sharp pain in his toe, and he reflexively grabbed it. "That hurt!"
"Interesting."
The interview proceeded in this way for what seemed like hours. Gavin did the best he could, answering questions which came to him out of the darkness. Every now and then, something painful would happen, though he could never figure out where it came from as he didn't think the woman was getting out of her chair or anything. Finally, after Gavin had admitted that he didn't want to grow up to be a contortionist (which the woman found 'Interesting'), his processor spoke.
"You've done well, Gavin," she said. "Better than you know."
"Am I done?" he asked.
"For now. But in truth, we're never done. You may go."
Gavin jumped up to his feet and grabbed his suitcase, eager to get out of the morose cubicle. "Where do I go next?" he asked. "Is there someone-"
"You will find your way," interrupted the woman.
There came a sigh out of the dark, then Gavin heard a shifting of feet and the scuff of a chair being shoved backward. He was about to exit the cubicle when a hand settled on his shoulder, stopping him cold.
"A word of caution before you go," said the woman sometimes called Ambrosia. "Everyone here has a power."
He turned around, getting a good look at the woman for the first time. She was a portly black woman, with a rats' nest of dark hair. "You mean an ability," Gavin corrected.
"I mean a power. Remember that. Good luck. I'm rooting for you."
The hand left his shoulder and Gavin sensed the woman drift back into the darkness.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone