“I think you’re finally ready to learn how to astral project like I can,” 35 says as soon as-

WHHAAAAAT?

“Are you serious!?!?” I ask excitedly as I put my pencil down.

“Indeed,” they reply sounding all matter-of-fact. “Whenever you’re ready.”

No way! “Are you for real?”

“No, you have to note your excitement first now.”

My smile fades.

“Really?” I ask disappointedly.

“No, not really!” 35 answers. “Unless you want to.”

Whew! Relief! I don’t want to. But maybe…

“I’ll do it anyway,” I concede before adding on that I was excited to learn how to project like 35 can. I turn back towards them as soon as I’m done.

They start by saying “Even before I showed up, you’ve been going through a lot. You deserve a break…”

I cringe slightly at the idea of being told that I “deserve” a break, but hey, I guess it’s true in this instance.

“…So, whenever you’re ready.”

I don’t hesitate for even a second. “YES!”

“Alright then, could you turn your chair to face your bed for me, please”

I do as I’m asked. I see the window on the other side of my bed. “Do you need me to get up or anything?”

“Oh, no. In fact, don’t even close your eyes. You’re going to need them open. Remember, you have to use your own body’s senses, even when you’re projecting.”

“Unless there’s other people around?” I ask for clarification.

“Unless there’s other people around,” they confirm.

They look at the bed, then back at me.

“To start this off, take a few square breaths. It’ll be easier with your mind as calm as possible.”

I take three square breaths, a little impatiently. It’s hard for me to relax when I’m excited to learn something like this! I take a couple more square breaths. I hope it’s enough. I can’t ever get truly relaxed anyway…

“Now,” 35 continues. “Just imagine that you are sitting on the bed in front of you, facing the same direction you are now.”

I try to imagine that the best I can. I imagine myself sitting on the bed, facing out the window. I try, and try, and try. Am I out of my body? No? Dang it! I try and try and try again, once again, nothing. I try again, so hard I feel like my head is gonna explode. Nothing! I’m still in my body! Ugh! Maybe I’m not meant to be able to do this…

“I can personally assure you that is not the case,” says 35. “But I see that you’re having trouble getting started.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Are you sure that this is possible? Do I not need you to force me out like you did last time?”

“No, you shouldn’t. It might be hard to start. Especially with how little you believe in yourself.”

I stare.

“Case in point, your first thought upon failure was ‘maybe I’m not meant to succeed.’”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I can. But what am I doing wrong?”

“You’re testing it.”

“What do you mean ‘testing it?’”

“You’re checking to see if it’s happening or not. But it’s like hypnosis; you gotta take it on faith. Pretend it’s real and believe it, and it’ll work.”

Wait, that’s how hypnosis works? Have I been doing it wrong?

“’Like hypnosis?’ What do you mean?”

“Well, hypnosis doesn’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. So, you pretend it’s real, then you wind up believing it.”

This information hits me like a wave. Why didn’t anyone tell me this?! I would have been good to know when I…uh…

They look at me without a hint of expression. (Easy to do when the only facial features they have are the eyes!) Do they sense what I’m realizing? Please, no, please no!

“Why, is something wrong?” they ask.

Do I tell them? It’s so stupid! But they might already know! But how could they? I haven’t listened to hypnosis since they showed up! But maybe they noticed my YouTube playlists?

“No,” I lie. Unconvincingly.

“Okay. I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

Just then, there’s a knock on my door.

“Come in!” I announce.

Delilah opens the door.

“Mom says dinner is almost ready,” she tells us.

“Okay,” I acknowledge.

“She wants you there with us,” she adds.

I perk up and turn towards her.

“Really?” I ask. Not sure if she’s serious or not. Or if I look forward to it or not.

“Yes, really,” she replies. She turns to 35 and eyes them. “What are you guys talking about?”

“What do you mean?” 35 asks innocently.

“You two were talking about hypnosis or something,” she presses.

“Oh yeah,” 35 admits. “We were talking about that scene from...uh…”

“The Jungle Book,” I quickly save them.

“Yes, The Jungle Book! Thank you!” They recover. “We were talking about the unrealism with the scene where the snake hypnotizes him. Hypnosis cannot make you do anything you don’t want to do. It’s not mind control. It’s guided meditation.”

Delilah’s face turns confused as she asks “Okay, but, when did Brock ever see The Jungle Book?”

Uh oh. I haven’t!

“Never, I just saw that one scene and was wondering about it,” I explain.

Please, just take that! Leave it there!

She stares at me without saying a word.

“So, what, you were gonna have 35 hypnotize you?” she asks.

“Uh, yes,” I lie.

Delilah turns towards 35.

“Can you hypnotize me?” she requests with excitement in her voice.

Okay, didn’t see that coming. But I don’t want them too! I want her gone. I don’t want her to see me trying to project! If she does, I’m toast!

35 thinks about it while I frantically think to them “Please say ‘no!’ Please say ‘no!’” Really, please don’t. I want her out of here!

“No,” they answer bluntly.

Yes!

“Why not?” she whines.

“Because I do not have the energy to hypnotize both of you right now,” they answer.

I feel them wink at me. Thank you, 35!

 “Besides, isn’t dinner almost ready? We don’t have time for that anyway.”

“But I want to be hypnotized!” she objects.

“Well, I see that, but I’m not feeling up for it. So, please respect my boundaries and leave the room, maybe check on your mom?”

 Delilah glares at them.

“In fact, I noticed she was awfully quiet on the way home. I’m slightly worried for her. Could you make sure she’s alright?”

“Fine!” she snaps and leaves, slamming the door.

I smile a little bit. It was nice to see her get annoyed for once.

35 notices. “There’s the justice you wanted.”

Holy cow, they’re right! It feels nice! I finally have some revenge! I feel…

…empty.

“Why do I still feel like this? It’s the same as before,” I ask.

“Because something else is bothering you at this point,” 35 answers bluntly. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you get to the bottom of it, once you’re ready.”

That’s great, I guess.

“Come on, let’s see what’s for dinner. It’s been a while since you’ve had a family dinner anyway.”

Right. Deli did say it was almost done, so…

I get up, out of my room and head towards the kitchen. Delilah is sitting in her usual spot, waiting for Mom to get the plates. Spaghetti and meatballs, Garlic Bread. Nice. This beats Dad’s meatloaf by a mile and a half! Mostly because Mom can actually cook, but hey, anything besides that trash. My mouth starts to water as I pull out my chair to sit down. 35 just stands against the wall, as if they were there to serve the table.

Maybe they actually would if they were able to. But alas! They cannot actually touch and move objects without using my hands, so they’re just stuck there. Haha!

If I could see their pupils, I’m sure I’d see them roll their eyes.

Mom finishes fetching the plates, sits down, and starts eating without saying anything. Delilah and I follow suit. Nobody says anything for a good while. Not that I mind. Stacking the spaghetti on my garlic bread is the best thing ever! I don’t know who decided that they go together, but they were right!

“Hey Mom, could you pass me the Parmesan?” Delilah requests.

Mom doesn’t say anything. She just slowly grabs the Parmesan and just as slowly hands it to her.

Oh snap! I forgot about the Parmesan!

“Can I have some too?”

Delilah just says “Yeah, sure” as she continues to blanket her food in the delicious white dust. Once an entire beach is sitting on top of the sauce, she slides it over to me.

I practically dump it on top of my garlic-spaghetti stack! Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Mom, are you okay?” Delilah asks.

“It’s fine,” Mom responds sharply.

“Mom,” Deli presses. “I slid the Parmesan across the wooden table and you didn’t yell at me for it.”

“It’s fine!” Mom repeats, louder and sharper.

I freeze as a chill runs down my spine, killing the hunger I had just a second ago.

Uh oh. Delilah is right. Mom has yelled at us many times for sliding stuff across the table. She doesn’t even let me do homework on it. She’s too worried about scratches, and may Lord have mercy on the soul who does manage to scratch it. She should be screaming at Deli right now. Instead, she’s staring at her food, refusing to tell us what’s wrong.

This is bad! Is there any way to fix this? I’m scared now.

“Don’t panic,” thinks 35. “Remember what we talked about earlier?”

What do they-OH.

Right. Okay, Observations, Feelings, Needs, Requests.

Okay, so observations. What have I noticed?

“Hey, Mom?” I start.

She doesn’t move.

“I, and Delilah and 35 have noticed you have been quiet today, and I’m worried about it,” I continue.

“Me too,” says Delilah.

I stumble upon her addition, but I recover.

“Yeah, I’m worried about you and would like to help. Can you please tell me what’s wrong so I can?”

Mom tucks her head down, face in her palms.

“I am very stressed right now. If you two want to help me, please just keep your rooms clean,” she answers.

Okay, better, but does that really solve the problem? It was worth a try, though.

35 chimes inside my head. “Try again, build off of what she said.”

Okay, but how do I do that? I observed that she told us to clean? But she didn’t really answer the question.

“How do you feel about it?” asks 35. “Ignored? Neglected? Dismissed?”

Yeah, I am! Okay!

“So, you’re telling us to clean our rooms,” I start with Mom. “But that doesn’t answer what’s bothering you. I feel ignored with that response. Can you please tell us the root of the problem?”

“It’s not something you can handle,” Mom pleads.

“One last time,” 35 encourages.

“Are you sure?” I ask back. “Didn’t you say that ‘no means no?’”

35 is stunned. I can feel them being taken aback. They manage to mutter “uh,” a few times, but just then, Mom speaks up.

“Your birthday is coming up next month, and I still cannot figure out what to get you.”

“Eh, I never want anything for my birthday anyway,” I assure her.

I really don’t. It’s pointless, celebrating that I’m another day closer to my demise. Receiving a lot of things I don’t want, can’t use, or don’t deserve.

“Besides, you can just get me a moon calendar like you do every year.”

“They won’t let me back at church!” she continues. “They insist that I must be a witch of some sort!”

I see 35 shrug.

“Whatever,” I say. “Maybe a church in Montrose will let you-“

“I’ve received death threats in the mail!” Mom interrupts me.

Silence.

Okay. That is a bit much. But surely, it’s not much worse than I’ve been facing, right? Besides, we’ve got guns laying around the house. It’s not like we’d go down without a fight.

I turn towards Delilah. She doesn’t look happy. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth? Gaping wide open with a huge frown. She looks like a trout.

I turn back towards Mom. She’s starting to cry. Oh no. What have I done?

She turns to 35 and asks “Why? Why did you have to show up? We had a good life without you!” with a sharp bit of anger. But she’s still crying. “Alan keeps saying not to talk to the news, the Agents refuse to tell me anything…” she turns to me. “…and I keep getting death threats against both you and me! Especially you!”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but doesn’t. Or can’t. In fact, nobody says or does anything. Nobody knows what to say. But eventually, 35 speaks up.

“Those are all valid things to be stressed about,” 35 comments, sounding like they’re trying to gather themselves. “Do you wish to do anything about them? Or have me or someone else help you?”

Mom takes a second to compose herself enough to say “I need you to leave! Out of our lives! Do whatever you want, but I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again!” She breaks back down again.

Not knowing what to say, 35 backs away. I stare at Mom for a few seconds before looking back at my food. Despite how much I was enjoying it a second ago, it’s lost all of its appeal. Aside from Mom’s crying, nobody makes a sound. Neither Delilah nor I know what to say. I feel like I’m supposed to say something, but I can’t. What would I say? This is awkward! I’m out of here!

“Can I, uh…” I stumble. It feels just as weird to ask to leave the table with Mom like this, but I also don’t want to just leave. That might make it worse. Ask or not? Ugh! I want to leave! Screw it!

“…be excused from the table?”

She raises her head to looks at me. Her makeup is smeared by her tears. She doesn’t say anything for a suspenseful moment. But then…

“Yes, you’re excused,” she says quietly.

I get up, grabbing my plate as I go.

“Can I be excused, too?” Delilah requests.

Mom just nods. I’m about to throw away what I didn’t eat when she says “Put it in the refrigerator, we’ll eat it tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, I go to the fridge and stuff my leftovers in there. My sister does the same. I’m about to head to my room when I hear Mom say “35, could you stay a minute? I need to talk,” in her serious voice.

Okay, that’s interesting. She was just telling them to go away a second ago…

Not wanting anything to do with that, hurry over to my room. I plop in my chair and face my computer. I stare at the screen. What do I want to do? Play games? Lookup YouTube videos? Look at memes? Maybe I’ll check up on what the news is saying about us.

Okay, so “San Angelo, Colorado, Ghost.” I hit “search,” and…well Obama’s finally getting involved, I guess. I remember how mad Alan was when he became president. He screamed a few times about how “he’s going to take away our guns away!” Lately, he’s been excited that he’s gonna be voted out. It’ll be nice to not have to worry about guns getting banned once that happens.

Obama says that he will take action as he and his cabinet (what?) decide the best way to handle this “unprecedented situation.” Other agencies are also working with him to decide what is best, including the FBI. Great, so what happens next completely depends on what Agents Collins and Thompson think. That’s just great.

The article then moves on to public opinion polls. Nationally, eighty percent say I should be pulled out of school. Ten percent say I should stay, and the remaining ten didn’t have an answer. In the State of Colorado, those numbers are seventy-one, fifteen, and fourteen. They don’t show San Angelo or Montrose County, but I’m pretty sure those numbers are like ninety-five and five. There’s definitely some people who hate me here. Another poll asks if I should be locked up. My heart sinks and a wave of terror washes up in my brain as I read that thirty-one percent of the country, and twenty-seven percent of the state think I should. At least there’s a thirty-eight percent national and forty-two percent state opposition. They show interviews from the locals, many of which have horrible things to say. The Governor continues to stand firm on her decision, despite the backlash. And of course, “The Weaver Family continues to decline to interview at this time.”

I turn away from my computer. I don’t want to see that stuff anymore. It’s scary. I check my phone to distract myself. Dad sent me a text? I open it to check it out.

“Hey Kemosabe, can’t wait to see you next week!”

There’s a picture attached. It says “When your son asks why he has to study…” Then it shows a picture of an old, fat, shirtless man in the water with a beautiful young woman in a bikini with her arms around his neck. “…show him this photo.” Then is says “When your daughter asks why she needs to study…” it shows the same pic. “…show her this photo.”

I honestly don’t get it.

Dad texted “already sent that to your sister! Look forward to seeing you!”

“Well, she looks happy to be there!” says a voice in the room.

I jump out of my chair and turn around to be met with 35. Yep, of course.

“Oh, sorry to scare you!” they apologize.

I take a second to calm down.

“Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry. I needed to talk to you about a couple of things.”

“Okay…”

“First off, remember how you were like, ‘doesn’t “no” mean “no?”’”

I gulp. They’re gonna yell at me. “Yeah?”

“Thank you, and good job.”

I’m stunned. What?

“What do you mean?” I ask suspiciously.

“I mean just that. I’m grateful that you kept me in check.”

I stare at them.

“I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. Sometimes, I only catch them in retrospect, and I feel bad about it, so could you do me the favor of stopping me when I do? Maybe call me out?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess?” I respond without certainty. What kind of person wants to be questioned?

“Well, thank you,” they sigh in relief. “Second thing: would you be willing to go on the news? Maybe give them-“

“YES!” I interrupt.

“Whoa, that was eager. You okay?”

I gesture towards and look at the computer screen, which still has the polling numbers displayed in graph form.

“Yyyyyyep. I get it. That explains the death threats your mom has gotten. How does noon sound? Your mom and the agents will be there.”

“Sure,” I say without thinking.

“Great!” They pause. “Maybe now is a good time to get ready for bed?”

“Wait, can I try to astral project again first?”

“Yeah, sure. Just remember, you gotta believe. Don’t test it. It’s like hypnosis.”

I try, and try, and try. Nothing happens. Oh well. Maybe I’ll try an astral projection hypnosis video as I go to sleep. Even though I’d rather do a …uh maybe not where 35 can hear…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Darf ich Ihren Ausweis sehen?” the bartender asks me with a friendly and welcoming smile.

I pull out my passport, and open it to show her that I’m definitely over sixteen. Not sure how I’m supposed to react to the fact that I’m possibly taken for a sixteen-year-old. That was a loonnnggg time ago. She looks at it, and her smile fades.

“Oh, you’re a Yank,” she comments, with an accent that doesn’t quite sound local. Her smile fades. “What kind of Yank?” She squints as she asks.

Ugggghhhhh. WHY?

I groan as my head points up towards the ceiling. I look back down and around the rustic bar and notice a TV with the news on it. And, of course, they’re talking about…

“Not that kind.” I answer, pointing at the TV. “I’m literally here to get away from them. I feel like I’m a refugee pretending to be a tourist.” I pull my hoodie apart, showing off the shirt that I’m wearing.

“Oh!” the bartender exclaims, putting her hands over her mouth. “I’m so sorry! It must have been so scary, living over there.”

“And what about you?” I ask, trying to deflect. “You don’t exactly sound like you’re from here either.”

Come to think about it, she doesn’t look quite like she’s from here either. Red hair like a warm sunset, emerald green eyes that shine, no, glow at you, freckles that give her face a beautiful and adorable texture. I’d guess more Scotland or Ireland. But hey, maybe that’s just a stereotype.

Bottom line is that she’s quite pretty. Like really, really pretty. I have trouble looking away.

“Ireland,” she answers as she strokes her hair.

Okay, at least I was right! Maybe that’s not a good thing. Don’t reward my bad behavior, fate!

“Nice,” I reply, before saying “I like your eyes,” without a thought.

Shit! Where did that come from? Oh God, Fuck! I’ve done it now! I don’t even hide the shame in what I just said. I look down and bury my face in my hands.

I thought I heard her giggle, but then I hear her say “Hey, little bird, look up here please.”

I try to catch my breath. And fail. I must be blushing! Just do what she says! Do what she says! Don’t make this any worse! Just look up. Look up at her as she looks down at you. I look at her dead in the eyes. She…smiles? Warmly?

“There. If you get to enjoy my eyes, it’s only fair that I get to enjoy the view of the bright sky in yours.”

I…I…uh…. Flustered? Yes. Gawd. Ohgodohgodohgod! I definitely felt a wave of heat and terror wash through me! Am I alone? Are we alone? Please tell me we’re alone here! Look around, there’s someone here! Oh, my. Oh my! I look down at the bar. I hyperventilate. I want to leave, but I also want to be here! Help me! She just…

“So, what would you like to drink?”

“I…uh…” I forgot. I’m dizzy.

She just giggles and says “Nevermind, I know exactly what to serve a sweet one such as yourself.”

I turn even more red.

She turns around and walks over to the shelf to get whatever she’s concocting for me, giving me a full view of her outfit. She’s wearing a green horizontal-striped tank top with brown textures, and white cargo pants. Carabiner spotted! Right side?!?!

Oh gawd, now I have to…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**** (Next morning)

I’m sitting at the table, eating Pop Tarts like I do every Saturday morning. Even though this Saturday is definitely not going to be like any of the others. Mom comes out of her room.

“Hey Sweetie, did you sleep well?” she asks.

“Yeah, I slept fine,” I quietly answer.

Mom then puts on her “agenda” face.

“So today, the FBI Agents will be coming over sometime been noon and 1:30. At that time, the news…people will come over and that’s when we’ll start with the interviews and such. So, if you could please dress up and act your best, I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, Mom, sure,” I answer automatically. I wish I could argue. I  know what she means by "dress up."

“Brock, please,” she begs, doubting my answer. “Whatever you say and wear reflects on me.”

35 turns to her, squinting their eyes.

“What? It’s true!” Mom defends.

“Is it?” 35 rejects.

“If he appears in front of the whole world in crappy clothes like he always wears…”

Hey! I just like being comfortable! Screw 'looking good!' It’s stupid! I hate it!

“…the whole world will think I’m a trashy mom!”

“Ma’am, if you really are a ‘trashy mom,’ nothing you do will stop people from seeing through whatever you put in front of it to hide that!” they rebut. “Making your kid wear a suit and/or a tie would be an obvious attempt to look better than you are, and that will backfire. It’ll just look pretentious.”

Oh, my goodness. I never thought I’d say this, but thank you, 35! I hate wearing suits! They’re one of the worst things ever invented! They’re stupid! They just let people pretend they’re better than everyone else. Not to mention how limiting they are. I hate suits with everything I've got! Uggghhhh! I can imagine tearing one up right now! I curse who ever invented them! I wish I can go back in time, and-

“No, that’s not true,” she replies, pulling me out of train of angry thoughts. “People respect people who are dressed up all nice.”

“I will think it’s pretentious, cause it is.”

“Yeah, well you’re just one person!”

“So are you.”

“Well, people agree with me!”

“Did you poll all however-many-billion people there are?”

“Seven,” I announce.

“Right, all seven billion people do not think wearing a suit would be pretentious.”

“I know how people work,” Mom argues.

“You know how the people around you work,” 35 corrects. “Did you know some people can’t see blue? To them, it’s a shade of green. They don’t have a word for ‘blue’ in their language”

“What?” says Mom, looking confused.

“It’s true. There’s another linguistic-cultural thing where there’s a group of people who do not even have future tense in their language, just past and present. They don’t look to the future.”

Mom’s completely dumbfounded, and I’m in disbelief.

“Look it up,” 35 continues. “Oh, and don’t get me started on the aboriginals of Australia. They don’t count or use numbers. They either use ‘one,’ or ‘many.’”

“Well, they’re aboriginals,” comments Mom. “They’re-“

“They’re not stupid,” 35 cuts. “Unlike Europeans, they knew that inbreeding was bad for the kids’ health.” I can hear the disdain in 35’s voice. “Look you do not know what you do not know about people.”

“The people that matter most will think like that!” she objects.

“People that matter most?” 35 questions. “The whole world is gonna see it! I don’t see how any people could be more important than others here.”

“Because none of those people are in his life!”

“Sure, but the fact you didn’t know those people even exist shows how little you might know about those around you.”

“Fine!” Mom gives up. “Just don’t look or act homeless.”

She storms to her room.

Wow. I cannot remember the last time someone other than Dad actually won an argument against Mom.

I go to my room, and hop on my computer. I look up all the things 35 said to Mom. The “can’t see blue,” the “no future tense,” and even the “no numbers thing.” Dang! They were right!

“How did you even know all of that?” I ask them.

“Through life experience,” they answer.

“Okay.” I think back on what I learned “So English has more…communication ability than other languages?”

“Not necessarily,” answers 35. “You should see all the German words that have no direct English equivalent, but describe a situation you’ve felt perfectly. Plus, in English, everything is either a subject or an object. German has a ‘dative’ form.”

Something about hearing that is not making me feel good. I do not like how English cannot do everything. Whatever. I just hope this interview makes most of the world NOT want to lock me up.