THOUGH THE AFTER-SCHOOL visit had been scheduled for months—since shortly after my parents’ disappearance—it wasn’t until I opened the door to the counselor’s office that the reality of it really hit. This was it. Today would decide if I would be allowed to move on to Junior High or if I would be held back a year—and not, I knew, based strictly on poor grades.
“I’m here for my exam,” I said, chewing the last of my Snickers, feeling foolish, mainly because I didn’t even know what to call it: this test of my sanity; this test of my maturity and character. Are you even human? they seemed to be asking. Do you belong here in our public schools with our beloved human children? Or should you be farmed out—to the insane asylum, maybe, or the traveling carnie, with the rest of your kind?
“Mr. Smi
