Thoughts of Damen were swirling manically through Charlotte’s mind as she woke to the gentle buzzing from the fl uorescent bulbs that lined the classroom ceiling. As she slowly opened one eye, and then the other, she couldn’t help but notice the cool white light was bright, but it didn’t hurt to stare at it. She blinked a few times and then jacked herself into a semi-seated position, propping herself up on her elbows. She could see the dingy, brownish water stains and the spitballs stuck to the foam board ceiling squares above her. She felt a little dizzy but blamed it on all the excitement. “Great, he asks me to help him. ME. And what do I do? I pass out,” she chastised herself. All those changes she’d struggled to make, Charlotte reasoned, hadn’t changed who she was on the inside. What was it that Horace said? “We can change our skies but not our nature” or something like that? You are who and what you are. The sad reality that a 2,000-year-old Roman poet probably had a better grasp of her life than she did was . . . disappointing to say the least. Even weirder was why this, of all things, was occurring to her just now. And then a much less demoralizing scenario sunk in. It must have been low blood sugar! she thought, remembering that she forgot to eat breakfast in her anxiety to make the bus and amid all her premeditated brushes with Damen at school. As Charlotte turned her head from side to side, she noticed that she was totally alone. No surprise, since she didn’t really expect that anyone would be looking for her. Then, looking down, she realized she was not as alone as she thought. There it was — The Gummy Bear — lying there innocent and lifeless, almost taunting her like the Talking Tina doll in that old Twilight Zone episode. It wasn’t the slightly opaque color red, but rather the transparent bright red that they turn when they are sucked on a little. She stared at the candy for quite sometime — oddly suspicious of it — reached for her throat, and coughed. It was there on the fl oor but she still felt it in her larynx. “That’s . . . peculiar,” Charlotte said, completely perplexed. Just as she began forming a recollection of what happened, an announcement came over the PA system. “Charlotte Usher, please report to room 1313,” the muffl ed voice requested. She gathered her stuff and walked out the door into the empty hallway, in a pretty good mood, all things considered. Expecting to be heckled on her way to the offi ce, she was almost disappointed that her summoning had gone unnoticed, but then again, everyone was in class, so she marched on. “Room 1313?” she asked herself, still reeling from her brush with both Damen and the gummy bear. Turning down a long corridor, a reading of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee” seeped into the hall from a distant classroom. It was her second period Lit class, a place she was supposed to be, already in progress. The words echoed through the vacant hallway, bouncing off the newly waxed and buffed fi rst-day-of-school fl oors. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we — Of many far wiser than we — And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For some reason, she seemed to know the way to the strange room, though she’d never been there. She was drawn to an unmarked door at the end of the hallway. As she opened it, she looked down the stairwell into a basement area, still more disoriented than scared. Descending, she could see the chipped, exposed pipes on the ceiling above her and a cement fl oor below as she stepped down. Charlotte took a breath and held her nose as a precautionary measure thinking she’d sucked in enough pollutants for one day on the skywalk. “Walk this way,” she whined to herself, nose pinched, almost disappointed that her summoning had gone unnoticed, but then again, everyone was in class, so she marched on. “Room 1313?” she asked herself, still reeling from her brush with both Damen and the gummy bear. Turning down a long corridor, a reading of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee” seeped into the hall from a distant classroom. It was her second period Lit class, a place she was supposed to be, already in progress. The words echoed through the vacant hallway, bouncing off the newly waxed and buffed fi rst-day-of-school fl oors. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we — Of many far wiser than we — And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For some reason, she seemed to know the way to the strange room, though she’d never been there. She was drawn to an unmarked door at the end of the hallway. As she opened it, she looked down the stairwell into a basement area, still more disoriented than scared. Descending, she could see the chipped, exposed pipes on the ceiling above her and a cement fl oor below as she stepped down. Charlotte took a breath and held her nose as a precautionary measure thinking she’d sucked in enough pollutants for one day on the skywalk.

“Walk this way,” she whined to herself, nose pinched, channeling her best Young Frankenstein, and headed down. Her footsteps fell silently. The pipes looked slick from condensation, but oddly, they weren’t dripping, and there was no smell of mildew or mold. She let go her nose to take a second breath and quickly realized there was no need to go on holding it. As she walked on through the narrow corridor of plumbing, air ducts, and wiring, she saw a light shining into her path and stopped. It was bright, but pale, like moonlight. It seemed to come from behind the old boiler, which was cold from not running. She peeked behind and saw a room in the corner. Etched in the glass on the door was 1313. Charlotte was starting to get nervous, not so much from the ominous offi ce and chilly beams that emanated from it, but because she was falling behind her self-imposed schedule. This little detour had taken up so much of the time she planned to use stalking, er, “getting to know” Damen. Still, she was more curious then irritated when it hit her. “This must be where the sign-ups are for AP classes! Could this day get any better?” she asked herself obliviously, bolting through the doorway and up to the counter with all the exuberance of Tracy Flick in Election. The fi rst thing she saw was an old transistor radio and a few vases of wilted fl owers at the reception desk. The fi rst thing she heard was the Terry Jacks song “Seasons in the Sun” playing at low volume. She didn’t know the song well, but hearing it now, wafting through the humid air, in such a quiet, dank, and empty room, it was hard to imagine it was ever a hit. Even in the seventies. Goodbye to you, my trusted friend. We’ve known each other since we’re nine or ten. Together we climbed hills or trees. Learned of love and ABC’s, Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees. Bummer, Charlotte thought as she looked around and drummed her fi ngers on the counter, hoping someone might hear. “Hi, ah, I got called to this offi ce? Charlotte Usher!” she fi - nally yelled to the back of the offi ce, hoping to get someone’s attention. A secretary with a messy bun and wearing a high-neck, lace Victorian blouse popped up from below the desk. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I didn’t think to look down,” Charlotte said. “No one ever does, sweetheart,” the secretary quipped. Without making eye contact, the secretary handed her a clipboard with a bunch of paperwork. “Here, fi ll these out, and remember . . .” the secretary stopped mid-sentence and pulled Charlotte close to her, as if she were about to impart some invaluable advice. “. . . to give me back my PEN.” Charlotte was taken aback by the secretary’s strange behavior, but then she thought that if the woman was a “people person,” she wouldn’t be stuck in a high school basement, working by herself, in virtual darkness. Before Charlotte could get her fi rst question out, the sec retary slammed the window shut. Charlotte organized the papers on the clipboard and headed over to take a seat next to a girl sporting long, curly orange-red locks and a bright Kelly green majorette outfi t. Charlotte didn’t think the girl was there when she first came in, but she’d been so preoccupied she couldn’t be sure.

As she shuffl ed through the paperwork for a second, she turned her head and tried to make eye contact with her — without success. “Hi. I’m Charlotte,” she said tentatively, her hand thrust forward for a shake. And . . . nothing. The greeting seemed to fall on deaf, or at least disinterested, ears as the girl kept looking downward, her nose in her book. Charlotte was all too used to this kind of dismissive treatment, but from a NEW girl? Were things actually worse than she imagined? She decided to overcompensate, thrusting her hand out even farther, but the girl continued reading, not even acknowledging the Charlotte Usher welcome wagon. Maybe this girl was already friends with someone else in school, Charlotte thought. Maybe she moved here over the summer and this “friend in school” told her about Charlotte. No, that couldn’t be right; she couldn’t imagine anyone talking about her over the summer — even to say bad stuff. Charlotte was awakened from her daydream by a faint whistling sound. Kind of like a solo fl ute warming up in the band room. Looking around, Charlotte could not tell for the life of her where the sound originated. She put her fi nger in her ear, twirled it around, and hoped the noise would stop. It didn’t, so she tried her best to ignore it, turning her attention back to the forms. The top of the fi rst page read “New Student.” “Ah, so I guess this does mean that I got A.P. classes for next year!” She trumpeted proudly, hoping to impress the girl. In her excitement, she started fi lling out the paperwork quickly, barely reading the questions. As her slender fi ngers glided over the questions at a lightning pace, she became increasingly leery as she read them out loud: “‘Full Name, Date of Birth, Place of Birth, Sex . . .’” “Sex? . . . Yes, please!” Charlotte said out loud, trying yet again to get the girl’s attention, but to no avail. “‘Organ donor’?” Charlotte read, just a little less giddily. “Wow, they need to know everything.” She continued to fi ll out the sheet as best she could, arriving at the end of the form and her patience at just about the same time. The last box read “C.O.D.” “C.O.D.?” Charlotte said aloud, now totally exasperated. “Cash On Delivery? I shouldn’t have to pay for A.P. classes. This is public school.” She left that space blank and returned the paperwork and the pen to the secretary, who handed back a tag with Charlotte’s name on it, attached to a very small elastic band. “Here’s your ID,” the secretary snapped. “Ah, thanks,” Charlotte replied, not quite sure why she needed a new ID, but way too intimidated to ask. Charlotte pulled the tag out of the secretary’s cold, clenching grasp and put it on her wrist. Although it was super-tight, she kept it on and didn’t say a word. The secretary stamped Charlotte’s papers as “received” and then approached a jumbo stainless steel fi ling cabinet.

“Okay. One more thing . . . I need you to confi rm . . .” She paused, turned, and nonchalantly opened a large drawer. “. . . That this is YOU, and initial here.” Charlotte was stunned. She could not believe what she was seeing. There it was. Her silent and graying corpse, still wearing her fi rst-day-of-school outfi t, lying still on the metal slab right before her very eyes. She wanted to faint, but she was paralyzed. For the fi rst time, she began to feel the cold in the room creep along her skin. She grabbed her wrist and pressed for her pulse. Nothing. She brought both palms to her chest to feel for her heart, which should have been pounding by now. But there was no beat. Freaked and shuddering, she moved closer to the cadaver and poked it gingerly in each limb, hoping for a reaction. Again, nothing. The fi nal straw: an opened package of GUMMY BEARS protruding from her pocket with the culprit, the murderer, in a ziplock bag pinned to her chest. It wasn’t a trick. This WAS her! “C.O.D . . . Cause Of Death,” the secretary instructed, pointing to the candy as she broke out in a grin. Charlotte recoiled in an effort to distance herself from the corpse and tripped, hitting a huge industrial metal fan on the desk. It fell directly on her forearm, catching her hand in the blades. Helpless, she watched as, one by one, her fi ngers were chopped off right at the middle knuckle by the twirling scythes. Her digits went fl ying off in every direction, spraying the room. She clenched her eyes shut and waited for the pain and the nauseating warmth of spurting blood to arrive. But it never came. Confused, she mustered all her courage and opened both eyes ever so slowly and looked. Her hand, which should have been mangled, gnarled, and torn to pieces, was completely unscathed. She held it up and examined it over and over, mesmerized. The girl in the waiting room approached just as Charlotte desperately tried to digest the reality of the surreal moment. “Nothing can hurt you anymore,” the girl said matterof- factly. “I’m Pam . . . and you’re, well, you’re . . .” Pam said as she bent down to help Charlotte up. “No, please don’t say . . .” Charlotte begged. “. . . Dead,” Pam whispered, directly into Charlotte’s ear. Her words blew through Charlotte’s ear and into her mind like a blustery winter wind, and as they did, the haze of her own obliviousness began to clear. Looking around the room now, it was as if someone had hit the “rewind” button on her day. She saw everything from a different, almost third-person perspective, noting things that she hadn’t before. It was all so obvious. The loudspeaker announcement, the cold basement, the “waiting” room. She looked around and started to notice things that she hadn’t before, like the unnatural blue tint of the secretary’s nails, the morgue-like fi ling cabinets in the back, the examination lights. And, of course, the gummy bear. Charlotte screamed with such intensity that no sound came from her mouth. It was an otherworldly scream, one that can only be produced through sheer and utter terror. “You’re dead,” echoed through her mind and rattled her soul as she ran out of the room and into the stairwell.