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Kathleen Sullivan Isacson
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Chapter 0 He Who Waits
By Henry’s calculations, he had been waiting exactly eleven years, two elementary schools and way too many hours for something to happen. He lay in bed, more than awake, ready. Henry routinely avoided sleep; he saw no point in it. Besides, his dreams were as average as the rest of his life. Each night he willed himself to dream something exciting, scary even. It never worked. He always dreamt he was himself. The worst nightmare he could manage was the one where he got a C in math. Instead of waking up from fear, Henry would bolt upright in the night out of irritation. Ordinary dreams left him feeling gypped. He tried to look on the bright side-- maybe he would dream an F tonight. Henry wished he could have at least one adventure before he died. Or before he graduated Jr. high, whichever came first. Failing that, he wished he could at least be really good at something—anything —for once. He was good at things adults admire but kids find useless, such as politeness, reliability, manners. But there weren’t any recitals or teams for that sort of thing. It made him a total bully magnet, too. He stared at his unchanging room, daring to hope for something in his life to change. Above, glowing constellations stuck to his ceiling. He knew them all, but had only seen a few of them in the actual sky, thanks to his town’s ample streetlights. He silently recited their names: Orion, Ursa Major, Adromeda. They were like relatives he always heard about, but never met. Turning, he scrutinized at the rest of his room. It was the same, same, same. Change, he willed silently. Everything remained still, save the determined moonlight that cut sharply through his bedroom window to bite holes in the darkness around him. Henry watched it flicker through wind-tossed branches until he began to forget there was anything else in the world. Then, as his eyes half closed asleep, he saw movement as shadow cancelled the light under his door. Henry sat up. He heard a creak in the hallway: the sound of someone about to move, waiting. Henry’s hand reached down and glided along the floor, searching. It deciphered two books and a shoe until it rested on something long, thin and heavy. He grabbed it and held it up. He made out the silhouette of a forgotten tennis racket that someone once gave him as a joke. Henry tightened his grip, ready to swing. The door creaked open. An imposing shadow filled the doorway, surrounded by blinding light. Henry squinted, shielding his eyes with one hand and brandishing the racket with the other. For what seemed like a very long time, nothing moved; the very air felt still with anticipation. To Henry it was an eternity; in the space of a moment, he could feel every moment that ever was or ever would be. He felt his chin sprout a gray beard, saw dust silently coat the room, watched a thousand seasons slip by with snow days, picnics and back again to fall…The shadow in the doorway cleared its throat.
