In The Room
fiction • short story
The high of being useful to my parents was profound. I wasn’t like the kids they talked about on the news: problems to be solved.
By Karah Palmer
All I had to do was turn the key when he turned his head. It was a small key, with a long wooden handle that had “BATHROOM PASS” scribbled on it. I wasn’t going where those words pointed. I just needed to get out of that room. I’d say classroom, but it was more like a cage, fit for anything but learning. Hot air from fans that had rodents trapped inside. Disgusting.
In the middle of a thriving city, we had chipped walls, tainted water, and desks poisoned with lead. I knew how to leave that room; I’d watched teachers do it a hundred times already this school year, and it was only November. But he was still there, rambling about extra credit, scribbling equations on the board with a marker that was too dry to read. Poor thing. All those great ideas, with no way to bring them to life. And I was pretty sure I was the only one listening.
Part of my hesitation was about what awaited me. There were guards in the halls; they called them “hall monitors”. Plus, I’d seen what happened to kids who decided to leave. They get bussed off to some far away place I didn’t want to know anything about. But I was different. Those kids didn’t have this key when they left. I knew how to keep my eyes straight ahead, but I’d never lied about where I was going before. Silly of me to think anyone would ask.
A larger part of my hesitation was based on the fact that I brought pride to my father, which meant that some of my learning was used for real things: translating forms he couldn’t understand or helping him use the computer for his job he couldn’t afford to lose. It was the only time I got to sit with him at the kitchen table.
The high of being useful to my parents was profound. I wasn’t like the kids they talked about on the news: problems to be solved, criminals to be punished, issues so severe they’d been abandoned in actual cages. I had a status that simple kid stuff couldn’t give, and it earned me a Gold Star at the adult table on most holidays. Just this last Christmas there was a certain kind of confidence that came over me when my cousins wondered what I did to get the first slice of cake.
I was good, not bad. Because I helped them with their work. Step by step, I got better at doing others’ work exactly as they wanted.
Still, I had trouble summoning the courage to tell my father I was tired on most days. That building with busted windows wasn’t the recess he thought it was. I didn’t want to help anymore. Not after school, not in that room, not anywhere.
It’s not hard to be good in these kinds of rooms anyway. Would I still be good on the other side of it?
Finding out meant I had to turn the key. I looked at the clock, hoping it would stop ticking so quickly. I didn’t see anyone looking in my direction, but I could never be sure here. Someone was always watching, waiting for me to trip up so they could make a record of it.
That little key suddenly felt like it weighed 40 pounds in my hand. My legs felt weak with the weight of walking out. The pressure of not being able to come home the same made my cheeks hot with fear. I wondered what the gossip about me would be.
My eyes met another kid’s who never really said anything more than a grunt.
He smiled at me. It was as if he was proud I found my way to that door. I turned my head.
Since when did he smile?
