Stephen King – The Waste Lands

She nodded. “I can see how it must have been—a high-powered school like that and all.

You just got a little spooked. No shame in that, Johnny. But you really haven’t seemed like

yourself this last couple of weeks.”

“I think I’ll be okay now. I might have to re-do my Final Essay in English, but-”

“Oh!” Mrs. Shaw said. A startled looked crossed her face. She put Charlie the Choo-Choo back down on Jake’s desk. “I almost forgot! Your French teacher left something for you. I’ll just get it.”

She left the room. Jake hoped he hadn’t worried Mr. Bissette, who was a pretty good guy, but he supposed he must have, since Bissette had actually made a personal appearance.

Jake had an idea that personal appearances were pretty rare for Piper School teachers. He

wondered what Mr. Bissette had left. His best guess was an invitation to talk with Mr.

Hotchkiss, the school shrink. That would have scared him this morn- ing, but not tonight.

Tonight only the rose seemed to matter.

He tore into his second sandwich. Mrs. Shaw had left the door open, and he could hear her

talking with his parents. They both sounded a little more cooled out now. Jake drank his

milk, then grabbed the plate with the apple pie on it. A few moments later Mrs. Shaw came

back. She was carrying a very familiar blue folder.

Jake found that not all of his dread had left him after all. They would all know by now, of

course, students and faculty alike, and it was too late to do anything about it, but that didn’t mean he liked all of them knowing he had flipped his lid. That they were talking about him.

A small envelope had been paper-clipped to the front of the folder.

Jake pulled it free and looked up at Mrs. Shaw as he opened it. “How are my folks doing

now?” he asked.

She allowed herself a brief smile. “Your father wanted me to ask why you didn’t just tell

him you had Exam Fever. He said he had it himself once or twice when he was a boy.”

Jake was struck by this; his father had never been the sort of man to indulge in

reminiscences which began, You know, when I was a kid . . . Jake tried to imagine his

father as a boy with a bad case of Exam Fever and found he couldn’t quite do it—the best he

could manage was the unpleasant image of a pugnacious dwarf in a Piper sweatshirt, a

dwarf in custom-tooled cowboy boots, a dwarf with short black hair bolting up from his

forehead.

The note was from Mr. Bissette.

Dear John,

Bonnie Avery told me that you left early. She’s very concerned about you, and so am I,

although we have both seen this sort of thing before, especially during Exam Week. Please

come and see me first thing tomorrow, okay? Any problems you have can be worked out. If

you’re feeling pressured by exams—and 1 want to repeat that it happens all the time—a

postponement can be arranged. Our first concern is your welfare. Call me this evening, if

you like; you can reach me at 555-7661. Ill be up until midnight.

Remember that we all like you very much, and are on your side.

A votre sante’

Len Bissette

Jake felt like crying. The concern was stated, and that was wonderful, but there were other

things, unstated things, in the note that were even more wonderful—warmth, caring, and an

effort (however misconceived) to understand and console.

Mr. Bissette had drawn a small arrow at the bottom of the note. Jake turned it over and

read this:

By the way, Bonnie asked me to send this along—congratulations!!

Congratulations? What in the hell did that mean?

He flipped open the folder. A sheet of paper had been clipped to the first page of his Final

Essay. It was headed FROM THE DESK OF BONITA AVERY, and Jake read the spiky,

fountain-penned lines with grow- ing amazement.

John,

Leonard will undoubtedly voice the concern we all feel—he is awfully good at that—so let

me confine myself to your Final Essay, which I read and graded during my free period. It is

stun- ningly original, and superior to any student work I have read in the last few years.

Your use of incremental repetition (“. . . and that is the truth”) is inspired, but of course incremental repetition is really just a trick. The real worth of the composition is in its

symbolic quality, first stated by the images of the train and the door on the title page and

carried through splendidly within. This reaches its logical conclusion with the picture of

the “black tower,” which I take as your statement that conventional ambitions are not only false but dangerous.

I do not pretend to understand all the symbolism (e.g., “Lady of Shadows,” “gunslinger”) but it seems clear that you yourself are “The Prisoner” (of school, society, etc.) and that the educational system is “The Speaking Demon.” Is it possible that both “Roland” and “the gunslinger” are the same authority figure—your father, perhaps? I became so intrigued by

this possibility that 1 looked up his name in your records. I note it is Elmer, but I further

note that his middle initial is R.

I find this extremely provocative. Or is this name a double symbol, drawn both from your

father and from Robert Brow- ning’s poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”? This

is not a question I would ask most students, but of course I know how omnivorously you read!

At any rate, I am extremely impressed. Younger students are often attracted to so-called

“stream-of-consciousness” writing, but are rarely able to control it. You have done an outstanding job of merging s-of-c with symbolic language.

Bravo!

Drop by as soon as you’re “back at it”—I want to discuss possible publication of this piece in the first issue of next year’s student literary magazine.

B. Avery

P. S. If you left school today because you had sudden doubts about my ability to

understand a Final Essay of such unexpected richness, I hope I have assuaged them.

Jake pulled the sheet off the clip, revealing the title page of his stunningly original and

richly symbolic Final Essay. Written and circled there in the red ink of Ms. Avery’s

marking pen was the notation A +. Below this she had written EXCELLENT JOB!!!

Jake began to laugh.

The whole day—the long, scary, confusing, exhilarating, terrify- ing, mysterious

day—was condensed in great, roaring sobs of laughter. He slumped in his chair, head

thrown hack, hands clutching his belly, tears streaming down his face. He laughed himself

hoarse. He would almost stop and then some line from Ms. Avery’s well-meaning cri- tique

would catch his eye and he would be off to the races again. He didn’t see his father come to

the door, look in at him with puzzled, wary eyes, and then leave again, shaking his head.

At last he did become aware that Mrs. Shaw was still sitting on his bed, looking at him

with an expression of friendly detachment tinctured with faint curiosity. He tried to speak,

but the laughter pealed out again before he could.

I gotta stop, he thought. I gotta stop or it’s gonna kill me. I’ll have a stroke or a heart attack, or something.

Then he thought, 7 wonder what she made of “choo-choo, choo-choo?,” and he began to

laugh wildly again.

At last the spasms began to taper off to giggles. He wiped his arm across his streaming

eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shaw—it’s just that . . . well … I got an A-plus on my Final Essay. It was all very . . . very rich . . . and very sym . . . sym . . .”

But he couldn’t finish. He doubled up with laughter again, hold- ing his throbbing belly.

Mrs. Shaw got up, smiling. “That’s very nice, John. I’m happy it’s all turned out so well,

and I’m sure your folks will be, too. I’m awfully late—I think I’ll ask the doorman to call me

a cab. Goodnight, and sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Shaw,” Jake said, controlling himself with an effort. “And thanks.”

As soon as she was gone, he began to laugh again.

21

DURING THE NEXT HALF hour he had separate visits from both parents. They had

indeed calmed down, and the A + grade on Jake’s Final Essay seemed to calm them further.

Jake received them with his French text open on the desk before him, but he hadn’t really

looked at it, nor did he have any intention of looking at it. He was only waiting for them to

be gone so he could study the two books he had bought earlier that day. He had an idea that

the real Final Exams were still waiting just over the horizon, and he wanted desperately to