seeing a specialist
“How long have you been a child?” my father asked, the very model of disinterested inquiry.
“Does she have to be here?” the boy whined instead of answering. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t particularly want to be there either. Dealing with Masks is weird enough. Shrink them down to ten years old, and I’m officially freaked out. Kids are not my strong suit.
“Yes,” my father said in that tone he has that somehow conveys You will stop arguing and do as I tell you. Now. It’s something I’ve been working on developing whenever I’m alone in my room, but I have a long way to go before I reach his level. He once managed to stop a riot all by himself.
“Fine,” the boy huffed, and kicked the table leg petulantly. “Twenty-six hours and three minutes. Approximately.” Freaky. Definitely freaky.
“Hm.” My father scribbled down something that looked like ‘don’t forget eggs on fourth’. Or maybe ‘disturbed elephants cry.’ The only person who can decipher his handwriting anymore is his secretary, Ms. Heartshorn, and she’s been with him since he first opened the practice in ‘73. “Why did you wait so long to come to me?”
The boy scrunched his face even further into a frown, which was adorable-disturbingly so, what with the mask and all-and kicked the table leg again. “Sandy thought we should wait to see if it wore off on its own.” Sandy-? Oh, the woman in the waiting room wearing sunglasses and an obvious wig. “You can fix me, right?” he added, perfect I’m-not-going-to-let-you-know-I-want-to-cry wobble in his voice.
My father’s expression suggested that he thought the boy had brain damage, but he bruskly said “Yes, of course,” and scrawled a few more notes. “But you really should have called me immediately. If the spell-or whatever it is-has set, undoing it may prove . . . complicated.” Which was his way of saying ‘nothing doing’.
“Does she have to be here?” the boy whined instead of answering. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t particularly want to be there either. Dealing with Masks is weird enough. Shrink them down to ten years old, and I’m officially freaked out. Kids are not my strong suit.
“Yes,” my father said in that tone he has that somehow conveys You will stop arguing and do as I tell you. Now. It’s something I’ve been working on developing whenever I’m alone in my room, but I have a long way to go before I reach his level. He once managed to stop a riot all by himself.
“Fine,” the boy huffed, and kicked the table leg petulantly. “Twenty-six hours and three minutes. Approximately.” Freaky. Definitely freaky.
“Hm.” My father scribbled down something that looked like ‘don’t forget eggs on fourth’. Or maybe ‘disturbed elephants cry.’ The only person who can decipher his handwriting anymore is his secretary, Ms. Heartshorn, and she’s been with him since he first opened the practice in ‘73. “Why did you wait so long to come to me?”
The boy scrunched his face even further into a frown, which was adorable-disturbingly so, what with the mask and all-and kicked the table leg again. “Sandy thought we should wait to see if it wore off on its own.” Sandy-? Oh, the woman in the waiting room wearing sunglasses and an obvious wig. “You can fix me, right?” he added, perfect I’m-not-going-to-let-you-know-I-want-to-cry wobble in his voice.
My father’s expression suggested that he thought the boy had brain damage, but he bruskly said “Yes, of course,” and scrawled a few more notes. “But you really should have called me immediately. If the spell-or whatever it is-has set, undoing it may prove . . . complicated.” Which was his way of saying ‘nothing doing’.