The Midnight Hour

Who can really explain the feeling, the desire to be something more? For
me, it is a strange sort of tugging, like all of me isn't really here, as if that missing
piece is really somewhere else, engaging in the future that I hope to one day be
part of. I know I am meant for something more. I can't really explain it, at least
not in words, but I know there has to be more to life than what my eyes can see,
than what my mind can understand. My heart tells me so. And aren't people
always saying to follow your heart? It's a golden rule or something.
Unfortunately, my life is still mostly normal. I'm the oldest of two children.
My family is pretty wealthy, thanks to my dad's CEO position for his software
company Cabbot Industries. Although he is an owner, he loves being hands-on
and "part of the action." We don't have much to worry about in the way of
finances, but we pay for it with Dad's constant absence. He's always away for
work and business, typically halfway across the world.
I trudge my way downstairs, fighting back the desire to rush back up to
my room, jump in bed, and hide under the covers. I shake it off, telling myself,
Less than five months of school left, Elle. You can do it. Stifling a yawn, I walk
into the kitchen.
Denney, my fifteen-year-old little brother, is sitting at the kitchen table,
eating a bowl of cereal. He gives me a small smile in acknowledgment, showing
a little too much of his breakfast.
I turn to the breadbox on the bakers rack and pull out a bagel. After
popping it into the toaster, I turn to get the cream cheese out of the fridge. All
of the appliances in the kitchen are stainless steel and pretty much in spotless
10
E. K. Schiller and Holly Schiller
condition. I make an effort to wipe my prints from the fridge's handle before
grabbing a knife and plate, just in time for my bagel to pop back out.
I can hear Dad in the living room, pacing around as he talks on the phone.
He's home for the week, something that only happens about once every month to
six weeks. Probably talking to some business associate or assistant, I think to myself.
"If you could have one wish granted, no matter how big or small, what
would it be? Would you wish for fame, riches, or to be president?" Denney
babbles from behind his bowl of cereal which I note, with a little disdain, is his
ever favorite Lucky Charms.
I don't answer at first, just reach for my bagel, still nice and warm. I take it
to the table then spread strawberry cream cheese all over it. Reaching for the
comic section of the paper, which Dad has thoughtfully left there for me, I
finally turn to look at my brother.
"Why?" I ask. "Have you suddenly become a genie or something?"
I find I'm a little dissatisfied by his wish choices; I can't imagine my life
revolving around any of the three, at least not solely.
"Just wanted to know," he mumbles, milk dribbling down his chin and
back into the cereal bowl. He stands to take his bowl to the sink, wiping the
milk from his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
I shrug, shaking my head at him. He's a bit of a dork. But I guess that's
typical. Denney's short for his age, almost as tall as I am, which is a not quite
impressive five foot three inches. Most boys his age have hit a growth spurt,
shooting them well past me in height; I am waiting for Denney to hit his soon.
He has my dishwater blond hair, a few shades lighter than Mom's nut brown.
And his