The Waiting Room.

7 (part 2)-wait it out.

A medium pot of shellfish boiled over Linette Tarver's stove. Her eldest daughter, Kera, rolled her eyes tending to it as her mother read a children's book to young Samara.

"As the mercenaries rowed through the Atlantic, children told each other tales of the piercing eyes glowing below. It was said that vines creeping along the sides of pontoons were once evil tendrils pulling boatmen underneath. Before they could reach, Sopphel seized them with the suns warmth, and grew kelp-like saplings. Those lost at sea could chew them for nutrition."

It was the newest picture book from Herma Peachy, released not six months ago. Samara imagined what the saplings would taste like, fantasizing about the stories she'd write if she were lost at sea. She pictured an open ocean, entirely full of possibility and hungry for endeavor. The water clear, where even the deepest sea floor is visible on a sunny day. She would be a hyper-intelligent marine biologist who was tragically blasted adrift by an unlucky wave. And even though she would never see her loved ones again, the research and memories she'd discover would find someone, someday, and solidify her place in history. Maybe then, she though, Herma will write a story about me. Her mother closed the storybook and took out two hand-crafted algebra worksheets.

"Why not try some of these now, Samara? Both mathematics and stories are important," Linette suggested. Her daughter merely huffed and took her crayon-drawing of the vast ocean to her room.

Linette slumped for a moment, suddenly startled by a screeching kettle. She noticed Kera stirring gently and thought to make a note about speed and control, but revoked the urge. "I finished the worksheets you gave me," her eldest mentioned.

"How spectacular! May I see them?"

Kera pointed to her scramble of mathematic supplies on the island without taking her eyes off the stovetop. She found herself struggling to breathe as her mother marked the work she has done, losing control of her hand as she continued to stir. Kera shifted her weight, focusing on keeping her body stable. She glanced at her mother for a simple second, who was doing calculations on scrap paper. In some narcissistic way, it bothered Kera that her mother could be so calm when she thought about how much effort it took Kera to allow her to see the work she'd done.

"twenty-nine out of thirty-three," Linette announced. "Well done."

After Kera was relieved from head-chef, she resided in her room. A collection of faux stuffed-animals greeted her on the way in, inviting her into a lively conversation. Eighty-eight percent, she shook her head. Not even an A. She began to analyze her mistakes, without a clue as to why they weren't correct. Linette fervently reminded her children that marks could always be remedied, and Kera thought of this, as she recycled the worksheets. The sixteen-year-old covered herself in a duvet and put on Bose Quiet Comfort headphones. She transcribed lyrics as she heard them, as there was little access to the internet in Grimesmere.

"Well, I guess the best that I can do now
Is pretend that I done nothing wrong
And a dream about a train that's gonna
Take me back where I belong
Well, now the ocean speaks and spits
And I can hear it from the interstate
And I'm screaming at my brother on a cell phone
He is far away."

Kera laughed at how silly she must have looked, crying into a notebook full of song lyrics. She knew one day she would change, and not turn to Bright Eyes for wisdom, but she also knew that Bright Eyes existed for people like her. Kera couldn't find pride in herself often, but when she accepted herself in this state as enough, she gleamed.

"Did you review your worksheets?" Linette asked across a dining table embellished with an oceanic feast.

"Yeah, they were just a couple dumb mistakes," she replied. Her mother nodded her head, proud of the strides Kera took to thrive in her academics.

Kera excused herself first, washing dishes as her family ate. She imagined herself as a Jack of All Trades. In ten years, she'd be the CEO of an environmentalist organization, sweeping the ocean of trash. She'd have a loyal fan-base for her indie music that charted immediately, and she'd have a whole room in her home dedicated to academic awards. None of these would unfold, of course, but as she stood over the sink, torso damp from the sloshing water, she knew all she'd have to do is wait.

"Kera, do you know what tomorrow is?" Samara tugged at the loose fabric of her sister's shirt.

"June fifteenth?" Her sister playfully rolled her eyes as Kera pretended to be stumped. "Hmmm, could it be someone's birthday? But whose?" Samara began to giggle loudly, listing off a myriad of items she was expecting to receive the next day. She turned in early, hoping her twelfth birthday would arrive sooner, and begged Kera for a bedtime story.

Irwin slept with the town, on the top floor of an enormous home. Everything smelled like detergent, which bothered the Farmer. He felt like he didn't deserve it, but refused to punish himself, so he rested peacefully on a thousand-dollar mattress. A capsule laid in a king-size bed of dirt, closer to him than any other citizen, and took a deep breathe.
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