Upon Turning Eleven

         Mahan stood in the formal office.  It wasn’t a pleasant place to be.  Mr. Gratuis sat behind his desk, which was covered with papers.  Mrs. Dowry remained at the door, watching from behind her perpetual frown.  It had been her job to bring Mahan here.  It had been her job to do many things that Mahan had not desired, and she’d made the most of it in Mahan’s eyes.
         “Well,” Mr. Gratuis said as Mahan stood before him, “what is it that you want?”  It was a strange way to start an interview, especially when interviews like this one didn’t end up well.  Mahan was already scared.
         “To know why I’m here?” Mahan ventured.  Nothing like this had happened to anyone Mahan had know before.  Mrs. Dowry had often said that some things weren’t meant to be understood, merely participated in.  It made no sense.  It sounded dangerous.
         “I suppose no one has bothered to tell you,” Mr. Gratuis smiled.  It was a strange smile, Mahan thought.  Not contrived, definitely, but there was something different about it.  “It is your birthday.  Your eleventh birthday, I believe.  And as a gesture of good will on my part I won’t count this request against your total.”
         “What can I wish for?” Mahan asked.  Birthdays had never included wishes before, only obligations.
         “Oh, just about anything,” Mr. Gratuis said.  “Of course, each wish comes with a price.  You knew that, didn’t you?”
         “You mean like I won’t get to see my friends any more?” Mehan felt the tears starting to come unbidden.  She’d heard something like that before.  It wasn’t something she wanted.
         “Something like that,” Mr. Gratuis said, his smile fading.  “What happens rather depends on what you wish for.”
         “And if I want things to stay the way they are now?” Mehan brushed the tears back from her face.  “What if I wish for that?”
         “There are some things that aren’t possible,” Mr. Gratuis sighed, “even for me.  You do realize that you’ve been marked for this since you arrived here.  The whole of this,” Mr. Gratuis waved his hands around him, “has been generated for you.  To nurture you, to instruct you, and to help you grow.  None of it was ever intended to be permanent.”
         “Than it isn’t real?” Mahan couldn’t help crying.  All of those Mahan counted as friends, was their friendship merely contrived?  “Are you saying that all of this was a game?”  That was more than Mahan was willing to accept.  It was hard enough, realizing that you were different from everyone else.  Life had been rough, even here.  Mahan didn’t make friends easily, and it would be unbearable if everything here, her friends and all her accomplishments, were a sham.
         “What is real?” Mr. Gratuis sighed.  “For you, your wishes are real.  They can’t be taken away from you.  They can’t be made for you by anyone else.  As you are now eleven, you have eleven of them all to yourself.  Only you get to determine what they will be.  Unfortunately, that is about all time and place will remain real, as you put it.”
         “I don’t know what I want to wish for,” Mahan looked down as tears began to fall faster than they could be brushed off the cheeks by the wiping of fingers.
         “That’s alright,” Mr. Gratuis assured her.  “There isn’t any rush when it comes to these things.”
         Mahan’s eyes strayed to Mrs. Dowry.  There were many things that might be wished against her, but none of them seemed important enough to give up those hard won friends, and all the things it had taken these eleven years to accomplish.  Mrs Dowry had been part and parcel to everything, but it had been Mahan who had made them happen.
         “Things won’t become any easier as you get older, child,” Mrs. Dowry said in her dry, sullen voice.  Mahan knew that she spoke the truth.  But the wishes weren’t Mrs. Dowry’s to make.  Mahan was certain that Mrs. Dowry would have several suggestions if she were asked.  That would be one way to figure out what not to wish for, but Mahan was willing to take Mrs. Dowry as a confidant.
         “Can I wait, and ask for them when I figure out what it is I want to wish for?” Mahan asked.
         “Of course you can,” Mr. Gratuis smiled once more.  “Take as long as you need.”
         “Can I leave now?” Mahan asked.
         “There’s a party waiting for you in the common hall,” Mr. Gratuis told her.  “Why don’t you go and celebrate with your friends while you think things over.  We will talk about this later.”
         “Thank you,” Mahan said, stumbling out of the office through the tears.
         “Things don’t look so good,” Mrs. Dowery sighed when Mahan was gone.
         “Oh, I think we came closer this time around,” Mr. Gratuis seemed a bit relieved.
         “The child can’t even decide what to wish for,” Mrs Dowry disagreed.  “Everything’s pent up in tears and heartstrings tugging the wrong way.  That’s what we get for trying it your way.”
         “I should remind you that your way didn’t work very well in the past,” Mr. Gratuis became stern.  “It produced several unmitigated disasters.”
         “And what have you produced?” Mrs. Dowry was skeptical.  “A weeping child that can see nothing but heartache.  That’s what.  My way produced better.”
         “Ah, yes,” Mr. Gratuis seemed to brighten.  “What did I produce?  A birthday cake that might celebrate a truly new beginning, a weeping birthday child who might just be the first through all of this who realizes what is important, and eleven wishes, eleven gifts to open that might make a difference instead of more problems.  No, I think my way may have finally produced what we had hoped for all along.”
         “Only time will tell,” Mrs. Dowry huffed.
         “Yes, it will,” Mr. Gratuis agreed.  “It is all up to Mahan now.  It never was up to us at all.”


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