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 eyes are a soft hazel color, a mix of browns and greens. I turn back to my bagel and comics as I see Mom walking into the kitchen in her flowery robe, the one Dad thought would be a great Mother’s Day present a few years ago. Funny how she only wears it when Dad’s home from business. She and Dad have been together since high school. They both graduated from Stillton Hig