The Gift: The Return of Wonder

Shell sat down at a picturesque circular wooden dining table set for four. Flashes of lightning from the storm outside brightened the shadowy trees, shrubs, and a manicured garden that danced in melodic disarray, swaying in a chaotic rhythm of wind and pelting precipitation. Her eyes focused on the storm outside, wondering why she had never seen colored raindrops before and if this storm really did differ from all other storms.

A collection of casserole dishes filled with mashed sweet potatoes, string beans, and two separate types of lasagna adorned the table. One, Shell could tell, belonged to her and her mother; the greenish tint gave away that her mom added spinach to their signature vegetarian dish for the evening. Shell had chosen vegetarianism only recently after accidentally watching a graphic video of poultry processing online. Mrs. Wayburn considered lasagna her specialty. The other lasagna she stuffed like a meat lover’s pizza, with pepperoni, ground beef, and chorizo. Olives, warm bread, a dipping concoction made of olive oil, cracked pepper, and Parmesan cheese, along with homemade biscuits and a large bowl of apple-walnut salad, decorated the rest of the table.

Shell sat between her parents and across from her brother. Her beautiful brunette mother reached to her and her freckle-faced brother, Skitch, inviting the family to hold hands around the table. She and her brother grabbed a hold and reached for their balding and surly-looking father. “Happy Dinner,” they all said in unison. Then they each extracted the folded napkins from their matching napkin holders and began making their own plates.

No one spoke. The only noise came from the clanking of spoons into serving dishes preceding a cacophony of metal clanging against porcelain plates. Then followed the clicking and grinding of teeth as mouths dislodged food from utensils. The staccato-like dotting of rain against the windowpane and the explosions of thunder from the storm accompanied the familiar clatter, but resonated with comfort more than intimidation.

Mrs. Wayburn attempted to draw her feeding-focused family’s attention with her tired and intense, though still inviting eyes. She forced herself to liken the clamor to an indication of overwhelmed appreciation for her culinary efforts.

“This looks great, sweetie,” Mr. Wayburn stated, not looking up from the feast in front of him.

A long-awaited smile crossed Mrs. Wayburn’s face, as if her lips had held their breath awaiting acknowledgment or some semblance of family interaction.

“Well, it’s Sunday. We should get ready for our big week,” she explained. Mrs. Wayburn, Victoria to those outside her home, aspired to live the life of the model modern woman. Beyond having her profession as a news anchor on an internationally televised network, she hoped to excel at everything a professional woman could do while still upholding the traditions beset upon women from generations ago. Regardless if her love for cooking came from social pressures or fortunate coincidence, Mrs. Wayburn used dinner to show off her skills. “So, kids, are you ready for school tomorrow?”

Shell glanced at her mother disapprovingly. Skitch, Shell’s taller but younger brother by three years, responded with a mouth full of food. “Oh, yeah. Can’t wait,” he muttered as food fell from his mouth.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Mr. Wayburn instructed.

Lightning struck outside and the immediate thunder vibrated the house like a subwoofer, shaking the fork out of Shell’s hand. It clanked against the plate. She picked it up quickly and glanced around to measure an appropriate level of embarrassment, but no one noticed.

“How about you, mi Shell?” Mrs. Wayburn redirected. Shell cringed when her less-than-fifteen-percent-Cuban mother said her name like that. Shell believed that if her mother wanted to caller her “mi Shell” she should have just named her Michelle.

I’m finally out of middle school and I’ll get to join all the kids who think I’m the idiot that had to repeat eighth grade, she wanted to say. “Just thrilled,” she replied.

“Now, dear,” Mrs. Wayburn replied, aware of her daughter’s sarcasm.

“I’m gonna miss you, sis. It was fun riding the bus with you. You were like that lame eighth grader that had to hang out with sixth graders to feel cool.” Skitch laughed at his own joke.

“I hope Mom and Dad keep you in middle school forever,” she retorted from across the table.

“I bet you’ll still be shorter than a sixth grader no matter what school you go to,” Skitch snarled.

Fury, rage, envy and embarrassment coated Shell’s face. The past year raced through her mind as she recalled each event that culminated in her current disapproval with the rest of the table. First came her mother’s surprise announcement that she would repeat the eighth grade, telling her she needed to show more social development. That led to the duplicative year wasted on lessons she already learned and the ironic further development of her anti-social behavior as her new classmates referred to her as “the old kid.” This added insult to injury since her birthday came before most everyone else’s amongst her original classmates. Finally, her father’s suggestion, which became her mother’s mission, of a summer spent candy-striping as a résumé-slash-character builder seemed to indicate their lack of confidence in their daughter’s ability to make responsible decisions. Everyone’s lower opinion of her fueled her lack of respect for everyone else. 

“I hate you, Skitch!”

“You two!” The smile disappeared from Mrs. Wayburn’s face. “No arguing at the dinner table.” Silence resumed for several minutes as they all resorted back to their own plates.

Mr. Wayburn, always the fastest eater, scanned the table as he prepared for his second helping. “Any fun stories coming up tomorrow, my love?” Asking his wife about work always served as an easy icebreaker and guaranteed an extensive stream of dialogue.

“Well, I’m sure this storm will cause enough damage. The weather reports right now are calling it a global event. I’m sure we’ll have several conversations with our meteorologists. We’ll interview some experts, take some stories from our affiliates, and see what we can put together. We’ll probably cover some back-to-school stuff, too. Shopping. Clothing. Oh! That reminds me,” she redirected her pending question to Shell. “Did you see the GNN bag I put in your room? Some designers came by the studio today with some of their back-to-school fashion lines. I brought you some things they had in your size that you can wear to school tomorrow. What did you think?”

I think, awesome! I’ll be the oldest freshman in the class and the only one still getting dressed by their mother, Shell considered for her response before saying in a less than enthusiastic tone, “I didn’t see the bag. Sorry. I’ll check it out.”

“You mean to say thank you, right young lady?” Mr. Wayburn bellowed. Skitch chuckled. Shell shuddered.

Thank you for the bag of free stuff to make up for the fact that you didn’t take me back-to-school shopping or thank you for holding me back and setting me up for a very embarrassing first day of high school, she wondered before giving a reluctant “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Wayburn directed to her daughter. Sensing Shell’s uneasiness, she attempted to lift her spirits. “You made great strides last school year, sweetie. I think you’ve put yourself in a great position to really succeed in high school.

“Succeed? Anything I do, you’re just going to tell me it’s not good enough.” Shell surprised herself. I shouldn’t have said that.

“Calm down, Shell,” her father warned.

“We just want to make sure you are ready for opportunities when they present themselves,” Mrs. Wayburn added.

“Chance favors the prepared mind,” Mr. Wayburn quoted for the millionth time in Shell’s life.

“Have you locked down your career path, yet?” her mother asked. Shell resented the barrage of parental advice aimed at her from both sides of the table and cut her eyes at the question. After sixth grade, students selected their career path and tailored their class schedule accordingly. Shell had changed hers every year since then and her mother asked her about it on what felt like a daily basis.

“You’re not still stuck on mythology, are you?” Mr. Wayburn pressured. “There’s no future in history. Especially fictional history.

“I’m going to be an astronaut,” Skitch chimed in, excited to share his recent decision.

“See,” Mr. Wayburn presented to Shell. “Your brother made his decision.”

“Can I be excused?” Shell muttered under her breath as she dropped her silverware on her plate.

“Yes, you may,” Mrs. Wayburn answered, surprising her husband.

Mr. Wayburn huffed in disapproval. “Check that attitude, young lady, or you won’t last a day in high—”

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it,” Mrs. Wayburn interrupted, “but it’s there for you if you want.”

Shell made a noisy exit from the dinner table. She placed her plate in the sink and stomped up to her room. 

Posters of boy bands and professional athletes decorated her yellow-painted walls. Trophies from tennis and basketball camps and tournaments, along with ribbons of all colors from horseback riding and gymnastics, lined the shelf facing the foot of her bed. Figurines of horses and an old jewelry box with a ballerina draped in bracelets and hair bands sat on her nightstand. She noticed the GNN bag by her door. She must have walked right past it when she first got home.

Despite her attempts to ignore the bag because of her anger toward her mother, her curiosity eventually overtook her. She ran over to pick it up, avoiding the damp area of the carpet, and dumped the contents on her bed. A bright blue yoga top with a matching vintage long skirt looked pretty impressive. Shell felt even guiltier when she picked up the top and felt the weight tugging on the left sleeve.

No way, she thought. She placed the top back down on the bed and reached for the sleeve. She nearly gasped. “amginE Armer!”

She fought her urge to run to her door and yell an apology downstairs to her mom.

Shell pulled out a change purse from her semi-wet backpack and dumped it out onto the bed. Her ID, Visa Allowance card, a few coins, and some bills lay scattered on her comforter. She gawked over her new Armer. The forearm fashion-tech accessory took the world by storm a few years ago and she had asked for one repeatedly. Now she could access all of her smartphone features on a purse that wrapped around her arm. It was her ticket into the amginE Games. She marveled at how seamlessly it integrated and coordinated with the outfit. She began to place the items on her bed into the accessory and synced it to her wrap phone. Even the sleeve of the shirt had slots for cards to slide through it and into the Armer and a flap that could snap shut to cover the control screen.

“So cool,” Shell said out loud as she unsnapped a couple of the buttons, separating the Armer from the shirt. It looked even cooler on its own. With its bright gold croc-embossed patent leather and black accents around the seams; Shell knew she had the coolest Armer she had ever seen.

Refocusing her attention on getting ready for school, she snapped the Armer back onto the sleeve of her new top and placed everything on her charge pad to make sure her batteries did not die. She loaded her backpack with a few smart pens, her tablet, and her reader. While peering across her room, making sure she had everything ready, she noticed a damp pile of pink and white clothes on the ground. She didn’t remember changing out of her work clothes, nor did she remember leaving them on the wet part of the floor.

“I think they’ll need this back,” she told herself as she held up the apron. “Although, this could come in handy one day.” Shell threw the wet clothes in her hamper and hung the apron on her doorknob to dry.

She hopped in bed, but still felt too excited to sleep. She grabbed her Scroll, a laptop computer with a keyboard made for typing with one hand that rolled up into a tight little cylinder. She laid the detachable screen on her propped up legs, rested the touch-pad uni-board on her stomach, opened her books app and scrolled through all the books she had read over the summer, most of them assigned reading. She paused in admiration of her favorite book, one her grandfather wrote more than fifty years ago.

She skimmed through a few of her favorite amginE Game sites and tried to narrow down the events in which she wanted to simul-play. With her new Armer, she could finally watch shows, play along, and impact the story with millions of others. After checking out some news alerts about the storm, the riots it seemed to incite, and a video showing a series of lightning strikes that appeared to spell out words, she sedately rolled up her scroll and went to sleep, unaware of where her dreams would take her.