No Home School For Egg Heads

​Her father shuffled as he closed their paper lunches. I think he had to pee. “Bye, poppa.”
“Remember, look out for the eggs. And tentacles. They’re hard to spot but they all have ‘em.”
“I know, I know.”
The Nest was bountiful.
The Nest was clean.
Disturbance unneeded
Unwed and clung
All shall heed.
I got on the school bus and took my seat next to a young boy with glasses who seemed to be reprogramming a digital watch. It was raining and the kids were drawing in the condensation. I winced, imagining the little spores of Nethgalum implanting in their tiny cortexes. This bus, this vessel of the state, taking us all to the indoctrination site. I clenched my jaw.
 
On my way to the bathroom I passed the library. I peeked to look in and it was empty so I opened the door. I wandered past carousels of magazines, graphic novels and school bulletins. I entered the racks and found myself in Religion 200-299. I canned the various religions. Nothing about mine. Of course. They are purposefully keeping the truth from the other students.
 
Back in class I raised my hand. When my teacher, Mr. Geoff, a tall and gangly man with an Adam’s apple who wore loose fitting Hawaiian shirts and sandals called on me, I paid close attention to his answer. As much as I loved Mr. Geoff, they must have put eggs in him.  The tentacles are probably in there too, just waiting for a quiet moment to come slithering out. I didn’t see anything really except a man in the drowsy process of digesting his lunch - probably heated up vegetarian chili again, to the chagrin of anyone else unfortunate enough to have chosen to lunch in the teacher’s lounge that afternoon. I asked about the religious text.
 
He shrugged and said they probably just didn’t think to order a copy but he could ask the librarian.
At dinner that night dad told me he didn’t buy it. “The leather of silver yanks the villainous, be he empty or be he filled. You’ll see, son.  You’ll see.”
I lay in bed later watching the light on the wall. They were all so straight. The windowsill. The angle of the roof. The hanging light pull. Within these perpendicularities and horizontal connections no eggs or tentacles could be found.  They formed, in some way, a protective barrier. I said aloud, in my best robot voice, “You will not come here. You will perish in the fires of Nethgalum whence you came.” This brought me some comfort.