Chapter Fifteen
ANGEL SINCLAIR
“Is this Small Group?” I asked when I arrived at Room 108. Bo and Jax were already seated at a round table. A man with his back to me was sitting with them.
The person with his back to me turned around. He was probably in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He smiled and waved me in.
“Hello, Ms. Sinclair. Please close the door behind you. Our group is now complete.”
As instructed, I closed the door and sat in the only chair available between Bo and Jax. My breath hitched in my throat, so I sat on my hands to keep them from showing my nervousness.
“Welcome to Small Group, everyone,” the man said. “My name is Jasper Kingston, and I’m your facilitator. What we do today is simple in construct. I’m going to ask each of you some questions. I may ask the same question to more than one person, and perhaps to all three of you. I want you to answer the questions I present as honestly and openly without wondering what I, or your classmates, might think. I warn you, some questions may be personal.”
Oh, please no. No, no, no. I wanted to get personal with everyone in this room as much as I wanted a root canal.
Jax leaned forward, frowning. “What’s the point of asking personal questions in a group of strangers?”
Mr. Kingston didn’t seem perturbed by Jax’s question. “Mr. Drummond, I assure you, over the course of the next few weeks, you’ll know your classmates better than you ever imagined. Now, shall we continue or does anyone want to excuse themselves from this exercise?”
None of us said anything further, so Mr. Kingston spoke again. “Fine. Mr. Coleman, you get the first question. How would you describe the color blue to someone who is blind?”
“What?” Bo said in confusion.
I exchanged a baffled look with Jax. What kind of question was that? Was this the line of personal questioning Mr. Kingston was talking about? Or was this just to throw us off, to see how we handled the unexpected?
Mr. Kingston patiently repeated his question, either not aware or not caring how bizarre the question sounded. Bo fell silent, likely trying to process. I had no idea how I’d answer the question and hoped fervently I wouldn’t have to.
“I guess I would take the blind person’s hand and stick it in a bowl of cool water,” Bo finally said. “I’d tell them water is blue, the oceans are blue, the sky is blue, and blue is a cool, soothing color.”
Mr. Kingston leaned back in his chair. “Interesting. Why did you choose that method of explanation?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just figured if they couldn’t see, they would have to feel the color. That probably doesn’t make sense.”
Personally, I thought it a clever way to explain color to someone who couldn’t see. My respect for Bo went up a notch. But Mr. Kington’s expression didn’t change, and he didn’t say whether it was a good answer or not, so who knew?
“Thank you, Mr. Coleman. Ms. Sinclair, if you were to stack this room in pennies only, what would be the total amount of money?”
“Excuse me?” I stammered. It had only been a few minutes and I was already experiencing mental whiplash. What was with these strange questions?
He repeated the question, adding, “Please explain your calculations aloud.”
For a moment, I could only stare at him. It took me a full minute to wrap my head around the question before the rational part of my brain took over. “Um, okay. First I would have to account for the size of the penny. I would estimate the size as nineteen millimeters by nineteen millimeters, with a thickness of 1.5 millimeters. That would make the total volume of the penny 541.5 cubic millimeters.”
Mr. Kingston dipped his head indicating he was following, so I continued.
“Then I’d have to determine the size of this room.” I turned around in my chair looked at all four corners and the ceiling. “It seems to be about nine meters by nine meters with five meters for ceiling height. Taking that into account, if I divided the penny volume, which is 541.5, into the total volume of the room—I would get the figures of five thousand millimeters times nine thousand millimeters times nine thousand millimeters. That results in a monetary value of $7,479,224.37.”
Bo whistled under his breath, but Mr. Kingston’s face remained expressionless. “Explain the formula, please,” he said.
“The formula is the room volume divided by the volume of a single penny, divided by one hundred, to get a dollar amount.”
“I see. How do you account for the spaces between the pennies?”
“I’m calculating each penny as though it was square, so the space is included in the 541.5 calculation. There’s no need to account for it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Sinclair.” He turned to Jax. “Mr. Drummond, you and your buddies are examining a car engine. The friend to your right says the closed coil end of a valve spring should go against the cylinder head. The buddy to your left says all valve springs use shims to control free-spring height. Who is right?”
Jax snorted and leaned his elbows on the table. “First, all valve springs do not use shims to control assembled free-spring height, or any assembled height, for that matter. My buddy on the right is correct. A closed coil end of a valve spring should go against the cylinder head.”
“Thank you, Mr. Drummond.”
The questioning continued with a series of strange questions to each of us. Bo seemed to get the more odd, abstract questions. Jax got pointed questions about mechanics and engineering. I received math and computer questions. We were never told if we were wrong or right, and Mr. Kingston only asked follow-up questions if he wondered about our method or reasoning.
After at least an hour of this exhausting line of bizarre questioning, the questions suddenly turned more personal.
“So, Mr. Coleman, what would you say is your greatest weakness?” Mr. Kingston asked. “I would like to remind you that we value honesty in this line of questioning, so please keep that in mind when answering.”
“My greatest weakness?” Bo asked. He didn’t seem as taken aback by the abrupt shift in questioning. Maybe we were all getting better prepared at expecting the unexpected.
“Yes, your greatest weakness,” he repeated.
“Well, finally, a question that isn’t so hard.” Bo relaxed back against his chair. “My family is my weakness. We’re a tight-knit unit.”
Mr. Kingston clasped his hand on the table. “Explain how a family is a weakness.”
“Because they mean the world to me. If someone wanted to hurt them or do wrong to them, it would cloud my judgment, make me susceptible to blackmail.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Coleman.” He turned his attention to Jax and studied him. “Mr. Drummond, how would you say your family has handled money and financial matters over the course of your lifetime?”
“Money?” Jax stared at him with in disbelief before he broke off laughing. “Wait. That’s my personal question? Seriously? You’re asking me about money?”
“Yes, Mr. Drummond. I’m asking how your family handled their finances while you were growing up.”
“That’s the wrong question to ask me.” Jax lifted his hands. “There was no money. I’m even not sure if my old man had a bank account. If he did, he never shared it with me.”
“But the bills were paid, correct?”
“Sometimes. By my mom mostly, and in later years by me. I suppose he handled some of the bills.”
“Okay, then I wish to adjust the question. How do you handle money, Mr. Drummond?”
“Me? If that’s a veiled way of asking me if I have a bank account, I don’t. Although you probably already know that. I’m a money-under-the-mattress kind of guy.” He snapped his fingers, and a hundred-dollar bill suddenly appeared in them. “I also like to keep spare change in my pocket, just in case.”
I gaped at how he’d made the money appear out of thin air, but Mr. Kingston didn’t seem surprised in the slightest. “How exactly do you earn that money that goes under the mattress?” he asked.
Jax’s fingers tightened on bill, but I might have been the only one who noticed. “Not illegally, if that’s what you’re asking. I take odd jobs after school and on the weekends. Cutting wood, working on cars, yard work. Sometimes I do construction. Stuff like that.”
Mr. Kingston studied Jax. “I see. Are those the jobs that earn you the most money?”
I wondered where Mr. Kingston was going with this line of questioning. Why did it matter whether Jax had money or not?
Jax’s face flushed slightly. It seemed like he was struggling with something to say before he finally answered. “No. That’s not where I get the good money.”
“Where does the ‘good money’ come from?”
His jaw tightened, and I could almost feel the tension rolling off him. “I get that by tutoring kids after school. Mostly math and physics. Sometimes I help engineering students at the community college. It pays well.”
“Do you ever do the homework for the students, Mr. Drummond?”
Jax stiffened but then slowly raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes. If the price is right.” His tone was flippant, but I could sense the embarrassment in his words. I swallowed hard, looking down at my hands. This felt wrong, making us expose deeply private things when we hardly knew each other. What was the point?
“Thank you, Mr. Drummond.” Mr. Kingston turned to me, and I braced myself for the worst.
“Ms. Sinclair,” he said. “Describe yourself at party that doesn’t include a family member. How do you act? Whom do you talk to?”
“A p-party?” I stammered.
“Yes, a social gathering with friends and acquaintances.”
“I, um, know what a party is. I just wasn’t expecting that question.” I hesitated, thinking the best way to approach the odd question. “Well, theoretically, if I had to go to a party, I would probably stand in a corner and not to talk to anyone.”
“Okay. Let’s not talk theoretically. Give me an example of how you’ve acted at an actual party in the past.”
Dread filled me at having to answer the question. I spoke so quietly, my voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve never been to a party before.” My cheeks burned in shame.
“All right, then,” Mr. Kingston said briskly, as if that embarrassing revelation wasn’t worth another moment of his time. “Onto the final round of questioning. Mr. Coleman, if you won a ten-million-dollar lottery prize this afternoon, what would be the first thing you’d spend the money on?”
Bo let out an audible breath, probably thankful he hadn’t gotten a weird question. “I’d buy a therapy dog for my older brother. He was in Afghanistan, and he’s got some issues. A dog would really help him a lot. We’ve applied for one, but we’re really far down on the list, and it’s expensive. But if I had ten million dollars, I’d not only buy the dog, but I’d hire a full-time trainer and a physical therapist to work with him.”
“Your nation is grateful for your brother’s service,” Mr. Kingston said.
Bo nodded his head and pressed his lips together. My heart squeezed in sympathy.
“Ms. Sinclair?”
I jerked my head up. “Yes?”
“What about you? What would be the first thing you bought with ten million dollars?”
Several possibilities flashed through my mind, but they always came back to one thing. Mr. Kingston had asked us to be honest, so that’s what I would be. I clenched my hands in my lap and summoned the courage to speak the truth.
My truth.
“I’d use it to find out what happened to my dad,” I said. “He, ah, disappeared when I was little. So I’d hire private detectives and spend whatever it took to find out what happened to him. Whatever was left over, I’d give to my mom.”
“I see.” His tone was nonjudgmental, but I felt mortified and more than a little sick to my stomach. How much further would they crack us open and let us spill out in order to understand what made us tick?
But Mr. Kingston had already moved on. “Mr. Drummond, how about you? How would you spend the ten-million-dollar prize?”
Jax laughed. “That’s an easy answer. Fast cars, fast women, and a fast life.”
“I see. Is that your final answer?”
“It is, unless you clarify the question.”
Mr. Kingston raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”
“You changed up the question for me. You didn’t ask me what would be the first thing I spent the money on. You just asked me what I would spend it on in general.”
Mr. Kingston nodded, a flash of interest sparking in his eyes. “I stand corrected. I so revise my question to you. What would be the first thing you spent your money on?”
“I’d buy something for my mom.” This time around, Jax’s voice was oddly devoid of sarcasm.
“And what would that something be?” Mr. Kingston pressed.
“Seriously?” Jax looked at him incredulously. “You need to know exactly what I’d buy my mom?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Jax paused for so long I didn’t think he was going to answer. Finally, he spoke, his voice so soft I had to lean forward to hear it. “A headstone, okay? I’d buy her the biggest, most beautiful marble headstone in the entire cemetery. Satisfied?”
“Quite.” Mr. Kingston snapped his briefcase shut and stood. “Thank you, students. This concludes our session for today. I appreciate your candid answers. I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re free to go.”
He abruptly left, leaving the three of us sitting there in dazed silence, gutted and more than a little embarrassed about what we’d just revealed about ourselves. I had to close my eyes for a moment to regain my composure.
Jax was the first to leave, shoving back from the table and slamming the door on his way out.
Bo reached over and patted my hand. “You okay, Angel?”
It was a kind word from a guy I didn’t know, and I while I appreciated it, mortification swamped me. I’d been emotionally exposed in front of strangers, and the way I felt about that was too raw and uncomfortable for me to process at the moment. I nodded at Bo, unable to speak past the lump clogging my throat. Without another word, I left, leaving him sitting there alone with his thoughts.
This UTOP thing was turning out to be a lot harder than I’d expected.