The Midnight Hour

Who can really explain the feeling, the desire to be something more? Forme, it is a strange sort of tugging, like all of me isn’t really here, as if that missingpiece is really somewhere else, engaging in the future that I hope to one day bepart of. I know I am meant for something more. I can’t really explain it, at leastnot 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 peoplealways 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 softwarecompany Cabbot Industries. Although he is an owner, he loves being hands-onand 'part of the action.' We don’t have much to worry about in the way offinances, but we pay for it with Dad’s constant absence. He’s always away forwork and business, typically halfway across the world.I trudge my way downstairs, fighting back the desire to rush back up tomy 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 walkinto 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, showinga little too much of his breakfast.I turn to the breadbox on the bakers rack and pull out a bagel. Afterpopping it into the toaster, I turn to get the cream cheese out of the fridge. Allof the appliances in the kitchen are stainless steel and pretty much in spotless10E. K. Schiller and Holly Schillercondition. I make an effort to wipe my prints from the fridge’s handle beforegrabbing 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 tosix 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, whatwould it be? Would you wish for fame, riches, or to be president?' Denneybabbles from behind his bowl of cereal which I note, with a little disdain, is hisever favorite Lucky Charms.I don’t answer at first, just reach for my bagel, still nice and warm. I take itto the table then spread strawberry cream cheese all over it. Reaching for thecomic section of the paper, which Dad has thoughtfully left there for me, Ifinally 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 liferevolving around any of the three, at least not solely.'Just wanted to know,' he mumbles, milk dribbling down his chin andback into the cereal bowl. He stands to take his bowl to the sink, wiping themilk 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’stypical. Denney’s short for his age, almost as tall as I am, which is a not quiteimpressive 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 kitchenin her flowery robe, the one Dad thought would be a great Mother’s Day presenta 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 fromStillton High, and both grew up here together. We have never lived anywhereelse. Sometimes I wonder how they have made it this long. I always assume it’sbecause of Denney and me, the usual 'it’s for the kids’ sake.' The typica