Text Leveling System

I Am the Cheese

RDQ:	3587	Max Word/Sent	72	Total Words	4987		Diff Words	1211
Lex	1110	Ave Word/.Sent	11	Hi Freq occurs	3910	78.4%	Hi freq	514	42.4%
AR	9.0	Long Sentences	19.4	Low Freq occurs	303	6.1%	Low freq	226	18.7%

I am riding the bicycle and I am on Route 31 in Monument, Massachusetts, on my way to Rutterburg, Vermont, and I'm pedaling furiously because this is an old-fashioned bike, no speeds, no fenders, only the warped tires and the brakes that don't always work and the handlebars with cracked rubber grips to steer with. A plain bike-the kind my father rode as a kid years ago. It's cold as I pedal along, the wind like a snake slithering up
my sleeves and into my jacket and my pants legs, too. But I keep pedaling, I keep pedaling.
This is Mechanic Street in Monument, and to my right, high above on a hill, there's a hospital and I glance up at the place and I think of my father in Rutterburg, Vermont, and my pedaling accelerates. It's ten o'clock in the morning and it is October, not a Thomas Wolfe October of burning leaves and ghost winds but a rotten October, dreary, cold, and damp with little sun and no warmth at all. Nobody reads Thomas Wolfe anymore, I guess, except my father and me. I did a book report on The Web and the Rock and Mr. Parker in English II regarded me with suspicion and gave me a B- instead of the usual A. But Mr. Parker and the school and all of that are behind me now and I pedal. Your legs do all the work on an old bike like this, but my legs feel good, strong, with staying power. I pass by a house with a white picket fence and I spot a little kid who's standing on the sidewalk and he watches me go by and I wave to him because he looks lonesome and he waves back.
I look over my shoulder but there's no one following.
At home, I didn't wave goodbye to anybody. I just left. Without fanfare. I didn't go to school. I didn't call anyone. I thought of Amy but I didn't call her. I woke up this morning and saw an edge of frost framing the window and I thought of my father and I thought of the cabinet downstairs in the den and I lay there, barely breathing, and then
I got up and knew where I was going. But I stalled, I delayed. I didn't leave for two hours because I am a coward, really. I am afraid of a thousand things, a million. Like, is it possible to be claustrophobic and yet fear open spaces, too? I mean, elevators panic me. I stand in the upright coffin and my body oozes sweat and my heart pounds and this terrible feeling of suffocation threatens me and I wonder if the doors will ever open. But the next day, I was playing center field-I hate baseball but the school insists on one participating sport-anyway, I stood there with all that immensity of space around me in center field and I felt as though I'd be swept off the face of the planet, into space. I had to fight a desire to fling myself on the ground and cling to the earth. And then there are dogs. I sat there in the house, thinking of all the dogs that would attack me on the way to Rutterburg, Vermont, and I told myself, This is crazy, I'm not going. But at the same time, I knew I would go. I knew I would go the way you know a stone will drop to the ground if you release it from your hand.
I went to the cabinet in the den and took out the gift for my father. I wrapped it in aluminum foil and then wrapped it again with newspaper, Scotch-taping it all securely. Then I went down to the cellar and got the pants and shoes and jacket, but it took me at least a half hour to find the cap. But I found it: the cap I needed, my father's old cap. It would be cold on the road to Vermont and this cap is perfect, woolen, the kind that I could
pull over my ears if the cold became a problem. Then I raided my savings. I have plenty of money. I have thirty-five dollars and ninety-three cents. I have enough money to travel first class to Vermont, in the Greyhound bus that goes all the way to Montreal, but I know that I am going by bike to Rutterburg, Vermont. I don't want to be confined to a bus. I want the open road before me, I want to sail on the wind. The bike was waiting in the garage and that's how I wanted to go. By bike, by my own strength and power. For my father.
I looked at myself in the mirror before I left, the full-length mirror on the side of the closet door in my parent's bedroom upstairs. I inspected myself in the mirror, the crazy hat and the old jacket, and I knew that I looked ridiculous. But what the hell, as Amy says, philosophically.
I thought longingly of Amy. But she was at school and almost impossible to call. I could have faked it. I could have called the school and pretended that I was her father and asked to speak to her, saying that there was an emergency at home. Her father is editor of the Monument Times and always speaks with emergency in his voice, his sentences like headlines.
But I have to be in the mood to pull off a stunt like that-in fact, those kinds of stunts are Amy's specialty. And besides, my mind was on the road to Vermont. I love Amy Hertz. It's ridiculous that her name is Hertz-she's probably heard a thousand car-rental jokes and I have vowed never to
make one. Anyway, I decided not to call her. Not until I'm away. I will call her on the way to Rutterburg, Vermont. And I will soothe myself by thinking of her and her Numbers and all the times she let me kiss her and hold her. But I didn't want to think about all that as I prepared for my journey.
I went to the kitchen and took out the bottle of pills from the cabinet and decided not to take one. I wanted to do this raw, without crutches, without aid, alone. I opened the bottle of pills and turned it over and let the pills fall out-they are capsules, actually, green and black-and I watched them disappear into the mouth of the garbage disposal. I felt strong and resolute.
I got the bike out of the garage and walked down the driveway, guiding the bike before I swung into the seat. I had my father's package in the basket above the front wheel. I was traveling light, with no provisions or extra clothing.
Finally, I leaped onto the bike, feeling reckless and courageous. At that moment, the sun came out, dazzling and brilliant: an omen of good fortune. I swung out into the street and a car howled its horn at me for straying too far into the roadway and I wavered on the bicycle, the front wheel wobbling. I thought, This is ridiculous, this trip to Rutterburg. I almost turned back. But I didn't. I thought of my father and I started pedaling away, and I gained momentum and knew I would go, nothing would stop me, nothing.
And now I am leaving Monument and crossing the town line into Aswell. A sign by the side of the
road says that the Aswell Rotary Club meets every Monday at noon. I have only gone four or five miles and my legs don't feel strong anymore. My legs are weary and my back sings with pain because I am out of condition. Frankly, I have never been in condition, which is a source of delight to Amy Hertz who dislikes all kinds of physical exercise.
I keep pedaling despite the weariness and the pain. I am determined to go to Rutterburg. I suck in the cold air and it caresses my lungs. My forehead is damp with sweat and I pull the cap down over my ears. I have all those miles to go.
"Take it easy," I tell myself. "Take it easy. One mile at a time."
And suddenly there's a long hill slanting down before me and the bike picks up speed and my legs are whirling madly, without effort, the bike carried by the momentum, and I let myself join the wind, soaring over the road as I coast beautifully down into Aswell.
Good morning. My name is Brint. We shall be spending some time together. (5-second interval.)
Good morning.
Shall we begin immediately? I have been advised that you are ready. The sooner we begin, the better it will be for you. I'm not sure where to begin.
First, you must relax. And then let your thoughts flow. Take your time-there is no cause for hurry. Go back if you wish back to your earliest remembrance. (8-second interval.)
It's hazy-just a series of impressions. Let the impressions come.
(5-second interval.) That night Tell me about that night.
It's as if I was born that night. I mean, became a person, a human being in my own right. Before that, nothing. Or those impressions again-lights-smell perfume, the perfume my mother always wore, lilac. Nothing else. And then that night (12-second interval.) Tell me about it.
He was in bed and the sheets were twisted around him and his body was hot, his eyes like raw onions, head aching. He cried out once or twice, softly, tentatively. He lifted his head toward the door. The door was partially open, allowing a slant of feeble light into the room. He curled up in bed, listening. He always liked to listen at night. Often he heard his mother and father murmuring in their bedroom, the bed making a lot of noise, and there were the nice sounds of his father and mother together, making soft sounds as if they were furry animals like the stuffed animals he always slept
with, Bittie the Bear and Pokey the Pig, his friends. His father would say: "Hey, boy, you're getting too old for all those toys, three and a half, going on four." The boy knew that his father was joking, that he would never take his friends away. Anyway, his mother would say: "Now, now, he's a long time from four, a long long time." The tenderness in her voice and her perfume like lilac in the spring.
Now the boy cuddled in the bed with Pokey the Pig, his favorite, clutched to his chest. But something kept him awake, prevented him from sleeping. Out of the half-dark of the house, he realized that his mother's and father's voices were different, not soft and murmuring the way they usually were at night, but louder. Not really louder but harsher. They were speaking in whispers but their voices scratched at the night and the dark. And he heard his mother say, "Shh. You might wake him."
The boy lay still, as unmoving as Pokey the Pig. The bed creaked in the next room, and he heard his father's bare feet padding toward his room. His figure blocked out the slant of light. Then his father's footsteps receded, the light spilled into the room again, and the boy felt brave and clever, knowing he had fooled his father. He wanted to tell Pokey how clever he was but he remained still and silent, not daring to move, listening not only with his ears but his entire being.
What did you hear?
I'm not sure. What I mean is, I don't
know whether I actually heard the words or if I'm filling them in now, like blank spaces on a piece of paper you have to complete. I was barely three and a half, I guess. Anyway, I knew they were discussing me. More than that. As if they were discussing what to do about me. And I got all panicky and began to cry. But quiet crying so they wouldn't hear me. (5-second interval.)
Why this panic?
Well, it's as if they were deciding my fate.
I thought they were going to send me away. I heard my mother say, "But what do we tell him?" And my father saying, "It doesn't matter, he's too young to realize what's happening." Did I really hear him saying that or did the sense of what he was saying come to me? Then they began talking about a trip, the three of us, and
I felt better. It was winter outside, snow and cold, and I didn't want to leave the house where it was nice and warm, but as long as we were together, I really didn't care.
Do you remember the trip?
Vaguely again. I remember a journey. Endless. On a bus, the terrible smell of the exhaust. The doors hissed like a snake when they opened. Impressions. Crowded, with luggage. Faces, my father's cigarettes, not the smell of smoke, really, but the
smell of his matches, the sulphur of the matches. Strange ...
(6-second interval.) What's strange?
I was always aware of two smells, my mother's perfume and the way my father always smelled of tobacco or smoke or the matches. But after that night, after the bus trip, I don't associate my father with cigarettes anymore. Because my father doesn't smoke. I've never seen him smoke a cigarette. But my mother's perfume was the same.
Do you remember anything else about the trip?
Not specifically. Mostly, the mood, the feeling of the trip, as if 
As if what?
It was spooky, scary but not in a haunted house sort of way. But as if we were being chased, as if we were running away. I remember my mother's face as she looked out the window. She looked so sad, purple half-moons under her eyes. So sad. And the bus speeding through the night ... (z5-second interval.)
Anything else?
We never went back. Not back to what I thought was home. We were in a different home. A different house. A different aura to the house. It was still winter and cold and we were together, my mother and
father and me, but everything was different. What it appears to be is this: Your family moved. From one part of the country to another. But not too far. It was still
winter where you went and winter where you came from. A lot of families move. Men are transferred in their jobs. Your father could have been transferred as well. Maybe.
Why are you hesitating? You appear uncertain.
I am.
About what? I don't know.
But he did know. He didn't want to confide the knowledge to the doctor, however. The doctor was a complete stranger and although he seemed sympathetic and friendly, he wasn't entirely comfortable with him. It should have been easy to tell him everything, all his doubts, to get it all off his chest, but he wasn't sure how to proceed. He wondered if he should tell him about the clues.
What clues?
What do you mean, "clues"?
What you just said-you used the word "clues."
He retreated into silence, stunned. Could the doctor read his mind? Impossible. Or maybe the medicine was doing funny things again. The medicine
was always playing tricks on him. And now it was making him believe he was only thinking when he was actually speaking aloud. He would have to be careful. He would have to watch himself, to listen for his voice. The panic shivered in his bones and a terrible tingling took possession of his body.
I'd like to go back now. Of course.
I'm tired.
I understand. Don't press. There's plenty of time.
Thank you.
Everything's going to be all right.
"Aswell. Fairfield. Carver!"
The man calls out the names like the train announcer at North Station in Boston. "Fleming-Hookset-Belton Falls!"
His voice is gravelly, as if his throat is full of stones, and his words leap over them: "Belton Falls is smack on the New Hampshire-Vermont line. Then the next stop-your last stop-right across the river is Rutterburg, Vermont."
He consults the map again.
"You're lucky, Skipper," he says. "You're going to touch three states-Massachusetts where you're standing right this minute and then New Hampshire and Vermont. But you're traveling at an angle and you only have to cover about seventy miles to do it."
Seventy miles doesn't seem far. Standing here in the gasoline station, anxious to be on my way, my legs itching to pedal that bike, seventy miles seems insignificant.
The old man looks up from the map. "How fast you figure you can go, Skipper?"
I want to get away but he's a nice old man, white hair and a face with so many red and blue veins that it resembles the road map in his hands. I had stopped at the service station to rest and ask for a map and to check the air in the tires. The old man, who seemed to be just hanging around, was eager to help, using a gauge to measure the air and then hunting up a map.
"I figure I can make ten miles an hour," I say. "Lucky if you make five. Or even four," the old man says. "I don't think you're going to make it today, Skipper."
"My mother and father and me-we once stayed in a great motel in Belton Falls. If I can make it that far, I can stay there tonight."
The old man squints at the map again. It flutters in the breeze. "Well, maybe. But there's other motels before then." He starts to fold the map. "Where you from, Skipper?"
"Monument." It has turned cold now and the sun has disappeared behind the clouds.
"Let's see-this is Aswell. How long did it take you to make it here from Monument?"
I really want to be going. "About an hour." He strokes his chin with the map. The map bulges in his hand. He has done a terrible job of folding it. "Well, from downtown Monument to this very spot is about five miles. But you had some good hills to coast down. Five miles an hour probably the best time you'll do all day." "Yes."
He turns away and looks up at the sky and then back at me again. "What do you want to go for, Skipper? It's a terrible world out there. Murders and assassinations. Nobody's safe on the streets. And you don't even know who to trust anymore. Do you know who the bad guys are?"
I want to be going. I don't want to listen. "Of course you don't. Because you can't tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. Nobody knows these days. Nobody. No privacy, either. Next time you use a phone, you listen. Listen close. You might hear a click. And if you do, then somebody's listening. Even if you don't hear a click, somebody might be listening anyway."
I kick at the tire of the bike.
"Don't trust anybody, Skipper. Ask for identification if a stranger comes near you. But you can't trust identifications, either. They can forge anything today-passports, licenses, you name it. So if you have to go, Skipper, be careful. Be careful."
He hands me the road map. "Keep it," he says. It's spotted with grease and not folded right but I tuck it into the basket, sliding it between the strap and my father's package.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Skipper," he says. "That cap you got on. Haven't seen one of them for years. In the old days, we called them tooks. The wife used to make them for the kids, with cut-rate wool she picked up at the mill."
"It's my father's cap," I say. "He kept it all these years. I'm going to visit him-he's in a hospital in Rutterburg and I figure he'll get a kick out of seeing the cap."
"That your father's jacket, too?" he asks. "Looks like one of them army fatigue jackets. I had a boy in the service. World War Two, that was. He wore a jacket like that. Looked too big for him, like yours. He got killed at a place called Iwo Jima you probably never heard of."
The blue veins are bulging out on his face, all mixed up with the red ones. I want to leave. I am getting nervous. I feel bad about his son, but I don't want to talk to him anymore. I'm afraid that he'll start asking about my father. And my mother. "I'm sorry about your son," I say.
He doesn't say anything but he wipes his hand across his face and sighs heavily as if he is suddenly very tired. "Well, have a good trip, Skipper," he says, stroking the front tire. "If I was forty years younger, I'd go along with you. The spirit's willing but the flesh is weak, like they say."
I leap on the bike. I head for the road.
"Thanks," I yell, looking back at him. "Thanks for the map and the air in the tires."
He stands there, looking sad, hands hanging at his sides.
"Be careful now," he calls, his voice cracked by the wind.
I wave and turn away, pedaling hard.
I have a destination to reach, and the old man is already in the past.
I am away. I am with the wind and the sun. I am the bike and the bike is me.
Now tell me, should we discuss Paul Delmonte?
Who?
Paul Delmonte. (8-second interval.) I'd prefer not to. (5-second interval.) Amy Hertz, then?
My headache is returning.
Relax for a moment. I shall send for medication.
I'd rather not have medication right now. As you wish.
(10-second interval.)
You seem upset. Please relax. Realize that the tension and the headache are anxiety reactions. And I'm sorry you are reacting this way. When we undertook these talks, we agreed that they must be voluntary on your part, that I would act merely as a guide. I would not take you to places where you do not wish to venture, into territory you do not wish to invade.
I understand.
We can return to Paul Delmonte and Amy Hertz another time.
My head really hurts. I feel nauseous, too. Let us suspend then.
Thank you.
The road is long and level and straight, and there are no dogs in sight and the sun is shining. I sing as I pedal along:
The farmer in the dell, The farmer in the dell, Heigh-ho, the merry-o, The farmer in the dell.
The cars speed past me because Route 1 19 is a state highway with a faded yellow line in the middle of it like an old ribbon left out in the rain too long. I sometimes steer the bike onto the sand of the soft shoulder, afraid that a car might hit me if I stray too far into the road itself. The wheels slide on the sand and I almost lose my balance. I keep singing:
The farmer takes a wife, The farmer takes a wife, Heigh-ho, the merry-o, The farmer takes a wife.
I try to sing the song the way my father always sings it, comically, making his voice go up and down, then loud and soft. He has a terrible singing voice-"You have a tin ear," my mother always says-but he always gets a kick out of singing that particular song. "It's our song," he says. I can remember how he'd pick me up when I was just a kid and swing me almost to the ceiling, singing: The wife takes the child,
The wife takes the child ...
And then he'd gently place me in my mother's lap where she'd be sitting, knitting or reading, and I would curl into her body, feeling warm and safe and protected from all the bad things in the world. I was only five or six at the time, I guess. And my father sang raucously and joyously:
Heigh-ho, the merry-o, The farmer in the dell.
"Dave, Dave," my mother would say. "You're a nut, a real nut." There was laughter and tenderness in her voice, and the lilac of her perfume surrounded me.
"Hey, what other family has a theme song tailor made for them?" my father would say, acting the clown now, prancing around the room.
The child takes the cat, The child takes the cat ...
"They didn't make up the song for us," my mother would say, falling in with the old game that always delighted me. This was in the days before she became sad, of course.
"Who says they didn't make up the song for us?" my father would ask. Looking down at me, he'd say, "What's your name, boy?" Pretending to be very serious now.
"Adam," I'd answer. "Adam Farmer." Glad to be a part of the game, a part of them.
"Right," my father would say. "Suppose our name was Smith? Did you ever hear anybody singing `Mr. Smith in the dell, Mr. Smith...'"
"Oh, David," my mother would say. And I'd laugh with delight and my father would begin singing again the way I sing now on Route 1 19
Heigh-ho, the merry-o, The child takes the cat ...
The day is suddenly glorious, the October trees burning in the sun, colors rioting, hectic reds and
browns. Sometimes the wind rises, startling a flock of birds into flight, sending leaves tumbling through the air and onto the highway. I pass a long meadow where cows lounge lazily, chewing their cuds.
I am glad that I didn't take the pills and I sing: The cat takes the rat,
The cat takes the rat, Heigh-ho, the merry-o, The cat takes the rat ...
I try to keep singing like my father but I have lost the touch. The wind catches at my throat and I realize I have to conserve my breath. My lungs burn and I figure I'd better stop singing for a while. My shoulders throb with pain and my fingers ache where they grip the handlebars.
A hill confronts me, sloping upward endlessly. I look behind me: nothing.
I get off the bike and stare at the hill.
I start pushing the bike and walk along beside it. I don't like to walk that way because I feel vulnerable. And I have to go to the john now. I should have gone at that gas station back in Aswell. I could go into the woods but I hesitate to stray from the road. Who knows what lurks in the woods? I am not only afraid of dogs but all animals, plus snakes and spiders. They are not rational. So I need to stay on the road and keep moving, keep moving, even if I am tired. I reach the top of the hill and a beautiful vista is spread below me. A mile or so away, a cluster of buildings and a white church steeple stabbing the sky. And
I leap onto my bike again and start down the hill, down, down, seeking again my old friend momentum, and the bike gathers speed and I am sailing now, sailing sweetly, and I am dashing toward that church steeple, heading toward it so swiftly that it seems I could become impaled on it if I lose control of the bike. I am slanting down the hill and the wind eats at my cheeks, biting chunks out of my flesh, and I begin to sing again, trying to sound like my father and failing, but singing just the same:
The farmer in the dell, The farmer in the dell ...
The wind takes my voice and scatters it in the air and it disappears like smoke.
I hit the straightaway.
I am hurtling now, really zooming, and the trees and the telephones flash by.
Heigh-ho, the merry-o, The farmer in the dell ...
My voice breaks loud and clear against the wind, and I breeze on, feeling at last that I am really and truly on the way to Rutterburg, Vermont.
Shall we continue? (8-second interval.) Do you feel well? (5-second interval.) You seem unhappy, distracted. Is there anything wrong?
(z5-second interval.)
Have you been administered your medicine today?
(10-second interval.)
He had stepped outside himself, departed, gone from this place and was outside looking in, watching himself and the doctor, if he was a doctor. He could be a doctor, he had a kindly face although sometimes his eyes were strange. The eyes stared at him occasionally as if the doctor-if that's what he was-were looking down the barrel of a gun, taking aim at him. He felt like a target. That's why he was glad that he could stand aside like this, step out of himself and look back and see the two of them there in the room. He was curious about himself, of course, but he really didn't want to look at himself and so he kept his eyes directed at his questioner, obliterating himself from the view. He hadn't realized he could be so clever, so cunning. And he thought, "If I can step outside myself like this, maybe I can go to other places." The possibility delighted him, made him forget. Forget what? He wasn't sure-something-something just hovering at the edge of his mind, scurrying away when he tried to capture it ...
Perhaps we should postpone. (5-second interval.)
There is no hurry. We shall try again later.

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Unconventional format

Vocabulary: Some difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Some Long/Complex

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Required

Complexity: Several ideas - closely related

Concepts: Abstract/Complex Social

Chapters

Sequence of Events: Not chronological

Mature Concepts: With some uncommon experiences

Features

Complex plot

Parallel plots

Ambiguous ending

Alternating voice

Topic

Bullies

Danger

Behaviors

Memory/Memories

*Human Body & Health

*Feelings, Behaviors

Drugs

Mental Illness

Low Frequency Words

accelerates	ache	aching	administered	advised
aluminum	angle	announcer	anxiety	anxious
assassinations	associate	aura	bulges	bulging
cabinet	capsules	caresses	cellar	cigarette
cigarettes	claustrophobic	comically	confide	confined
confronts	conserve	consults	courageous	coward
curious	curled	dell	delmonte	departed
despite	destination	determined	disposal	distracted
doubts	dreary	earliest	editor	elevators
emergency	exhaust	fairfield	fanfare	fashioned
fatigue	feeble	fenders	foil	forge
fortune	framing	furiously	furry	gasoline
glance	glorious	gravelly	greyhound	guide
guiding	handlebars	harsher	haunted	headache
headlines	heavily	heigh	hell	hertz
hesitate	hesitating	hovering	hurtling	identifications
immediately	immensity	impaled	impressions	insignificant
insists	inspected	interval	invade	iwo
jima	joyously	kindly	knitting	knowing
knowledge	laughter	lazily	level	licenses
lilac	lonesome	longingly	lounge	luggage
lungs	lurks	madly	massachusetts	meadow
measure	mechanic	medication	medicine	merely
momentum	montreal	monument	motel	motels
murders	murmuring	nauseous	obliterating	occasionally
omen	oozes	panic	panicky	partially
participating	particular	passports	pedaling	perfume
philosophically	physical	picket	possession	possibility
postpone	prevented	privacy	proceed	provisions
questioner	raided	raucously	realize	receded
reckless	regarded	remembrance	rental	resembles
resolute	ridiculous	rioting	rotary	route
rutterburg	scotch	scurrying	securely	series
service	seventy	skipper	sliding	slithering
sloping	soaring	soothe	source	specialty
specifically	spending	stalled	startling	straightaway
straying	stunned	stunt	stunts	suffocation
surrounded	suspend	suspicion	sweat	swept
swiftly	sympathetic	tailor	tenderness	tension
tentatively	territory	theme	threatens	tobacco
tooks	transferred	truly	uncertain	undertook
unmoving	upright	upward	vaguely	veins
venture	vermont	vista	voluntary	vowed
vulnerable	warmth	warped	wavered	weariness
weary	whirling	whispers	wobbling	wolfe
younger