Continued from yesterday…
Sara rubbed her back on the back of her chair and did her level best not to grunt. That itch was driving her positively berzerk…
The bell rang, delivering her from English Basics and sending her straight to Elementry Science. It used to be with Dr McCoy, but since he disappeared, Mr Hinkley had been filling in.
It wasn’t nearly as much fun without Dr McCoy, despite the fact that she got to stare at her schoolgirl crush for an hour. Dr McCoy - Sara once enquired and found out he held two doctorates: one medical and one scientific - put on a show that made the learning *interesting*. Even though Sara was learning it again. He’d put up with Sara not opening their books to page whatever.
But Mr Hinkley… he demonstrated the principle if he had to, and usually made sure that observations were with litmus paper and thermometers. He *quantified* things until the eyelids flickered and drooped. He read directly from the textbook and demanded the class follow with him.
And, to add insult to injury, Mr Hinkley - the teacher she still loved in a way - believed with all his heart that Sara was Adrian Essel… and that Adrian was gay.
Not that Sara had anything against anyone being homosexual. She could see the logic. One knew the gender intimately, for example. It’s just that she wanted to be recognised as a *female*.
Mr Hinkley was writing on the board. A simple reaction between acid and alkali. Sara copied it out in full before it was done and turned to her back pages.
Now there, if anyone cared to look, were pages that DaVinci would have envied. Equations danced between tiny doodles of machinery, circuits, and studies of insects. There was a miniature copy of Hokusai’s _The Wave_ in ones and zeroes. There were attempts to write as small as the micro-writing on money.
Somewhere amongst this, Sara found a blank space and doodled. She drew a phenominally tall princess and a tiny, tiny frog with a little crown. In her miniature hand, she wrote the frog saying, _I’ll figure *somethin’* out, yo._
“Mister *Essel*!”
It was pointless trying to teach him her name. Sara looked up at the board. He’d left a place blank for answers. “Sodium chloride, commonly known as salt.”
“That’s… correct.” He stepped up to her desk and gently re-opened her notebook to the correct working page. “I’d appreciate it if you at least *appeared* to be paying attention, Mister Essel. Not creating little artworks in the back of your workbook.”
“If you insist, I’ll have to draw in the margins, sir.”
That earned her a death glare. “I’d rather you didn’t draw at all, thankyou.”
Ugh.
Sara found a way to prop herself up so that she appeared to be paying attention and took her mind away. It was a nifty little trick she'd learned from multiple readings of _The Princess Bride_. By taking her mind away, she could be anywhere and anywhen, so long as some small part of her remained to go through the motions.
Mr Hinkley never noticed she was gone.
Freddy did. He tapped her shoulder and asked if she was okay at the end of the class.
Sara came back for his concern. “Just took a one-head holiday,” she explained. “I was *bored*.”
“Really? I kinda had trouble with the last bit.”
“Freddy… it’s just a journey from unstable to stable. You pick the most stable chemicals out of the reactants and that’s *it*.”
“You’re in a bad mood,” he said. “Is it Mr Hinkley?”
“I’m - dealing… with Mr Hinkley,” she said. “It’s today. My back itches like nothing else and I *know* there’s no chemical that can get through cotton without some observable side-effects…”
Freddy just nodded. “I get it. It’s the change. I used to get cramps all over everywhere an’ I just kinda bloated… Not that I was ever skinny like you.”
“Freddy dear,” said Sara. “I would gladly take a few of your pounds - strategically placed, of course - if I could. Alas, voluntary body mass transfer is but a dream.”
Freddy laughed. “I didn’t understand that, but it was funny.”
“Tomorrow, Freddy. And scour the dictionary. You’ll work it out and I expect you to tell me.”
“Will do.”
Ack. She was late for music.
It was the only class she ran for. Time with a harp - even if it was Vlad - was time in peace. Time to be the music. Perfect notes, written and appreciated by experts. No-one cared what the harpist looked like. They just listened to the notes that were played.
Most harps in Sara’s experience were little old ladies. Her leased practice instrument at home was mass-produced, so it was a trailer trash grandma… young for the title, but old in terms of generations. Sara called that one Billie-Jo.
Sara took her seat and double-checked that Vlad’s pegs were rammed home. One of those popping out meant a vicious whip of piano wire at high speed.
Vlad only ever worked if he was strung with piano wire. This generally cut the fingers, so generations of high school harpists used special tape to protect their fingers. Vlad would tolerate fishing line in the higher notes, the exact line of demarcation, B flat above high C, was sacrosanct. Any attempts to go lower were met with breaking cord and bloodshed appropriate to his nickname.
Vlad didn’t like kids, and only tolerated classical music. He could, Sara had noted, be bribed with a mothball pushed into his base. She did that now before Mr Larnblatt[1] could notice her.
If she was lucky, she’d get through this with only a minor injury.
Vlad had a temper, and since Sara’s interaction with him was at the end of the day, just about anything could set him off.
She risked a run up the notes. In tune for a change. Lovely.
Sara made herself sit ready.
“Now class,” said Mr Larnblatt. “We will continue our work on Mozart…”
+
It was later. Pain had happened[2].
The cut was minor, but it was bleeding and it was strategic. Vlad had zapped her *right* as the bell rang, thus forbidding her from entering the office of the school nurse.
Sara had been obliged to take care of it single-handedly. Literally.
The new mark went from the pad of flesh opposite the thumb on her right hand, down over her pulse-point, to halfway along her forearm. Butterfly sutures would hold it until she took it home, and a roll of gauze would ensure that the librarian wouldn’t kick her out for bleeding on the carpet.
Now she scoured the reference racks for chamelionic lifeforms. So far, her lanky arms had encapsulated chameleons themselves, squid, octupi and one treatise on octopus skins that had entered into the library by mistake.
There was nothing more of interest on the shelves, so she returned to a centrally-located table, piled up her books, and waited.
She would be stoic, come laughter or simple abandonment… should it come to that. Sara was experienced in the matter of pranks, of course, but Todd seemed - genuinely genuine.
Her head throbbed, a migrane-esque headache emerging from the cut on her temple and the sweaty bandage it hid under. Her whole *back* itched like blue fury and the newest cut on her arm decided to join her head in throbbing.
This was not a good day. Well. Maybe apart from the friend she’d made. And it was now, sitting alone in the school library, that she would see if she’d been fooled about that.
[1] You might know him better as the zebra music teacher from _Ozy and Millie_ [www.ozyandmillie.org]
[2] Stolen unashamedly from Terry Pratchett’s book _Night Watch_.
~
The only good part about gym was running laps. Strong leg muscles meant he could put a distance between himself and the jocks in his period without much effort. It also made him look cool to be able to do something without screwing up.
Of course it may have helped if he’d had something to eat during lunch rather than talk and stare at Sara. He’d skipped two meals now and was running on empty. Todd’s metabolism was not liking him, and presently neither were his sides.
Groaning slightly at the cramps, Todd decided to slow down which allowed Matthews and his pal Bruce to catch up and pass him. Todd grumbled obscenities under his breath and much against his better judgement put on an extra burst of speed. His energy fizzled out halfway round the gym and he practically crawled the next lap.
Coach Sanders clicked his tongue at him as he passed for the final one. “You’re usually better than this. Haven’t been eating properly, have you?”
Todd grunted a negative, watching nearly everyone finish before him. Now it was down to him and Melvin Finkle, who was presently fumbling for his inhaler. Everyone else went to play basketball.
Focusing on breathing through his nose and watching the coach to make sure he didn’t notice Todd cutting corners, the boy failed to see the basketball until it slammed into his head and knocked him off balance into the metal equipment locker. Stars burst across his vision and sent him to his knees. Todd heard Finkle’s triumphant wheezing as the gangly boy passed him to the finish point but could see nothing through a haze of red.
“You… okay, Tolensky?” a familiar voice hesitantly inquired. Todd looked up blearily at Daniels who was hovering over him looking concerned and wary.
“Nnngh?”
“That ball hit you pretty hard. Not as hard as the cabinet though. Need a hand up, man?”
“No, Daniels, s'cool. You threw the ball?” Todd slurred.
“It was Graydon. Probably just an accident. Or not. They are jerks sometimes. I’m surprised you aren’t bleeding.”
Todd gingerly felt his head. No wetness to be had. There was only a tender spot that ached when he touched it. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He struggled to his feet, ignoring the hand Evan offered only halfway - as if fearing it would be bitten off.
“Okay, man. Suit yourself.”
“Come on, boy, let’s keep playing!” Matthews called.
Evan scowled. “He calls me ‘boy’ again, he’ll lose more teeth than game,” he muttered and stalked back to the group. Coach Sanders, seeing what had happened, allowed Todd to sit on the bleachers for the rest of the period but made no move to talk to Graydon.
Todd found himself nearly dozing off when the bell rang. Todd leaped down off the bleachers, wished he hadn’t at the resulting dizzy spell, and sprinted to the nearest water fountain to splash his face and rehydrate.
He had Art last, and it was an outdoor project to sketch anything they wanted. Todd clambered up one of the sheltering trees as soon as Mrs. Spindell’s back was turned and spent the rest of the class filling his sketchbook with Sara doodles and eating as many moths and caterpillars as he could catch.
+
Todd was seldom on time for anything in his life - but some things deserved the effort. After leaving a note on Lance’s jeep that he would find his own way home, Todd took off.
He was three minutes late for his meeting at the library before leaving the school and running in his present state did little to make up the distance. The librarian glared daggers at him as he ran up the stairs, just daring him to try that inside. Todd wisely decided to walk through the building at a normal rate. His eyes scanned the tables and found Sara, already with a pile of books and tapping her fingers to the soft music on the PA.[1]
“Sorry, yo,” he gasped, setting his bag down and dropping his sketchpad on the table. “Ain’t no excuse for bein’ late, but it always happens to me.” He eyed the clock. “How late am I anyway?”
Eight minutes. Aw damn. “Oh man, I’m *sorry*,” he apologized again, dropping his gaze.
[1] I don’t know if many libraries play music, but mine does. :P Usually it’s Enya.
~