Timeline

Timeline

“If you write faster, you may leave earlier than four,” the Economics teacher – Mr. Eco, as he conveniently calls himself as a substitute for his real name, Billy – told me. His dark eyes, purple shadows hanging under them, were fixed on the blue wall behind me. His plump, almost red lips curled into a half smile revealing his predator yellow teeth. He’d always been kind of creepy, and staying for afterschool lessons with him in the attic, which pretended to be the high-school, made it feel even more sinister. Yet the principal was in his office, just some ten meters away from this classroom, so I wasn’t afraid of anything.

“Thanks,” I said with a huge delay.

I swallowed and Mr. Eco’s eyes went dull, seeking the door located at the back of the classroom. I turned around in my seat just to notice the principal, in his famous cherry button-up and characteristic vest, leaning against the white wooden door. The baby-blue eyes behind his glasses seemed to scorn one of the two persons in the room, and I was positive it wasn’t me.

“Yes, Mr. John?” Mr. Eco hurried to ask, disrespect obvious in his tone.

“Continue, continue. I’m just watching,” he spoke, smiling lightly in my direction.

“Oh.” Mr. Eco made a face to declare his uneasy situation and the skimmed pointlessly through the Economics book, pretending not to look at either of us. I stuck out my bottom lip, as an announcement of my contempt towards the subject I was being “taught”. Mr. John – who was also teaching Business Studies when he wasn’t stamping tests – nodded and gave me a reassuring look.

“Let her leave fifteen minutes earlier,” he ordered with a grin on.

“What? Not if we don’t finish the lesson,” he protested.

The principal raised his brows. “I’m locking the doors earlier today.”

“Okay.” He sighed in dejection. Mr. Eco gritted his teeth angrily as Mr. John disappeared from the doorstep and I giggled.

“Let’s go on,” he commanded irritably. Surely, he and Mr. John didn’t get along well enough. Maybe it was the contradiction between the subjects they taught or Mr. Eco’s envy and desire for a higher position – and implicitly a higher salary – despite the fact that he was only 23 and this was his first year here.

I tried to write faster, although unsure about the accuracy of the sentences in my notebook. An extended moment of silence fell over the room and I felt uncomfortable. Ironically, I felt worse when Mr. Eco decided to abruptly break it with his disturbing voice.

“May I ask you a question?” he inquired.

I nodded briefly, with a lack of interest.

“When did,” he paused and then lowered the tone of his voice, “Mr. John join this school?”

Of course.

“I think I heard someone say he’s been here for ten years,” I said in a low voice.

He grimaced. “Ten years?” he echoed.

“Yeah. I guess he was your age when they hired him.”

He laughed artificially. “I was thirteen back then,” he declared. I couldn’t care less.

“And I was,” I stopped to calculate, “five. . .”

* * *

15 September, 2001

The school looked aristocratic, but the interior wasn’t big deal. John – no, now Mr. John – walked up the wooden stairs that made a cracking sound whenever he made a step. There was a wide table, surrounded by chairs somewhere on the first floor. He sat on one and looked around – new faces, very new faces. Almost everyone seemed to be older than he was, but that didn’t make him feel uncomfortable. He was sure he could cope with it. It was his first job, but he was teaching Business – the subject he’d always loved – so it had to be fine. The bell went off and he went up another flight of stairs to reach the attic, where the high school was supposed to be. His heart thumped as he opened the door to find twenty teens scattered about the classroom. No – it wouldn’t be easy.

* * *

15 September, 2001

The sound of the bell, ringing with vigor, was the happiest Billy had ever heard. Along with other fifteen or so students, he sprinted towards the doors. He quickly grabbed his bicycle and rode off down the alley. He stopped to buy a vanilla ice-cream – it was still warm enough for one – and continued towards home. He had no wish of completing homework, so he parked himself in front of the computer he got for his tenth birthday and played racing games until his fingers ached, eating a salami sandwich in the process.

* * *

15 September, 2001

My annoying little sister gasped the doll from between my little hands and dismembered it slowly. Fortunately, she lost interest soon enough and left the room triumphantly. Before I was able to fix some part of the mutilated doll, she came back sipping orange juice through a pink straw, her free hand searching for something to destruct. Decidedly, I took four of my dolls and rushed out of the room. Then, peacefully, I dressed the dolls in black and brushed their plastic hair until it looked like hay. I lined them up and pretended they assisted the funeral of my disfigured doll.

Who knew we – dissimilar as we are – would have met each other one day? Who knew we’d spend so many days in the same old attic of an aristocratic house?

I didn’t.

We’ve walked different lanes for long until we became positive or negative fractions of one another’s lives. The girl that played with dolls, the teen that hated school, the young man with a new job - we were so far apart, so oblivious of one another's existence. The timelines of our destinies went on separately, before they overlaped at some point for a reason no one will ever know.