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CATEGORY: short story
WRITTEN:
AUTHOR'S NOTES: |
TIME LOOP
As I wrote, the page dissolved. The algebra I had been doing just melted away, and was replaced by a page with widely-spaced lines and the squat, untidy writing of a young child. I looked around the room, which was no longer room 19, but another that I had been in once, long ago. Fourth grade? Yes, fourth grade... impossible! I must be dreaming! A strange yet familiar voice broke into my thoughts...
"Are you having trouble writing your composition, Bernadette?" My fourth grade teacher! She was not as I remembered her, so it seemed I wasn't dreaming.
"Did you hear me, Bernadette?"
"Yes, Mrs Ericsson, I heard your question. Can you give me the main points again?" Uh-oh, a nine-year-old wouldn't talk like that! Mrs Ericsson raised her eyebrows disapprovingly and beckoned me over to her desk. I got up, taking my book and pencil with me.
As I walked up the aisle I saw all the old familiar faces: Jilly and Nicky, Mark and Tony, Kate, Sally and Sandy. Lost in nostalgia, I tripped over the bin and it clattered to the floor, spilling papers everywhere.
"I don't know what has got into you today, Bernadette." Mrs Ericsson said, peering down her nose at me. I began to pick up the papers, but by this time everyone was sniggering behind their hands. Everyone except Sandy - loyal to the last!
"That will do, children! Go back to your compositions, now." snapped Mrs E, in the voice I remembered she used to keep control when she was confused or upset. The rest of the class obediently pointed their noses towards their books and continued to scrawl.
"Now, Bernadette, what is it you don't understand? Let me see your composition." I handed her the book and she read aloud softly, "'The Picnic. The children sit around the mat. Father sets out the food and Mother is spreading butter on slices of bread.' That's good, Bernadette, but try to put more expression into it. Describe the weather, where they are - do you know what I mean?"
I went back to my seat and chewed the end of my pen. I had plenty of ideas to write with but it would all be wrong; a nine-year-old wouldn't have the vocabulary or perspective of a fifteen-year-old. I looked up and caught Mrs Ericsson's eye. I tried to think of a way to tell her I wasn't what I looked like. She just waved her hand at me as if to say 'get back to work'. I chewed the pen for a few more minutes before deciding What the heck! I began to write.
The bell went - not the electric buzz I was used to but an echoing 'dong' with the irregularly-spaced chiming of a hand-tolled bell.
"All right, children. Pack up your books and pencils. I want that composition finished for homework." She packed up her papers and left the room.
"What is it now?" I asked Sandy, who was sitting beside me.
"Arithmetic." she replied, looking confused. I realised why.
"Uh, I got mixed up about what day it was." I explained.
As we waited for Mr Weiss I looked at the room properly. Given time, I decided, I would be familiar with it again. But would I be "here" long enough for that to be necessary?
The moment Mr Weiss walked in, everyone was silent. I couldn't remember him as having been particularly harsh or strict, so perhaps we all liked him so much that no-one really wanted to make trouble.
"Well, come on, books out! I'm going to put some sums on the board and I'll give you fifteen minutes to do them, then I'll correct. Off you go."
He wrote the first ten while I gaped stupidly at the board: 2(4+6), 3+5(2+3), 3x5(1+1), 2+7(2+1), 5+6(3+2) and so on. I whizzed through all twenty-five in six minutes and chewed my pencil for a few minutes. I flipped back through previous pages and saw how many I had been getting wrong - I couldn't help but laugh aloud.
"You have finished, Bernadette?" Mr Weiss caught me unawares.
"Yes, sir. Easy. Sir."
Didn't hear what? Oh, 'Sir'. We don't call the teachers Sir in this school. Ooops. I think I really disturbed him. Oh, well, too late now...
After the corrections had been done he handed out mimeographed sheets and set us to work - simple stuff like 6(3+1)+17. I finished in five minutes and put up my hand. Rolling his eyes skywards he made his way across the classroom.
"I've finished, Mr Weiss." Watch the eyebrows...
"Can I have some simos, do you think?" Watch the moustache...
"Some what, Bernadette?"
"Simultaneous equations." Are you a maths teacher or aren't you?
"And just what do you know about simultaneous equations, Bernadette?"
3x + y = 5 (1) (1)*6: 18x + 6y = 30 (3)
"No, Bernadette, I think we'll leave that for a few years - five, at least."
He glanced nervously at his watch, then at the rest of the class.
"I've got some algebra you could have."
"Oh, good!" He really looked quite relieved.
He glanced around the room once more to make sure everyone was working, then bustled out of the room. He came back five minutes later and gave me a book entitled Modern Mathematics, Year 10, Ordinary Course.
"Give it back to me at the end of the lesson, okay, Bernadette?"
He went back to his desk and took a white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. Poor man, I thought, turning to the page I had been working on "before", in room 19, and settled down to work.
Someone was calling my name and shaking my arm. "Bernie! Bernie! Are you all right?" I opened my eyes and saw my best friend from year 10, Laura, and the health mistress, Mrs Matheson. I opened my eyes a bit wider and realised I was in the school clinic. "What...?" What indeed! "Now, Bernadette, you'll just have to rest for a while." said Mrs M. "You passed out in maths." said Laura. "Oh, that explains everything..." Oh, here we go - the room's going fuzzy... The room unfuzzed and I was staring at a pink wall. Pink. Pink Floyd? No, no, pink... pink... wall. Um. A door opened somewhere and a woman walked in. She looked to be in her mid-to-late 30s, tall, with long, wavy red hair. Er... "Mum!" Where on earth am I now?! "It's all right, darling." Mum died when I was (or is it will be?) twelve. Technically I haven't seen her for three years. Apparently, which is, according to mum, I passed out during arithmetic. Mrs Wood, the health mistress, had called mum and asked her to collect me. I'd been at home for about four hours, and would I like some dinner. I said yes, what was there? Three pancakes later, being full, I went to bed, and hoped I'd wake in the flat we moved to after mum died. No. Pink. Pink wall. "Good morning, Bernadette. How do you feel today? Do you think you can go to school?" Er...
"Yes thanks, mum. I'll be okay." Later, in the car: "Do you still like Elvis Presley?"
"Sure!" "He does." Ooops! "What?" "Die next year. August 15, I think. Heart attack." In for a penny...
"How do you know?" That's one of the best things about my mother - she knew (knows?) when not to press a matter. We drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence until we got to the school gates. "Bye, lovey." She gave me a big hug, like she always did (does?). "I love you, mummy. Bye! See you this afternoon." I walked into the playground and was greeted by my two best friends, Sandy and Nicky. "Are you all right? Gee, we thought you were dead. Mr Weiss said something about a work overload, whatever that is." "Hi, Nicky! Hi, Sandy! Of course I'm all right. I just got a little dizzy, that's all." Silence, then, "Come and play hopscotch." and I went.
I have been a nine-year-old for 12 weeks now and haven't made any phenomenal blunders. I have kept up my simos, with some indices and logarithms to ease the boredom. I have come top of the class in all subjects except sport (which I'm not any good at anyway). I think I have found a way "back". The question is this: shall I change my life somewhat by staying here (as in Fred Hoyle's October the First is Too Late) or shall I go back (as in Robert Heinlein's Elsewhen)? If I can "go back" to being 15, surely I can "come back" to being 9. I shall try tonight.
I missed by a mere two hours. I'm writing all this in free period. There's about 12 minutes left before I go on to maths. ...There's the bell. In maths, now. Hey! As I write, the page is dissolving, melting... |
| copyright Madalyn Harris / all rights reserved |