Madeline Jesty Jacobs received an unexpected gift on the night of her seventh birthday -- she could see hourglasses on top of everybody's heads in just one taste of alcohol, an indication of what she thought was their life span. This unknown phenome...
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Hmm. That is a weird but interesting turn of events. I guess the trigger was the touch? Let me know if I'm correct. But why? There's a connection between your two characters I can't pinpoint.
This was Mickey's response to my second letter where I answered yes to her question "Did their hands touch?" In my first letter, I thoroughly narrated the events and then asked her if she could identify the trigger and if what happened made sense, but I changed the details in such a way that she would believe they were for the novel I was writing.
One of the many things I loved about Mickey was how she talked with wit, recognizing the information I wouldn't notice at first. Now that she had mentioned it, the only possible trigger was the touch, unless the whole thing happened without a reason, just like my curse. But Mickey was right. What was with Amielle that made me some sort of teleport to an imaginary place? A place I would love to be in, except that . . . Dad didn't know me.
The next day, I wanted to test if I would once again be transported into a dreamlike feeling if I would get my slightest piece of skin to touch Amielle's, but Franco said Amielle was transferred to the nightshift schedule. When I asked why so suddenly, he only answered he had no idea, though it might be because of the incident the other day.
It was Cornelia, I thought to myself, dropping the pleasantries. She didn't deserve respect if she was abusing Amielle anyway. Besides,Troy shared that Amielle nodded when he executed my plan. Damn it. I was afraidthat my suspicions were being proven true little by little, whereas I wishedfor the opposite.
I wanted to discuss this with Ms. Lilian, but she seemed busier nowadays, especially that the first semester was almost at its end, and I was pretty sure teachers had a hectic schedule ahead of them. I would have understood her avoidance if it didn't happen right after I walked out when we met my mother. Maybe my immaturity turned her off. But again . . . I wished she would tell me, even though she had no obligation to. Sigh.
On the more depressing side of events, Mickey told me in a letter that she reserved her Sundays and afterschool Tuesdays for me, and when I asked why she couldn't be with me the other days, she only replied that she needed to finish errands. Steph, on the other hand, was leaving earlier than usual because of family matters.
Of course, realizing that I only had one hundred forty-eight days left and I was wasting my remaining time studying and fading in boredom, I grimaced. And I didn't know which was worse: my missing—probably dead—father not knowing me in my own dreams . . . or my own mother not having time for me.
Maybe I was born to live a devastating life after all, I told myself. But deep inside, I knew why my heart ached.
Time didn't stop for the people I treasured. And mine was about to.
***
Friday came, only a hundred forty-seven days left, I was already contemplating if living a normal life was how I should treat my situation. Maybe I should be in yachts. In beaches. In parties. Wherever, except in school, trying to outsmart Jane and Sister Antonia, her aunt who happened to be the principal.
