A Little Friend

Chapter Three

I was sitting at the back of the class, waiting for Harriet at our usual spot. Every time the door creaked open, my heart would start pounding, only for it to stop beating when it wasn't her. One by one, students trickled in, but still no sign of Harriet, whom I figured was late, for some reason I couldn't grasp. Amid unexplained events, the teacher hadn't made it in time, either. Those days, it felt like the clock was running backward in our favor.

I stared at the blackboard, lost in thoughts about everything that had happened—about Harriet and her secret, and the mysterious shadow that had been haunting my dreams and mind. It felt like my entire world was now revolving around this sinister shape, and I had to unveil who she was, the one who wouldn't leave me alone, the one who was methodically dictating my steps.

I was deep in contemplation when the door opened again. This time, Harriet walked in, followed by the teacher. They must have met in the hallway and decided to come in together. Unlike most teachers, who were exigent and unfriendly, Mrs. White was different—kind and approachable, always willing to listen to students' troubles. She seemed to genuinely love her work. Still young, she showed remarkable patience every day. As they walked in unison, Mrs. White gave Harriet a gentle pat on the back. Judging by her eyes, she seemed to be concerned.

Harriet walked over to our desk and sat down next to me. One look at her, and I could tell something was wrong. She seemed shaken, as if something terrible had happened. A wave of unease overwhelmed me, but knowing Harriet, I realized she wouldn't talk about it if she thought it was serious.

"I missed the bus," she muttered, avoiding my eyes. She stared out the window as she pulled out her books, spreading them across the desk. She knew I didn't have any, so we'd be sharing hers as usual. I stayed quiet.

It was clear she was holding back, hesitant to share whatever was troubling her, almost as if she didn't trust me enough. I didn't want to push her, either. I wasn't going to ask anything she wasn't ready to reveal. I didn't want her to feel like I was trying to pry into her life, when I just wanted to help. I've always believed that sometimes people just need someone to listen to them, and be quiet. Someone to be there and offer assurance by just listening. After all, our friendship had blossomed on similar circumstances: she would speak to me and I would silently listen to her, not one word muttered, only gentle and understanding glances.

The teacher interrupted my thoughts as she began calling out our names, as she would always do. At the time, many students were missing school due to a smallpox outbreak. In this manner, we ended up with only a few classmates for the entire semester. Whenever some returned, other pupils would fall sick and miss school. One by one, she called out our names.

"Donald Collins, Carl Thornton, Sigmund Gilbert, Stuart Hanson, Otis Reid, Avery Castro, Georgie Neel,", she spoke. They were all present in the room.

"Harriet Woolridge", she called, glancing in our direction. Mrs. White, seemingly caught in a dilemma, met Harriet's cold eyes, and stopped for just one second. "And of course, your friend, little Woolridge", she offered us a nervous smile and marked her attendance sheet. "Little Woolridge" was a nickname I was given back then for always being in Harriet's presence. Wherever she was, I needed to be, as well. To people like Mrs. White, there was this funny certainty that our bond was so strong that we could have passed as sisters. "Little", well – I never knew where it came from.

As usual, Harriet wasn't paying attention to the class. She opened her journal and acted as if she was taking notes, but instead, she began drafting her usual empty lands and lifeless nature, saving her ideas for when she had her watercolors. I was compelled by curiosity when I caught a glimpse of what looked like a poorly illustrated portrait of myself. Since Harriet hardly drew people, seeing my face on that crumpled page felt strange in a manner I couldn't explain. I was torn between all kind of thoughts, questions mostly – that had to do with Harriet's reasoning to draw a person as flat as me. Particularly when I was far from being a muse. Particularly when she hated doing portraits. Noticing my confusion, she swiftly turned to a blank page, leaving me wondering for the rest of the class.

Time passed fast that day and soon enough we found ourselves on our way to Harriet's house. We didn't speak much during school and I was not planning to break the silence. I eagerly awaited Harriet's news on what she'd been doing since our last meeting – her recent paintings, her experiences, and her life in general. As our friendship deepened, she found joy in sharing these details, and I genuinely loved listening to her. That day, however, Harriet was unusually quiet. As we walked, she tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing a fresh bruise on her left temple. The blood had already dried, forming an odd shape. I was too shocked to speak and Harriet must have figured it. She quickly moved her hair back to cover it and said, "It's nothing," before falling silent. I didn't say anything, and she stood quiet, as well. Sensing my discomfort, Harriet felt compelled to speak again. She couldn't let me reflect on her bruise, as she knew that if I went deeper I would have come up with answers.

"There's an art contest held by Mr. Porter. I'm thinking I should give it a try.", she said softly, almost whispering her words. "But I'm not sure. What do you think?"

I nodded. Of course, I thought she was very talented, I thought she could tell stories within her paintings, but I knew that she was too scared to share it with the world. I knew that she didn't consider her art worth a penny and that any criticism might plunge her deeper into her insecurities. As if she could hear my thoughts, Harriet began:

"You know, Kafka left this world thinking he was a failure, but he was a genius. This gets me thinking... I want to know how valuable my art is, I don't want to live wondering if I was ever close to getting there. I don't want to die without a certainty, either."

I understood her perfectly. She gave art everything she had, her body, her thoughts, her emotions. It was about time that it could offer her something in exchange. Knowing Harriet, who preferred solitude, her paintings always came first. Her grades might have suffered, and her life might have seemed to decline, but her art needed to excel. It wasn't just a hobby or an interest anymore; it was a necessity; she wasn't looking for "almost" or "close"—she wanted to know, without a doubt, that all her time, effort, sleepless nights, and shaky hands had been worth it. She longed to reach the place she had been dreaming of.

 I thought about Kafka and his novels, and the profound impact he had on the world. It's always been a mystery to me that someone that gifted could think so low of themselves. How could one create a masterpiece and yet fear exposing it to the world?

I left Harriet standing in front of her house. As I walked away, I glanced back two or three times. She was still standing there, just as I had left her.