The Phantom of Scranton Hill

19

Justine was sitting in a purple cushioned chair, the same one she'd been planted in for the past thirty minutes. The office hadn't opened its doors quite yet, and Justine was growing anxious. As a student, Justine was required to be safely in her seat by eight o'clock in the morning. Currently, it was seven fifty-one and the teachers who ran the attendance office obviously didn't think that rule applied to them.

Oh, come on, Justine mentally screamed at no one in particular. You're freaking attendance ladies! Be on time!

She tapped the toe of her new high tops against the beige tiling of the hallway floor, checking her phone every five seconds. Her eyes wandered and searched each and every person in the building as her fingers fiddled with the note in her hand. Without having to ask, the doctor that cared for her at the hospital gladly suggested he write an excuse for when she returns to school. Justine saw the penmanship; there's no way those old hypocrites--er, attendance office ladies--would be able to read it.

Justine's wide eyes continued to scan her surroundings until she felt a slight breeze. If she were by an open door or window, she would have shrugged it off, but she was sitting happily between two bulging offices. A gust of wind could not have swept that deep within the premises, especially not one cold enough to drop the temperature twenty degrees. Then her eyes met that of another and nearly rolled to the back of her head.

Like through a crystal ball, she saw a future. His future. As well as his past. His irises were darker than a black fine point marker, and it was impossible to differentiate when his pupils began and ended. They were inky and abyssal, and dilated to the very extent. She could see her whole self within them and was unable to look away. She was glued to the spot, frozen and forced into the incessant gaze.

Justine could feel her pulse quicken as her heart beat faster, a prisoner trying to break free. His lips peaked upwards at each end, a wicked grin transformed into a reminiscent smile. Her own began to quiver and her knees began to wobble until they gave out, unable to hold her anymore.

"Oh, sweetheart, are you all right?" a middle-aged woman with curly orange hair and bright pink lipstick asked, her eye level a little higher than Justine's shoulder. The lady held Justine's arm as she came to her senses. She stood vertical, her posture better than ever, and straightened the wrinkles on her jeans, nodding.

As the lady unlocked the office door, nearly dropping her set of keys twice, Justine analyzed the hallway, studying any signs of unusual behavior or those two solid black eyes or the perfect body that supported them. Unfortunately, she couldn't find either of them. It was as if they were never there to begin with, but a lot of things lately fell under that category. "Where is he?" she mumbled to herself, her arms now warm and recovering from the rapid change in temperature.

"Are you here for any reason?" the woman asked, drawing her out of her skeptical thoughts.

She nodded again, handing her the note that Sir Ugly Writing had so kindly written, or rather scribbled, for her. If she hadn't known any better, Justine would have guessed that a two-year-old in art class tried to draw a picture for his mommy and daddy.

The woman gave one look at the half-sheet of paper and shook her head, rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing anything. She removed her prescription glasses from the case and continued eyeing it before giving up. "Whatever, your name is on it, so you're good to go. I'm not even going to try to read this hunk of who knows what. Have a nice day, sweetheart." The tiny lady disappeared behind a stack of unfiled papers on her desk.

Justine smiled, whispered, "You, too," and left the attendance office, accidentally smacking her shoulder on the way out. She checked her phone for the time. It was seven fifty-seven.