The Escaped Timelord

TARDIS Time

I run my hands through my thick hair and imagine nineteenth century London. Last year, during summer break when Adoption Mom thought I was at the library, I was watching a beautiful ocean sunset atop a large building’s roof, the TARDIS peacefully resting below. I wish I was there now, instead of having to take a American History exam. I already know everything they teach me and get straight A’s in every class.

Well, that is, except Lunch.

Once I push myself out of bed, I realize that another day in my not-black-and-white-but-grey life has begun. I skitter to the bathroom, not bothering to turn my beeping alarm clock off.

Once my hair is brushed into a “neat” braid insisted on by Adoption Mom because it “makes me look normal”, I reach for the doorknob. But I recoil. Why can’t I just hide in here all day? I stall, smear my lips with lip balm, rebrush my teeth, smudge my skin with cleanser, and clip my nails. But all too soon I can’t bear the sound of the alarm clock’s wheezes.

I leave the bathroom.

Sighing, I start to dress for school. The drab uniform of Altwood academy is a white button-down, slacks, and a blazer. I pack my backpack with my six (advanced) subject binders, a navy pencil case, a TARDIS-blue notebook, and a calculator. I sling it over my back and prepare myself for another extremely boring day.

I check my watch that shows the time here and in London, and the date. The background of the entire thing is a picture of the night sky and stars and planets, where they actually are this minute. Watching them calms me down.

In the middle of the night when the nightmares come, I look at it, the stars lighting up the night, and I can sleep peacefully. No one knows where I got it, and neither do I. I’ve had it as long as I can remember, even at the orphanage.

Apparently at six years old, I was dropped off, wrapped in a silvery blanket, at the door of the orphanage. No one saw who placed me there.

“Like a star dropped off for us. Make a wish!” Miss Clara would say.

I purse my lips, remembering the orphanage and the sweet, cinnamon-baked memories that come with it. Here it’s all harsh and metal and red pens jabbing at papers.

“BAY LOCKE! GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT! FATHER AND I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!” screams Adoption Mom. I roll my eyes and take an especially long time walking down the spiraling staircase. The hare won the race, right?

Downstairs, I sit at the table and start peeling an orange meticulously.

“Now, Bay, we know that the Summer Dance is tomorrow and we’d like you to go.” Adoption Mom positions herself at a stool. I snort. Marysa Silverson a short, solid woman with a no-nonsense face smothered by shiny makeup, lips reddened, eyelids powdered with grey (what’s the point?) and upturned nose covered with concealer. Her eyes look like windows in this prison: sky blue, a small, fleeting look at what’s outside. She doesn’t want the best for me: she just wants me to be the girl she never got to be. Her son-my brother-is a disappointment, a boy. But while her childhood was a scar of whispers and bullies, she wants mine to be popular and beautiful and all that.

“Yeah, oo gerrid o’ me,” I say, my voice muffled by orange. I would rather have bullies than superficial life.

“You can’t get out of it now. We already bought a dress!” Adoption Mom fake-smiles while I silently choke on my orange. A real (cough, cough fake) dance?! No way. Bay Locke is the kind of girl that travels through time in a TARDIS, not a girly-girl who wears high-heels and watches Disney Channel 24/7 and squeals every time a football player walks by, or who wishes they did: what Adoption Mom wants me to be.

“No way,” I say, truthful to the bone.

Adoption Mom grabs something from behind the fruit bowl.

It’s a shiny, aqua strapless dress that looks like it would end about halfway to my knees. An aqua rose is positioned near the top.

I mentally throw up.

Is Adoption Mom purposefully turning me into a clone bee? Answer: yes.My stomach turns as I think that the rest of my life will be like this. People forcing me to be someone they weren’t.

“I think that the ocean just spit something into your hand,” I quip.

“Bay, it’s a beautiful dress,”

“For Tom!”

“Hey!” Adoption Brother Tom AKA disappointment to the maximum says through a mouthful of multicolored cereal.

“Gross!” I push his cereal bowl away, and he frowns. Adoption Mom ignores it.

“Now, Bay, don’t try to get out of this. We want you to be social. It’s for the best!” Adoption Mom puckers her lips up, probably trying to form a smile.

“Um, sorry but I’ve got...plaaaans.” I draw out the “a”.

“Baby-”

“I’ve got to go. Don’t want me to be late for school!” I stuff the orange into my mouth, give the dress a dirty look, and run out the door.

Whew, crisis avoided, breakfast not.

Today is not going to be a school day.

I run around the house to the backyard and fling open the door to my cleverly disguised TARDIS, a blue telephone box. Inside, I pick up the old-fashioned telephone and dial the school secretary’s number. As it rings I hit a button next to it labeled Voice Of: Adoption Mom.

“Hello, Altwood Academy. Shelley here!”

“Hello, it’s Emily Locke, Bay Locke’s mother. I just wanted to say that Bay Locke will be staying home today because she is sick. Thank you.” My voice sounds high and squeaky, like Adoption Mom’s.

“I’ll put that down in the sheets. Have a nice day!”

“You, too! Buh-bye!” I hit the Call-End button and pull a lever while thinking of a place. Hmm...what about 2020? Right here?

It’s TARDIS time!

I enter the coordinates and sit down at the beanbag chair I dragged in.

For now, why don’t I just be me?