Hours

5- Monday, May 14th

3:31 PM

As the last period bell rings, everyone shoots up from their desks, not even waiting for the teacher to finish speaking. My Chemistry classroom is freezing and everyone wearing shorts and t-shirts are dying to get out into the spring heat. I take my time, glancing around the classroom to see who still remains.

A figure in dark packs his bag slowly, taking his time to finish writing down the notes still on the board. I watch as he leaves, blood pumping through my ears and deafening the surrounding class.

I leave a few minutes after Micheal, taking time to confirm the homework with the teacher and to check my average on my phone. I head straight outside, everything I need already in my school bag.

The parking lot is packed with students, some heading for their bus, others to their car, some just hanging around, vaping in large groups. One boy shoves another and soon the chaos becomes louder as their group of boys guffaws and eggs them on, willing for them to fight.

I roll my eyes. I'm so done with all of this. I feel bad for all the freshmen. Even if they stay out of trouble, they still have to endure three more years of the trouble everyone else is causing. Those who do start trouble early on, well, it's going to be incredibly difficult- if not impossible- for them to get back on track so they can still do things with their lives instead of pumping gas or pushing shopping carts.

I've seen it happen.

Jackson had gone to the same elementary school as me, though he was a year older. We had hung out a bit; his parents were friends with mine. He was as excited to get out of elementary as I was, and we said that we would hang out a bit when I got to Greenwood. But the next year, when I arrived, he was a junkie. Started off vaping as a freshman, then moved to cigarettes and next thing I knew, he was smoking weed. By the start of my Grade 9 year, he had exchanged all of his jeans for loosely fitting sweatpants, his sports shirts for camouflage jackets, and wore a beanie all the time, covering his once well-kept hair.

I tried to talk some sense into him, to get him to stop, but he was too far gone for me to do anything. He had levelled with the fact that he was never going to amount to anything and couldn't care less.

He had wanted to be a neurologist back when I knew him, but now he could hardly pass an art class.

I push my way through the crowd to the parking lot, looking for my untouched, unscratched, bright red Camry. It's where it was this morning, as unscratched as it was this morning, but also in exactly the same place where I had parked it on Monday.

The first Monday.

If it was that last Friday, in about half an hour the windshield would be cracked, the hood crumpled up on on the left side, airbags deployed and mirrors torn off.

But here it sits, perfectly untouched, not even a scuff in the paint.

All this supernatural, unexplainable stuff sends shivers down my spine, and I unlock my car, planning to take the time it takes for the buses to leave the parking lot to unwind inside my car. There's no possible scientific explanation for how all this happened, time travel is impossible in all ways, much like teleportation. As a child, I always hated supernatural movies, their explanations making no sense to my scientific mind.

But now I'm in one, and I can't change the channel.

As I open the door, my eyes catch on a dark blue Chevrolet Malibu in my peripheral vision.

The world spins, and in my head I see the same car smashed up, windshield shattered, a figure sprawled over the dashboard as an angel speaks to me inside my car.

Micheals car. I see him, walking across the parking lot, head down, shoulders hunched, and my heart stops.

I can't let him drive.

My mind reels, searching for a way for me to get him into my red Camry. There has to be a way. I think desperately.

He reaches his car and begins to open the door. I automatically do the only thing I can do.

"Don't!" I scream at him. Heads turn in my direction, but the only one that I notice is Micheals, as he freezes, flinching at the noise, and turns to look at me. He takes the white earbud out of his ear, glaring at me under a head of ebony hair. I slam my door shut, rushing over to him without thinking.

"What. Now. Kayla?" He says lowly, biting off each word with disinterest.

"I..." I trail off, not really having a plan. "I thought-"

"I'm not an idiot, I know how to drive." He says darkly, glaring at my hand that rests on the navy door open between us. "Besides, I told you this morning, I don't have any drugs." He hisses quietly.

"I'm not interested in-" I protest, but he cuts me off, pushing my hand off of his car door.

"And I'm not interested in this conversation. Or you, to be precise." He counters, stepping into his car but keeping the door open. "I'd also appreciate it if you would move out of the way." He says, slamming the door before I can respond and turning the car on. He pulls out as I take an involuntary step back. Micheal leaves me standing in the parking lot like an idiot while he speeds away, a dark blue dot on the horizon.

I move back to my car slowly, choking down hot tears. I open the door and sit down, reclining the seat so I can lay my head back more easily. A fat tear escapes, and I brush it away quickly, not wanting to smear my makeup. I sit like that for a moment, trying not to cry and not knowing why I care so much.

"Why is this my problem?" I whisper into the empty car, staring at the beige ceiling. "I didn't ask for this."

But you didn't object to it either. A voice inside my head responds, and I sigh, knowing it's the angel and knowing it's right.

I sit up, moving my seat back to the normal position, and turn the ignition. Most of the buses are gone, along with most of the students.

No one witnessed my breakdown.

No one cared.

I guess that's why I have to.