All the Time in the World

Dust in the Wind

As always, the moment my worn Converse cross the threshold of room 13, the entire class swivels in their chairs to stare at me. I feel their eyes following me as I quickly walk to my desk (which, of course, is right in front of the whiteboard and the farthest from the door it can be), hoping to evade Mr. Courter's attention. But, per normal, my attempts are futile.

   Mr. Courter pauses his current (most likely biased) lecture and slowly turns toward me, a smirk twisting his mouth.

   "Ah, Miss Oil has arrived at last."

   The class laughs at his use of my very original nickname. I once spilled oil and vinegar salad dressing on my shirt at lunch in fourth grade, and my dear classmates decided to rechristen me "Olive Oil". Unfortunately, the name stuck, I've learned to live with it, but my teacher shoving it in my face isn't helping.

   "Well, I figured I should spare a little of my precious time to attend this evidently captivating lesson you're teaching," I respond in a mock innocent voice. The trick I've found when dealing with adults like Katrina and this idiot of a man is to keep your cool and take them down with fake kindness.

   Mr. Courter's unnaturally blue eyes inspect me, probably trying fruitlessly to find something to punish me for. I stare back. He sniffs. "Precious time indeed."

   As he turns back to the whiteboard and continues the lesson in his annoyingly shrill voice, I scrutinize him right back. I've always thought Mr. Courter was a strange looking man. He's built strangely, like his body was assembled slightly off kilter; but that's not the only thing that rubs me the wrong way about him. Everything about his appearance is perfect; there's not a ash blond hair out of place among the wavy mass, his cream colored skin is annoyingly perfect with not a blemish in sight, the hair on his face is nonexistent, and his collared shirt and slacks are pristinely ironed. Every inch of him screams white privilege.

   I'm not even listening to the lesson, after all, I missed the first fifty minutes of it. I keep glancing up at the clock on the wall. Every second feels like an hour, every minute feels like a day. I know there's only five minutes left in this period, but time has decided to drag its feet.

   The next five classes pass in a never ending blur. This day has lasted a century.

   At long last, the beautiful sound of the final bell graces my ears. I practically race out of the halls, eager to return home and get this dreaded day over with. After pulling my enormous emerald green noise canceling headphones out of my bag and putting my playlist on shuffle, I begin my walk home.

   Since my very first day of school, I have never rode the bus or been driven home. My dad couldn't scrape together enough money to buy me a bus pass, and certainly couldn't be bothered to drive me. At first, the walk was long, my house being just close enough to school to make the trip by foot, but far enough to be difficult for a five year old, but I got used to it. I knew that I had to get home or my dad wouldn't eat, that was back when I still believed in him, and that time is long gone.

   Nowadays, the walk is not so long. The fact that I get to listen to music, also known as the greatest thing humans ever created, makes the trip a whole lot easier. Also, the fact that I've about a foot and a half since I was five probably helps as well.

   I close my eyes as the first notes of my favorite song, Teen Idle by MARIANA, make their way to my ears. This song has a way of connecting with me that nothing else possesses. I reach my hand out to press the crosswalk button, and then just I wait, breathing deeply, eyes still shut tightly, swaying to the rhythm, completely blissed out.

   Oh God, I'm gonna die alone.

   Did Mom die alone? Was that lyric her last thought? Did she shut her eyes at the end? Just like I am now?

   Maybe there are parallel universes. Maybe there's a parallel universe where I didn't listen to my favorite song on my walk home. Maybe there's one where that lyric didn't strike me as odd. Or a universe where I didn't pause in my walk home at all. Perhaps, in a happier version of my life my mother is still with me. But, you know the way the events turned out in this universe at least, and they all led me here.

   I will not let my weak, intrusive thoughts dampen my spirits even further. I will not entertain thoughts of my mother. Helena Evans will not haunt me today.

   My eyes snap open, and all those plans turn to dust, blowing away in a harsh breeze.

   Because there, staring at me with chocolate brown eyes through the shaded window of her silver pickup truck, is my very much alive mother, and she does not look happy to see me.