We’ve known each other as long as I can remember, me and Catherine. But then I see Catherine at the station next to mine, and I know I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’m struck by the fear that I’m in the wrong room at the right time, or that maybe I’m in the right room at the wrong time. I try my hardest to disappear, hoping he’ll forget about me and move on, but he remains insistent. The lecturer looks up and his glasses catch the light from the projector. I bump into an easel-or something like an easel-and nearly knock it over.
Even in the dark I feel eyes crawling over me. From the shadows, an unfamiliar voice delivers a droning lecture.
The only light comes from the slide projector near the teacher’s desk, the screen lowered from the ceiling, an oblivion-bright portal. The extra minutes add up to extra hours, and the extra hours add up to extra days, more time we spend chained to our desks. Rumor has it the school officials slowed down the clocks. The breaks between classes are getting shorter. I hurry to third period-art class-my steps echoing through the empty hall. The pain isn’t real if no one else knows it’s there. I cradle my throbbing hand against my chest. The last lingering students disappear through darkened doorways. Something gives in the soft space between my thumb and first finger, a wet snapping sound, pain blowing out beneath the skin. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? I bite down on the pain inside myself and punch the face of my locker, throw my fist just hard enough to feel it. I pull on the lock, but the shackle holds tight. I can never remember how many times I’m supposed to turn the dial on the third digit, whether it should be clockwise or counter-clockwise, two or three times past. I’m still fumbling with the dial on the combination lock when the second bell rings.
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