Understanding II

I wake up on June 7th, 2000, 7:05, to my mother calling me down for breakfast.

I take off my pyjamas, put on deodorant, button up my good shirt (one that wasn't crumpled up on the floor), and go down for breakfast, all in less than two pages. 

As I eat, I feel a sense of familiarity that I haven't felt before. 

"Mum, did we eat this yesterday?"

"Yesterday, you had cereal." 

Yesterday…

I leave the house and make my way directly to school, avoiding any possible disturbances or distractions. 

It feels like today is going to be a good day.

Day two was absolutely the same as the first. Six periods. Maths, English, break, History, Art, lunch, R.E., Science. I would have questioned it if I cared a little more.

The maths teacher was called Mrs Late, regardless of always being on time. She maintains a librarians posture, accompanied by the fashion aesthetic to pair. She has low-rimmed glasses and her hair stays slicked back into a ponytail. It's naturally curly, so she's easily noticeable from the waterfall of wavy locks that flow from behind her. We take our seats as the teacher instructed, and began the lesson.

She hits us with an immediate test. The papers were already on each individual desk, beckoning us all to put our stationary to it. I don't study often, if at all, so I answer as honestly as I can. Simon Trebold - the class representative - collects the tests row by row, and Mrs Late instructs us all to keep our heads in our books until she's finished marking them.

Late calls my name. 

"Come and see me now, please."

I make my way to the teachers desk, embracing the walk of shame. I knew I failed, or at least barely passed. There's not a lot of in-between with me.

"Miss."

"You've always shown promise; why waste it on something you've always been good at?"

A veil of darkness comes over me.

"Miss, with all respect, I believe we did this yesterday. I tried harder this time."

Late cocks her head 45 degrees to the right, as if I'm speaking another language.

"That's just like you. Stuck in your own world." Her pen taps my already-marked test. I see the crosses in red ballpoint ink on 45% of the test. "Keep this up, and I'll have no choice but to involve your mother…" she pauses, places the pen to her lip, ponders for a few seconds, and then "or your sister."

Word gets around fast.

If you count three years as fast.

"I understand." I say in a shallow breath. There was never any reasoning with a maths teacher.

"This may go on your school record if you continue not improving." She continues, as if there was more to say.

"Yes miss." Spoken through clenched teeth at the battle I'd just lost with mathematics.

The bell rings. Everyone in class excluding the teacher had immediately gotten up to make their way to the following class. You could see Late try to speak up and say something along the lines of "The bell doesn't tell you to leave; I do!" but clearly we all had ulterior motives. At least most of the class's motive was the go to the next class. I, personally, already speak English, so I can show up late, or not at all. Barely an in-between. 

I actually have this strange feeling that I have something important to do instead of go to english.

I will tell you why cutting class is a better option. If english class is the same as others, it's an absolute downer. We never accomplish anything, because no-one really cares about the lesson. If my classmates aren't talking the entire time, they're reading comic books or manga behind their literacy books. Really, the books they tell us to read are either just as boring as the lesson is, or books I've already read.

Funnily enough, I'm actually a fast reader. Mum used to be a teacher until my sister and I entered secondary school, which she taught at before. She already had the books involved in the syllabus, she just tricked us into reading them at home. 

Jokes on her.

Now I can read manga in english class.

Did I bring manga today?

I check my shoulder bag, shuffling through the crumpled up papers and stationary until…

Golden light of heavens.

Evangelion.

Well, since I did skip english 'yesterday', it can't hurt to see what's on the agenda 'today'.

I walk into class five minutes late (a personal record) and immediately, like a button was pressed upon entry, Mr Eisley talks infuriatingly for fifteen minutes about his girlfriend leaving him, and how all women are - or will eventually be - trash. He explains that men would live happily and without any conflict if they had their own planet. His breath reeked of beer, coffee, and cigarettes all at the same time, and we all knew it because the smell reached the opposite side of the room. My seat is at the back row, second from the right. On my right was Richard Rossland. He denies the name 'Dick', and only allows 'Rich', which he actually loves because his family is dirt poor. You can see the holes on the soles of his shoes every time he steps. Most of his clothes and stationary are hand-me-downs, and it really doesn't stop there. He's the middle-brother in a family of seven. I respect him for not trying to kill himself sooner, but actually getting to know him, he's told me in confidence that he had tried before, and the failure pushed him to live for the siblings that do count on him. He's such a great guy. 

When Mr Eisley - a credited and bonafide thespian and author - is finally finished and moderately sobered up after a long gulp of a glass of water, whom no-one knew how long it had been there, he tells everyone to get in pairs to discuss the first book he pulls off the shelf. English A-Level in this school meant that you have to have read all the basic literature from the reading list, plus spontaneous quizzes on a random book every now and then, so we were more-or-less given no chance but to "hit the books", if you will.

Lucky me, I've read this book a few times already. A Clockwork Orange. Brutal book. Hard to read for someone with no interest in the subjects but, well, mothers teaching methods.

It's a process. I immediately pair with Richy, and we proceed to put my poor memory to the test. 

"We both know why he picked this book. Sick fuck." Rich abruptly exclaims. He does not hold back as usual.

"You think he has carnal desires to cause harm to women and possibly men to?" I ask, feigning ignorance.

"Socratic irony. I think you're the only one who gets me." Rich fixes his glasses that have been handed down from generations. "But yes, I'm sure. We should host a stake out and see if he actually does it this time." 

"Unironically, brother, you have my axe." I hold my fist up in brotherly acceptance. He bumps my fist and we perk up to hear Mr Eisley sending voicemail after voicemail to his ex girlfriend's landline about how she ruined her life. 

Life truly is hard for everyone.

After roughly twenty minutes of eavesdropping, Eisley finally puts his lesson time to good use. 

He tells us he's too hungover to teach and tells us to use the rest of the lesson time as 'free time' to study and/or reading the syllabus material. 

Hilariously enough, one person did ask "what about the discussion? We wrote notes." To which Eisley responded in a way that teachers really shouldn't. 

"Look, I hear you, but no-one likes…" he holds his arm out and gestures to the poor kid, moving his hand up and down in a desperate attempt to find his wording, then rolling his hand to indicate finding his footing with his sentence. "whatever this is that you're doing. Be free, study or read. I'm taking a nap."

In that moment, I didn't feel bad for Eisley, I was actually inspired. I will be free. 

I took my bag and bumped Rich's shoulder to tell him to come with, but he insisted he'd stay. He simply had too many good prospects to be a delinquent such as I.

I wander the corridors less aimlessly than usual. What is this strange feeling? I feel like I've been here before. Not school; of course I've been to school before. I'm talking about today. Everything felt so familiar at maths class, from the test to the way Late addressed me, was almost exactly the same as yesterday.

Break should be in around twenty minutes and in that time, the corridors will be filled with young adults of many ages. 

Nuisances.

Since break is around half an hour long, I have fifty minutes to do whatever I want. 

However, I really can't shake this feeling that there's something I have to do today, but if I can't remember, there's no reason to care.

Naturally, I go to the school's mascot tree in the schoolyard and take a long nap until someone rudely awakens me.

"…ey....ke up…" 

WHACK'

"I said wake up!" Loudly expressed by a hand travelling at the speed of sound. As it connects with my left cheek, it is also followed by "Consider this the last time. I went easy on you just now." Rudely expressed a girl not much younger than I. Her idea of going 'easy' on me was sending me through the air with one hand.

Wait. I know this girl.

I just have to remember her name.

I believe it's Abigail. Abigail Walker, sits next to me in history class and chooses to sit next to me in art. She actually chooses to sit next to me in every class we're in, regardless of who's actually supposed to be there. She just stands over them, intimidating them with her immense aura, and points them to her empty seat which was untouched due to her habit of waiting to see where I am to decide where she sits. 

She has chestnut brown hair in braids down to her shoulders, dark skin, and a very mature dress sense. A long bright yellow summer dress with a denim jacket and converses. 

Today, she slaps me in the face. With the strength of a train. She knocks me 20 metres in the eastward direction.

She used her dominant hand.

Abigail Walker planted her shoes firmly on the grass, facing south, and slapped me as hard as she possibly could.

An unworthy judgement has been passed upon me.

"I can't believe you really still sleep under this whack ass tree. You're going to get mugged one day." Abigail continues. "And where the hell were you?! I told you yesterday to meet me at the front gate to get first lunch together five minutes before lunch!" 

Ah, that was the important thing.

Also.

"Remind me," I say, picking myself up, dusting off my clothes, and walking towards her like I'm about to use my special move, "what is 'first lunch'? Are you implying a second and/or third lunch?"

"Obviously it's the lunch we have before second lunch! We've talked about this basically every day. Now," she imitates cracking her knuckles and her neck, yet no sound emerges, "are we going or what? We have twenty-five minutes as of yet, and those pastries are going fast!" 

"There's no reasoning with you." I say defeated. I simply walk towards her and we start towards the school gate. 

Abi walks at a brisk pace, which almost mimics a march. Suddenly, she turns around, walking backwards. Putting on the cute act even after slapping me with the force of a car.

"Because you kept me waiting, you have to buy me five pastries of my choice! And I won't be modest, I'm getting the most expensive ones. I know you're good for it."

"And how do you know that?" 

"Cause I know you, dummy. You're such a dumb idiot but your family's well-off. You pretend to be broke but you've got more secrets than most people."

I… have secrets? 

I always assumed I was an open book.

I bring out my wallet, "I've got about twenty bucks." I sigh as I close it.

"Eurgh, is that it? That's barely enough for five." She pauses, thinks with her finger on her chin, and then points directly at me. "Let's just get one each, that way you can have one too! See, I'm not so bad!" She joyfully skips forward flashing me a smile whenever she believes she's being generous.

"I'm still paying for it!"

"What's yours is mine!" Abi smirks, eyes closed, subconsciously moving through the corridor without having to look. 

"We're not married!"

"Not yet! We still got time for you to accidentally fall in love with me!" She teased. 

Accidentally fall in love.

What a wild card.

We proceed to the pastry shop at a half-brisk pace. The other half is me lagging behind.

When we get to the pastry shop, Abi runs to grab the specific pastries she wanted. I continue to lag behind to not get caught in the aftermath of the Abi Rush. The pastries cost £7 each, leaving me with £6 in change, which is just enough to get myself second lunch.

Listen to me, I sound like Abi already. 

Did I always sound like this? Or is it only when I'm with her? 

Why does my memory feel so fuzzy?

We walk together to the park two roads away from the pastry shop. Since there's not many parks in this small town, this has to be the park around the corner from my house. 

Abi is pleasantly nibbling at her baked sweet bun with a cream filling. I try not to stare at her grinning face.

Abigail Walker is a bonafide genius, yet spends her time with me. She's athletically talented, a black belt in every martial arts she tries her hand at, and she's gotten straight A's in every current subject. 

I challenged her to take a language class to catch her out on one thing, to which she counted my challenge by forcing me to commit to one too. 

Obviously she won.

She won, and she knows a new language now.

As we take our seat at my favourite bench, I can't help but try to wrap my brain around why she entertains me. Maybe I entertain her.

"You'd better eat that quickly! Otherwise I'm gonna eat it out your hand!" 

"All I heard is you're going to eat my hand." I teased.

She blushed. 

I looked away.

The summer of youth.

"We'd better get back quickly, there's only ten minutes left of break." I start.

"Let's just stay like this a little longer."

"Are you a delinquent too?"

"I'd like to think I am." 

The more we sit, the more my eyes scan the park. I spot a few people jogging, and a girl with a violet tracksuit speaking to a young girl in a dungaree skirt, licking a strangely bland-looking ice cream cone.

Five minutes until we're expected back.

Suddenly I feel somewhat hazy. I close my eyes for a moment when… I feel something. Something agitating my hands. I open my eyes to find…

"I told you!" Laughs Abi as she takes a generous bite of my pastry. Cream pouring over the napkin to coat my hand in sticky sweet goodness.

"Let's get going."

"What? Did I do something wrong? I only stuck to my word!" Abi whines.

"I just don't feel too well. I'm gonna spend the next lesson in the nurses office."

"Well… I'll write notes for you." She sighs. "What would you do without me?"

"Fail, consistently. And only eat one lunch a day." 

"Then you'd better be more grateful!"

We get back to school seven minutes late. Abi makes a head start to history class and I slowly walk to the nurses office. The journey isn't long, it's actually on the way to history. Abi just knows exactly what excuses to use with each teacher, and since she's a genius, they believe her every word and allow her any excuse. Not a single red mark on her record.

As usual, the nurse, whom everyone in class simply calls Veronica, allows me to spend the lesson on a bed. She's an angel on earth, and has never had a single negative thing said about or to her. A truly unsullied reputation, that's backed up by a truly unsullied saint. As art class approaches, Veronica tells me to get going. 

"It's art class." I moan.

"That's no excuse! Art is important too! Go get em! You should be right as rain!" She cheerily expresses. I know she's probably right.

Making my way to class, I hear people mingling in the corridors during the mid-lesson journey. 

"I mean, he's cute, but his family is so broke, I don't even know why he tries to pick us up."

"I haven't had any sleep, dude, I was grinding on Banjo all night!"

"I can't believe I failed every test so far, my mum's gonna beat me!"

The summer of youth.

Art is one of the few classes I can sleep through, but somehow, I was more interested in today's lesson than anything. We have a substitute teacher, who addresses himself as Madame Antonella, and was extremely flamboyant. She sported a long flowing black dress with black accents, alongside a black and red patterned hand fan, which she used to cover her face intermittently.

"Today, class, I want expressions of your inner you! I want you to paint the you that you see inside! Grab a canvass, whatever size, and express the you that we cannot see! I want to SEE!" She rants, manically waving her fan in the air as if to start a small tornado.

Naturally, we all get up to grab a canvas. Madame Antonella rants in ad-libs whilst we do so.

I grab myself a humble-sized one and go to take my seat when I suddenly realised that Abi is right next to me. 

Why did it take so long to realise?

I don't feel too great today. My mind isn't where it needs to be. For some reason, this day feels familiar, but this… This isn't familiar at all. I may have slept during art yesterday. 

But why is today's school rota the same as yesterday? 

Why does no-one remember?

"You're not gonna get much painting spacing out like that!" Abi notes, immediately snapping me out of my trance. 

"Did we have this same teacher yesterday?" 

"Yesterday? We don't have art yesterday." We didn't have art yesterday? I was there… We definitely had art yesterday. "Are you sure you're okay? You've been spacing out a lot recently… Oh! The notes I made during history class!"

Abi provides a 200-page, noted and primed, illustrated book detailing exactly what the teacher said, the meaning behind it, her personal feelings towards every segment of the lesson, and a blurb.

One of her best works.

"All this for me? I'm honoured."

"All this for a Nobel Prize! Only after you finish it though! You're in it as an absent space that no-one could fill!" She teased, looking pleased with herself.

As brushed touched paint, as many colours as were provided, I could barely display on a canvas the me that I am on the inside. Was this some kind of trick lesson? 

"I have a trick for you if it helps?" Abigail begins.

"I'm interested." I respond.

"Close your eyes and let your hand move. Picture your inner you and try to place it on the canvas." 

"You sound like a pro, you done this before?" Remarks I, sarcastically. As my eyes close, my hearing perks up to cheery expressions of my classmates.

"Oh, I'm finished!"

"I'm so finished."

"This looks nothing like me!"

All the while, my hand is working overtime in the darkness. I blindly connect the brush to a colour, and swing my brush like an amateur swordsman

And then…

Silence.

I open my eyes to find a dark figure sprawled onto the canvas. Tendrils emerge from where its arms are, and thousands more behind it, hidden by the rash strokes of black that the figure releases. 

Suddenly, I wake up in my own bed.

The smell of pizza and beer fills the house.

I check the alarm clock on the bedside table.

10:55PM… I should just try to get back to sleep.