Chapter 6

Weekends fly by so quickly that it feels like they never happened. Naturally, with a pile of homework in my planner, I have plenty to do on Saturday and Sunday. But still, I manage to find a free minute to try out my new pastels for drawing. It's a shame, though, I can't show the result to my dad since he's already gone back to work.

The first weekday — Monday — passes almost as quickly as the weekend. Most likely because it's the easiest day of the whole week for me. Maybe it's because there are only six lessons, and two of them are my favorites, or because there's no biology? I guess I won't bother thinking about this question.

Without my knowledge, my mom sorts out the small details regarding my extra biology lessons, and it turns out I'll be attending them twice a week — on Tuesday and Friday. I'm not exactly thrilled, especially since I didn't have to worry about biology on the last weekday, but now I will.

On Tuesday, after the first lesson, Mr. Gilbert asks me to come to him after the seventh. Reluctantly agreeing, I show up in room "209" at 3:15 PM. He's diligently drawing something in the school journal, and as I notice, the 5-B class, he doesn't even bother to look up at me. He just nods briefly towards the first desk, asking me to sit there. Sighing dramatically, I throw my backpack carelessly onto the nearby chair and sit down. For a while, there's an intense silence in the classroom, and all that can be heard is my own calm, measured breathing. But soon, the biology teacher lets out a sigh of relief and sharply slams the journal shut, so suddenly that the thin dust on the desk rises into the air.

"Well then," Mr. Gilbert says, looking me straight in the eye, "now we'll figure things out."

He sets aside the fifth-grade journal and reaches for ours, which had been resting on the edge of the teacher's desk.

"What is there to figure out with me?" I respond in a deliberately confused tone, raising an eyebrow. It accidentally sounds like I'm mocking him, but thankfully, Mr. Gilbert doesn't care, just like I don't care about biology.

"Tell me one thing: why did you try to fix B? It's a perfectly acceptable grade, not C or D," he says, after a moment of scrutinizing my grades in our class journal. He raises his gaze to me, curious to hear my explanation.

"For a medalist?" I say, occasionally tapping my fingers on the smooth lacquered desk and looking down at it with a mocking tone, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, so you're a straight-A student?" Mr. Gilbert says. Didn't know that, huh? Or maybe you really didn't know. You've only just started here, you haven't had time to familiarize yourself with everything, including the list of top students. Though, there's a huge display near the teacher's lounge with photos of all the A-students. How could you not notice? He must have looked at it at least once. But never mind, that's not the point.

"Look at this," Mr. Gilbert flips through the journal, quickly scanning my grades and pretending to be surprised. "Really an A-student. All A grades... Math neatly arranged in a row, unlike biology."

"But you don't give grades higher than B!"

"Well, you don't study for anything higher than B."

"That's not true," I immediately put on a "sullen" mask, stubbornly trying to argue, thinking the teacher's words are completely false. I do study biology, and don't tell me otherwise...

"Well, then tell me, what's the Golgi apparatus?" Mr. Gilbert says, a malicious grin spreading across his face as he notices my brief hesitation. He waits, ready to hear an answer at any moment, but it's like he knows it won't come.

"Well, it's the one that...," I furrow my brows, trying to recall something about the topic, but the only thing that comes to mind is the replacement of the word "apparatus." Oh, wait, something else... "It produces lysosomes, that's it."

"And that's all?" Mr. Gilbert raises an eyebrow, surprised by my brevity regarding the Golgi apparatus.

"That's all, not all, but it produces lysosomes," I say, trying to sound like I was right, but deep down, I feel completely different. Like I'm not just wrong, but also pretty uninformed. Stupid, in fact. With a look as if I've already lost hope for society, and especially for biology, Mr. Gilbert sighs heavily.

"One more impertinent question: why are you torturing your brain with biology? Do you really want to get into a related field?" It's an interesting question, but it's none of your business. I lower my eyes to my strangely trembling fingers, thinking about how to phrase it more accurately. But really, what's there to phrase?

"Yes, I do," I respond in an excessively cheeky tone, even though I tried not to sound so defiant. I can feel my face turning red, I try to breathe deeper and calmer, and after a moment, I add:

"To medical school."

"God forbid. We've already got enough 'doctors' around here," Mr. Gilbert says, and although it sounds like a simple harmless joke, it stings somehow. I'm trying, really trying, and this is how it turns out...

"Well, Eva," Mr. Gilbert puts aside our class journal, rises from his seat. "Let's get down to... biology."

It sounds a bit too much, too significant. Or maybe it's just my overactive imagination, which makes me instantly feel ashamed and uncomfortable. My cheeks flush again, but I manage to force out a response:

"Okay".

We begin the biology lesson in complete silence. I know that Mr. Gilbert is not the type of teacher to give up easily, especially when it comes to students who are being difficult. He walks around the classroom, handing out thick biology books to everyone. My eyes follow him, even though I know that this doesn't help my situation.

Finally, he returns to my desk and places the textbook in front of me with a small thud. I look at it, my heart sinking a little, knowing what's coming next.

"Open to chapter five," he says, sitting down next to me. I hesitantly flip through the pages, trying to look interested, but my thoughts are elsewhere. I feel the weight of his gaze on me, as if he's waiting for me to prove something.

We go through the lesson slowly. It's all about cellular functions, the intricate structures within cells, and how they work. But to be honest, I can't focus. My mind keeps drifting to the absurdity of this whole situation. I don't care about any of this. I'd much rather be doing something else—anything else.

The clock ticks away slowly, and I feel every minute. Mr. Gilbert keeps asking me questions about the material, and each time, I either fumble or just give up and admit that I don't know the answer. I can see the frustration building in his eyes, but I'm too tired to care.

Eventually, the lesson ends. Mr. Gilbert tells me to stay after class again to go over what we covered today. I nod, not really hearing him. My mind is already elsewhere, thinking about the next part of the day, when I can finally go home and forget about all of this.

I stand up, grab my backpack, and head for the door, but Mr. Gilbert calls after me.

"Eva," he says, his voice a bit softer now. "You have potential. Don't waste it."

I stop in my tracks. His words catch me off guard. For a moment, I think about what he said, but I quickly dismiss it. I don't need anyone to tell me what I should be doing with my life.

With a quick nod, I walk out of the classroom, the door closing softly behind me.

As I walk out of the school building, the usual rush of thoughts fills my head, but there's something different today. I feel strangely exhausted, not just physically, but mentally too. The conversation with Mr. Gilbert lingers in my mind. It's not often I get called out like that, and I can't shake the feeling that he's right. I do have potential, and maybe I've been wasting it. But for what? To end up in some career I don't care about? To follow the same path everyone else expects of me?

I push those thoughts aside. There's no time to waste on them. I have more important things to focus on. Like my art. It's the one thing that's truly mine, the one thing I can control.

The biologist turned out to be truly knowledgeable in his field. For a moment, I even stopped doubting his abilities, but his appearance—Mr. Gilbert could almost be mistaken for any high school senior—kept me from fully seeing him as a professional.

That same day, my mother surprised me with some news that had unexpectedly fallen first onto her head, and now onto my already overburdened one. She was going on a business trip. Most likely, for a week.

And very urgently, too—by the time I got home from school, she was already hastily packing her suitcase. She told me the news just as hurriedly, almost in passing. Well, she was leaving me alone, but at least she left me some money. Said it should be enough for a week. And of course, it would be enough. More than enough, in fact. Maybe I'd even buy myself something for drawing later.

So there I was, on a rainy day, sitting in my room, carefully sketching something on a pristine white sheet—homework had long been done—when I suddenly heard the click of an incoming message. I could feel in my gut that it was from Sarah. She was the only one who never called, preferring instead to just tap away on her keyboard and then hit "Send."

Reluctantly tearing myself away from my meticulous and rather fascinating work, I reached for my phone.

"Eva, wanna hit the club tonight? Mike's got a friend, I want you to meet him."

That was the message from my classmate. Straight to the point, as always.

Mike was Sarah's boyfriend, an annoyingly persistent guy I hadn't liked from the moment she introduced us.

"What club, Sarah? What friend? Have you lost your mind?"

Seriously, she must've gone off the deep end. She had tried to get me to go out and party so many times, and not once had I agreed. Probably because I wasn't a fan of those kinds of places or the people who frequented them. Not Sarah, of course, but the crowd that gathered there. I just didn't like noisy places, let alone clubs.

"No refusals, bestie. We're picking you up at eight."

Sarah—stubborn and feisty as ever—stood her ground. It was the first time she'd been this persistent about convincing me. I really shouldn't have told her my mom was going away on a business trip and that I'd be home alone. I really shouldn't have. But alas, it was too late to regret it now.

"We?" I furrowed my brow as I sent the message.

Sara must not have read it because I got no reply.

Great. Just great.

The clock hands on the cute orange cat-shaped wall clock slowly ticked their way to six in the evening. Given that it took me about an hour to get ready, I still had some time. So, I decided to spend it browsing through the works of my favorite contemporary artist on my computer.

To the world, to fans, this artist was known only by the pseudonym Connelly. No one had ever seen him, no one knew his real identity. But many admired his work. There was even an exhibition in London.

Connelly's paintings carried an air of mystery—dark yet light, merging both the shadowy and luminous sides of the soul. People were fascinated by them. And I was one of them.

Whenever I sought inspiration for my next drawing, I looked at Connelly's paintings, and ideas would instantly flood my mind. Without hesitation, I would immediately start sketching them onto a blank sheet of paper, spending hours on something that might have seemed trivial to others. But in the end, I was always satisfied with the result, knowing that two, even three hours hadn't gone to waste.

Then the loud click of the clock echoed through the room, followed by an insistent meowing—it did that every hour. The long, black, intricately designed minute hand pointed precisely at seven, which meant only one thing: time to get ready.

I indulged in a ten- to fifteen-minute shower before picking out my outfit. After five minutes of deliberation, I settled on a snug blue dress with knitted sleeves that reached my knees and a pair of black patent leather platform shoes—honestly, the only ones I owned.

My curly red hair, which looked even more vibrant against the dark dress, almost orange, I tied into a high ponytail. The weather wasn't great, so I had to put on long black knee socks that reached the hem of my dress and throw on a leather jacket.

Ready for whatever adventure awaited my poor, unsuspecting self, I gave my reflection a once-over in the sliding mirror wardrobe—everything seemed fine. I put on some lip balm to keep my lips from getting chapped, took a deep breath, and just then, the unmistakable sound of a car horn rang through the courtyard.

Looking out the window, I spotted Sarah peeking out of a sleek black foreign car.

They were here.

Fully aware that backing out was no longer an option, I locked the apartment door with a strange feeling stirring inside me.

Had I mentioned I had a knack for sensing impending disaster?

Yeah… This felt like that.

Too bad I didn't take my gut feeling seriously.

I really, really should have.