It's raining outside—pit-pat, pit-pat. I know that other students bring umbrellas with them on days like this but I'm a cloud so I don't need one. I just say bye and hurry up to the school bus—a yellow blur in the veil of rain.
Like always, there are still few students there: Leslie, Idaho, Teri, Joe, Carmen, and Tobias. And like always, once I float in they all lift their heads to wish me good morning. It's all due to my notoriety for being a girl from a well-off family who doesn't want for anything and is rolling in wealth. That's why my classmates treat me differently even though I've been wanting the opposite. I sigh and float to my seat as the bus budges, wading through the downpour to pick up the next student.
People think that being rich is cool. They envy me: I see it in their faces, in the way they gape whenever they come to my place for my birthday party. They think that being rich equals being unconditionally happy, but I couldn't feel worse. I watch the rain battering against the moist glass—it's my grandfather arguing with grandma again—and all I feel is tiredness. I'm tired of my status as the rich girl who everyone fawns over; tired of the everyday routine. It's always the same. Every day I go to school, listen to Miss Simian's drab lessons, then go back home to study Japanese and practice playing the fiddle because my dad wants me to. I like the first part, though: my family is of Japanese descent, after all, and I adore the sound of the language and the elaborate kanji alphabet.
But the rest of the routine repeats day after day, so unchanging and dull that I sometimes think I'll go mad.
The bus pulls up to the curb in front of the school and I exit along with the other students, who are chatting lightheartedly. As blasé about it as I always am, I meander toward the entrance when a glimpse of something gray on the right catches my attention.
I turn my head slowly.
A figure stands not far from the bus stop. It's all wrapped in an ashen cloak with a hood thrown over its head, obscuring its face.The figure has no umbrella and doesn't move; it just stays in the same spot, obviously waiting for something, as if the harsh rain doesn't bother it at all.
That's strange, I think. I haven't seen this figure before. What is it doing in front of our school?
A lightning bolt startles me. From the daze, I remember about the first period and scurry to the class.
When I look out of a window in the corridor, the stranger is still there. The water—my grandparents' ire—falls from the sky, rinses houses' roofs, moistens leaves and forms transparent puddles on the pavement. But the gray figure at the stop hasn't moved yet, so as the boring classes pass by, I wonder who or what it is waiting for.
When I go out after the last bell has rung, the stranger is gone.
I feel slightly disheartened. For some reason, I expected it to be still there, which is silly, of course. After all, who would like to sodden under rain all day?
On the bus, my classmates discuss the pending football match.
"My dad once played football, too," I say.
"O-oh, that's cool!" Teri reacts quickly, surprised by my sudden intrusion, and her paper bear ears quiver a tad.
"I bet he was an awesome player," Leslie adds in an instant.
"Yes, Masami, your dad is cool!" she pauses awkwardly, "and you're cool!"
Their smiles are wide but their excitement is irrevocably fake, and they all look apprehensive about the fact that the rich girl is joining their discussion. Their words are so oily. Now, Molly can't stop twirling her fingers, and Leslie loops one of his leaves around the other and vice versa, nervous and antsy.
It wasn't always like this. When we were younger, no one in the class knew I was rich; we all clicked. We even gathered up in a treehouse with the other girls and Leslie to whisper about boys and stuff. When did that change?
And why we can't be those little kids again?
I sigh and take a seat at the end of the bus.
At home, my music teacher comes to give me a regular fiddle lesson, which I abhor so much. The monotonous, repetitive process lasts for an hour and a half. Sounds of the fiddle in tandem with the shower outside—pit-pat, pit-pat—make me drowsy. All this time, I can hear mom talking with her friend on phone, and once I'm done with the stupid lesson, dad comes home for dinner. All he is interested in is how my fiddle class went. Like usual.
"You're wearing those ridiculous socks again?" he notices. I know he finds them too bright and multicolored for his businessman's liking.
"Yes. And I like them, Dad."
He opens his mouth as if to reprimand me, but eventually just gobbles up the turkey. When Mom brings up my grandparents' morning fight, I float out to my room to practice my katakana calligraphy before going to bed.
It's all the same every day, and hardly ever does it change.
The next day is sunny, though I don't care about the weather anyway. While Rocky drives us to school, I don't pay much attention to what the others are talking about and I'm expecting the regular boring day at school, like all the other ones. But as we approach the school, I flinch.
The gray-cloaked figure is there again.
It stands aloof, just like yesterday, slouched and still. It looks so prominent before the beige building—like it does not belong there—and, to my surprise, it occupies the very spot it did the previous morning. I would have thought it hasn't budged even, did I not clearly remember that it was gone by that afternoon.
We spurt out of the bus. No one seems to notice the stranger: the students are too busy chatting with each other. I, however, have no one to talk with, so my gaze surveys the figure curiously as I float, and I even bump into someone.
"Ouch!" a voice shrieks.
Tearing my gaze away from the mysterious person at the bus stop, I see Miss Simian's disgruntled face.
"I'm sorry, Miss Simian."
She grits her ape teeth but doesn't say anything—just shuffles away in her pink dress, her tail dangling on the ground loosely. Well, I guess there are certain advantages of having rich parents, after all.
I enter the school. The stranger remains on its spot, all alone at the empty, quiet bus stop. What is it doing in there? Why is it so placid about everything? These are questions without answers.
By the time the crowd of thrilled students pours out in the afternoon, the place is void of its occupier again, like it wasn't there in the first place.
Next morning is a little different. I almost anticipate my arrival at school, hence my remissness, so I only notice mom frown when I reach the bottom of the stairs. "Haven't you forgotten anything?" she asks, her arms folded on her chest.
"Oh, right." I approach her to leave a kiss on her cheek. "Bye, mom. Have a good day."
Her beautiful red-lipsticked lips twist into an affectionate smile. I know that in her eyes, our family is just perfect and that she assumes I'm therefore perfectly okay too because I was lucky to be born in such family. I'm often reminded of that. Maybe she's right and I'm just an ungrateful surfeited teen.
As Rocky turns the corner, my eyes are nailed at the bus stop and I almost joggle when the familiar dark shape begins looming before the school like a burned out candle. It grows bigger as we approach the curb, unmoving, unchanging on its spot.
I know what I am going to do even before the bus comes to a standstill.
Again, the students dash right past the figure, but I separate myself from them and float toward it. While its strange behavior tickles my curiosity, I nonetheless get shy once I am before its opaque smoky cowl. I clear my throat. "Um, Sir… Ma'am? I couldn't help but notice you coming here the third morning in a row…" The stranger is tall and slender so it's impossible to tell its sex.
I don't get any reaction to my words. In fact, the person before me looks completely undisturbed by them and doesn't budge. A cool gust of air, however, suddenly blows from under its hood all over me, brief and ominous. It feels like a quick cascade of very cold water.
A chill runs down my nonexistent spine.
I gulp. "I mean, I keep seeing you here and I hope you don't mind me asking—"
My sentence remains unfinished.
Without warning, an eerie bluish-black aura flares up around the stranger. Its hood shifts up a little, slowly revealing what it's hiding, and underneath it I see… nothing.
A rising shrill breaks out of my throat.
The next moment, I dash toward the school entrance with such rapidity that the air whistles in my ears. All I can see before my eyes is the afterimage of the creepy nigritude under that hood, without a face… Smash!
I crash right into Molly who's coming up the school stairs.
"Masami? What happened?"
"It's it!" I cry and point at the stranger. "That… that thing at the stop! It… its face…"
Molly squints her little eyes. I'm still panting but I feel somewhat safer now that I'm not tête-à-tête with that creep.
"I'm sorry, Masami," Molly looks at me again, her face worried, "but who are you talking about?"
"What? Him! Or her, I don't know!" I jerk my hand in the direction of the cloaked figure who—what a surprise—hasn't even moved. The dark, flickering aura still lingers around it.
"But the bus stop is empty," it's Ocho's voice.
"Yeah, Masami," Molly looks around, squinting again, as though trying to find someone, but she eventually shakes her head. "Whoever scared you, they're gone."
I stare at her, then at Ocho.
They're not laughing.
They're completely serious—a bit worried even, I'd say. I feel that they are telling the truth—in fact, they're the last people someone would expect to prank the rich girl, i.e. me. But at the same time, I can't wrap my head around what they are saying.
"You… you can't see it, can you?"
"Whom?"
"The figure in the gray cloak, with that hood… right over there, near that tree…" my voice sounds lost and feeble.
Now Ocho looks confused, and Molly's black face creases with concern. "Sorry, Masami," she apologizes again, slowly. "You…er…I hope you don't mind me asking but… how do you feel today? Maybe Ocho and I, I don't know… should walk you to the nurse? Just saying," she adds quickly.
The stranger is there, right there, as slouched as always, just a little bit darker but perfectly visible. How can they not see it?
The figure lifts its hooded head and although I've seen there is nothing underneath it, I can swear I'm looking right at its wide, malevolent smile.
A shiver runs over my lumps.
"Thank you for the offer, Molly… yes, I guess it's a good idea."
"But I saw it right there! And Molly and Ocho didn't see anyone! Please, you gotta do something!" I implore. I'm on the brink of beginning to rain.
The nurse scowls at me with reproach. "I'm a doctor, not a meteorologist! Listen, girl, I did all I could and if you want my opinion, you are absolutely healthy. Maybe you were seeing things out of tiredness or something, I have no clue. But if you want, I can call your parents and warn them so they'll take the measures they find necessary."
Parents? I think about Mom: she won't take it seriously and will probably put it down to my tiredness or something like that, too. Dad is not going to like it and he will more likely take me to the hospital immediately to run an MRI, get my body X-rayed and hire a costly physician. The very thought of such a rigamarole makes me feel uncomfortable.
"No, please don't tell them."
"Then there's nothing else I can do," the nurse shrugs. "I checked your eyes, had you complete a cognitive test and took your temperature. You may now go to the class, I have a plenty of work to do," grousing so, she turns her gaze toward the picture of Mr. Corneille on her desk and gives an amorous sigh.
So I'm not getting any help here. Great.
I float out of the office. The school corridor is void of students: the bell rang about ten minutes ago—so no one can see me loiter in the air, unsure about what to do now.
Elmore is fraught with weird events and creatures, so in general, I'm pretty accustomed to all sorts of extraordinary stuff. We have had an apocalypse here, an eclipse, cars and dumpsters flying above the houses and so much more. So, as the first impression blows over, I realize I don't feel scared of the stranger anymore: yes, it doesn't have a face and is kind of spooky, but it's not the end of the world, right?
The reason for my hesitation is why, of all people, only I can see that figure. Now that I think about it, it looked quite conspicuous but no one noticed it yesterday or the day before, so there is no doubt it's only visible to me. But why?
The whole situation reminds me of miscellaneous beautiful Japanese legends about spirits and phantasms. I look out of a corridor window to see the familiar lonely figure at the bus stop. It doesn't scare me anymore, I just want to know why it is there.
Giving off a sigh, I head for my class past the row of the red lockers. I can already hear Miss Simian's enraged voice behind that door. A few moments—and I'll be sitting in the class again, at the boring lesson…
Something catches the corner of my eye and I stop.
There, next to the bulletin board, it Mr. Small's office.
The cogs begin turning inside my head.
Everyone in the school knows our counselor is a weirdo. Well, not as much of a weirdo as Sussie is, but still. I haven't communicated with him much but even I know he's a vegetarian, pacifist and hippie whose aim here at school seems to be encouraging the students to join his fasting or yoga practice. I remember the boys in our class making fun of him when they drew a ludicrous picture of Mr. Small helping himself to earth. Put simply, he's a wacky school counselor who no one really wants to be counseled by.
But isn't the fact of seeing someone no one else can see weird as well?
I push the door and fly in.
Mr. Small is sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. There are strange symbols written with ink on his bare skinny chest, and his eyes are closed as he hums to himself in contemplation. I raise my eyebrows at the picture but manage to contain my bewilderment.
"Mr. Small? Can I, um, talk to you?"
"Oh!" he jerks his head upwards without opening his eyes. "Please, Steve! Call me just Steve!"
I'm confused, thinking I misheard him. "Sorry, what?"
"I knew you exist, I knew!" his face, for some reason, is shining with glee. "I've been waiting for you to talk to me, though I didn't expect to achieve nirvana so quickly! Truly, practice makes miracles!"
What the heck was that? I feel a little bit awkward. "No, Mr. Small, it's me, a student… I came to your office for advice."
Finally, the counselor's eyes shoot open. The instant he sees me flying in the air, his face falls.
"Oh, Masami, right," he shakes his head, an apparent tinge of disappointment in his eyes. Sighing, he gets up. "What brings you here, my friend?"
Succinctly as I only can, I tell him my problem.
I just hope I don't sound too crazy or like I really need professional help with my mental health… However, despite my misgivings, Mr. Small doesn't seem to think so. Quite on the contrary, because by the moment I've finished telling about that gray-cloaked stranger, he… is clapping his hands in sheer zing, as though Christmas itself has come early.
Utterly flummoxed by this puerile behavior, I float in front of him. Maybe I shouldn't have come… It isn't too late. Right? I still can return to Miss Simian's class…
"I'm sorry, Mr. Small, what's so exciting about what I've said? Does the fact that I can see that figure mean that I have some mental problem or something?" I dare ask.
"Oh, no-no-no!" The clapping stops promptly as Mr. Small looks at me. "No, my dear kid, it only means that you may have a flair."
The cogs in my head refuse to turn. "A flair? For what?"
"For supernatural, of course!" Mr. Small almost jumps and his face is beaming. "Oh, I have been anticipating this day! I knew there would be some special student who will need my guidance and advice, and I was right, this day came!" springing to his desk, he begins to rummage through its drawers with vim, obviously looking for something.
I can't wrap my lumps around it. "You're saying… you think… I may have supernatural powers?"
"Exactly! What else could it be?"
Well, I even don't know, how about anything else?
I float in the air, blinking.
On the one hand, Mr. Small is notorious for his weirdness—for goodness's sake, he's still wearing those inky symbols on his chest. It's not too late to apologize for bothering him and go to the class and just try to ignore that gray stranger. On the other hand, listening to Miss Simian is the last thing I want to do right now. Or ever.
While Mr. Small, with his body bent in two, continues looking for something in his desk, I take my time to inspect my surroundings. A big yellow poster "Bully free zone" is adhered to one of the walls, amongst the others akin to it: "Save the planet Earth", "Don't be indifferent, help our four-legged friends!" and "Discover yourself". On the desk, a nice green houseplant accompanies the computer. It imparts some cozy hominess to the room and reminds me of a similar one on my windowsill at home. I also notice a kettle and a pink cup—Mr. Small was probably going to have some coffee after meditating before I barged in.
"Here," at the moment I'm about to ask the counselor what he is looking for, he dives out from under the desk and drops a large, heavy book onto it. A puff of dust rises up into the air, making us cough, and a sharp, musty odor hits my olfactory sense.
"What is this, Mr. Small?"
He dusts off the cover of the book so that I can read its gold-colored title now: Unleash Your Superpowers.
"This is exactly what you need," the counselor shines with happiness. "I read this book myself but unfortunately, I don't have the aptitude… but you do, so it will finally serve its purpose!"
"And help me know why I keep seeing that guy before the school?"
"This and more, so much more! I guess we can start right now!"
I feel torn between two choices. In general, I'm quite skeptical about such things. Even Carrie, who is a ghost, doesn't have any superpower unless you count her intangibility as such. But I also do feel slightly curious—this might be a nice change to the boring scenario of my everyday life. Although if Dad knows about it, he will be furious and forbid me to read this book, I reason…
A strong, unfamiliar feeling penetrates me.
It feels strange but pleasant, like a deep breath of fresh air in the wee hours of the morning. I think about Dad, about how I have been playing the stupid fiddle for months only because he wants me to… not that I really want to spite him, I know he means well, but just the thought of surreptitiously doing something he wouldn't like seems appealing all of a sudden, almost inviting.
Mr. Small and I agree to meet today after my last period in his office. He's a bit crestfallen that we can't start right now, but I don't need Miss Simian snitching on me to my parents.
As I look forward to the end of the classes, the day at school passes surprisingly fast. I mean, I am present at the lesson—I'm floating above my seat, the teacher at the blackboard is talking, my classmates, apart from Eggheads, are trying to entertain themselves—but at the same time, it's like I'm not here. I'm drifting somewhere in my thoughts, thinking about what awaits me today, and everything around me is like in a movie—muffled, distant, unimportant.
When the last bell rings, my peers run toward the exit, to the bus and freedom. The school is unusually empty and quiet without them as I sneak down the corridor to Mr. Small's office. This time the teacher is, to my relief, in his shirt.
"Let's see if you have a knack for moving objects," he suggests and sits at his desk, opening the book. I can't exactly make out what's on its worn yellow pages—just some text and intricate charts. "Firstly, Masami, you need to relax. Let go of all your stress and negative thoughts, let them just fly away."
This time Mr. Small's voice doesn't sound childishly excited, it's calm and professional as he gently urges me to proceed. Eager to comply, I try not to think about how the gray figure scared me, how my classmates were playing altogether today without me, about… Alan. Instead, I inhale the vanilla aroma which I notice only now—Mr. Small must've dispersed a perfume in the air or something to give the room a relaxing atmosphere.
"Now, concentrate on the one thing you want to move," the counselor shifts his houseplant in my direction. "This plant. Eyeball it very attentively, wrap your mind and thoughts around it."
This is so weird… The quiet school, the vanilla fragrance and the old dusty book. I focus my gaze on the plant.
"And imagine you are moving it… with the power of your mind… push it mentally… make it move!"
All my muscles tense as I try my hardest to do as told. Whilst my eyes nailed on the object do not blink, I repeat a mantra in my mind trying to funnel all my energy into the task. Mr. Small's firm voice keeps giving me instructions and I can almost see the plant budge when…
Achoo!
From all the vanilla perfume sprinkled in the air, I sneeze intensely, and a little rainbow appears in the air between me and the counselor.
"Sorry," I mumble, "it's always like that when I'm worried…"
A couple of wrinkles twists Mr. Small's forehead as he eyes the rainbow and scratches his chin with a finger. "Hmm, I think I know what you need."
He bends down at his desk and then comes into sight with a tea sachet. "Good old herbal tea! Very relaxing, good for the nerves."
"Well, I usually don't drink tea…"
"Exactly!" Mr. Small throws his index finger in the air while his other hand is pouring water into a cup. "Americans are used to drinking coffee all day, and coffee is unhealthy and affects us badly. No wonder everybody complaints they have terrible headaches and insomnia these days… Here," he hands me the blue cup with black birds on it. "Just try it."
"I'm not sure it has brewed yet. I mean, you've just poured the water inside, Mr. Small."
"Oh, of course, of course, you'll have to wait a couple of minutes but it's worth it."
A vapor steams off of the tea. After waiting a little bit, I try it: we clouds can easily eat or drink very hot foods—we can produce bolts of lightning which are way hotter, after all.
Despite my expectations, it tastes pretty good. Hell, I guess I've even loosened up a bit because Mr. Small's face that is watching me also lightens.
While we wait till I finish the cup, he begins telling me something about how his friend told him about this tea and how it changed his life.
"…And when I was at my wit's end, pulling my hair out and all screaming from the stress before that job interview, I herb about this brewtiful tea—just about thyme! I drank a cup before the interview and got the job as a tea-cher, and even got oolong with my colleagues. Now, Masami, I think this tea and I were mint to be together!"
"…Mr. Small, are you sure it's legal to use so many puns in such a short story?"
Mr. Small shakes his ponytail and winks, and I can't help but smile. I've just finished my tea and, to its credit, now I really feel more relaxed and ready. We get started.
I try moving the plant again, then a pile of paperwork, the mouse, and I put all my effort into it, using the tips from the grimoire and Mr. Small's advice. However, ten minutes pass, then ten more minutes, but all the mentioned objects still remain on their spots, though I'm panting from exertion.
When we realize I've been here for more than half an hour, Mr. Small gets up and slams the book shut. "Well, I guess that's enough for today, Masami."
"But I didn't achieve anything yet!"
"Hmm… Obviously moving objects isn't your superpower, I think. Guess we should try something different next time, but not today: you're tired."
"If you say so…" I'm a bit reluctant. "Okay then. Oh and by the way, thank you for helping me, Mr. Small."
He gives me a sly smile. "Well, it's my job to kettle any problems the students may have, Masami."
What happens to people when they die?
Nobody knows the precise answer; there are only innumerable speculations, theories and guesses. It's funny how with all the technological progress humanity has reached, we still know so little about our own death. We make complex calculations with the help of computers, launch satellites, descend to the seabed and explore space in our spaceships, but regardless of what we do, there still will come the day when we die, and we can do nothing about it. It's inevitable, unavoidable; a point where all roads lead to, sooner or later. We can only either accept it or fear it.
These are some thoughts that rush through my mind while I float across the… cemetery. With our school counselor. In the middle of the night.
"Mr. Small, are you sure this is safe and legal?" I ask in a quiet voice, looking around. The graveyard is as eerie as… well, as a graveyard, and the even rows of stones stretch far in length and width. The sky's overcast: no star can be seen behind the dense veil of clouds.
Unlike me, Mr. Small isn't showing any signs of trepidation. In fact, he is rather briskly striding ahead, chipper and calm, holding a flashlight in one hand and the familiar grimoire in the other.
"Of course! After all, we're studying. I realized that the previous time we kicked off on the wrong foot—if you can see that figure, it's obvious your superpower has something to do with the dead," Mr. Small eventually comes to a halt and gives his surroundings a satisfied look. We are in the middle of the cemetery. "Look around, Masami: can you see any ghosts?"
Without warning, a not-so-distant, doleful howl pierces the cool air. The wind ruffles dry leaves under my floating body, as if warning about something.
My heart drops to my feet. In growing agitation, I wring my head to the left, then to the right, and see no soul—luckily, because if I did, I'd rush away on the spot, screaming at the top of my lungs.
"N-no."
"Hmm," Mr. Small's expression turns thoughtful as he shines the book's pages with his flashlight. "Let's see… Have you ever seen any ghosts before?"
"Does Carrie count?"
"Er…I don't think so."
"Then I haven't. Um… Mr. Small, I understand why we're here, but why are you on your roller skates?" This teacher never ceases to amaze me with his quirks.
Mr. Small squirms his legs to stay on his feet because his roller skates are threatening to roll apart on the damp burial ground.
"Well, I needed some practice so I thought it'd be a good idea," he answers nonchalantly. His finger flips the page of the book. "Aha! Here! I guess we should try to see if you have a flair to raise people from the dead."
"Wait, what?!"
I look over his shoulder to see some Latin words and a picture of a man by a grave. "I'm not doing it! It's creepy enough already to just stand here!"
"Don't worry, Masami, there's nothing to be afraid of," you bet! "All you need to do is just float above, say, this grave, and read the spell."
"I don't know how to read Latin!"
"I'll show you."
Sighing, I eventually concede defeat.
Mr. Small begins to arrange and light the candles he brought with him around the chosen grave, which isn't that easy at all given that he's still in his roller skates, so I have to help him.
The wind is howling. I fly over closer to the book so that I can discern the letters lit by the flashlight. I partially regret agreeing to come here: if my dad learns about it, he'll kill me. In addition, my teeth chatter as the candles flicker dangerously in the cemetery's dark. I muster up all my courage and squint to read the foreign text.
"Ego, Masami, concecro et benedico istum circulum per nominee Dei Altissimi, in hec scripta…"
A strong gust of wind extinguishes all the candles. All that is seen now are the Latin words before me.
Gulping loudly, I continue to read. "Rotestatis gerum contra malignos spiritus…"
Suddenly, the flashlight's light vanishes, too, burying everything around in the dark. A loud thump sounds from beneath me, and my eyes shoot wide when I notice something moving just on the grave's surface…
A scream of visceral horror escapes my throat. Rushing around, I expect to see Mr. Small but he's gone—only the book is left open on the ground.
A horrible realization dawns on me. I just… I just… I just brought one person to life but gave Mr. Small's soul for it!
I flounce around frantically, in the silly hope to see the counselor somewhere, but can only see the squirming figure on the grave.
"Mr. Small! MR. SMALL!"
My eyes begin to moisten. How, how could I have killed my own teacher?!
"Masami, please, stop screaming, the police will hear you."
It's him!
"Mr. Small! Where are you?" I turn around to see where the voice is coming from. "Are you talking with me from the other side?"
"I'm talking with you from the ground."
My gaze drops to where the person I just revived is moving, and I squint. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I suddenly can make out Mr. Small's features! It's him, he's just all in soil and dirt so no wonder I took him for a revived corpse.
"You're alive!"
"Yes… but putting on these roller skaters was not the best of my ideas…" he mumbles against the ground, his voice muffled.
"Oh, thank goodness! I thought I gave your life for the corpse's…"
"Wait, what? This is why you were screaming?" Mr. Small asks in a surprised voice while I help him to get up and stand steadily. His snow-white fluff is gray because of the mud now.
"Well, yeah. I…" I stutter, "I really believed you were gone."
For a moment, there hangs a silence. Then, without warning, Mr. Small laughs.
I stare at him, puzzled. What's so funny about standing in the center of a cemetery in the dead of night, in a pair of roller skates, and knowing you have just been mistaken for a revived corpse?
...Oh.
In the next moment, we both are laughing: a teacher and a student, a grownup man and a teen girl. We just stand there, while everyone else in the town—well, maybe except for Larry and the police—is asleep, and can't stop chuckling. It's almost ridiculous.
And yet, I feel like I haven't laughed in years.
When our mutual laughing fit eventually ceases, Mr. Small wipes his eyes with a sleeve. We concur that I obviously don't have a flair for bringing deceased people back to life and begin to pick up after ourselves: I gather the scattered candles, and Mr. Small takes care of the grimoire. Once we're done, we head for the gates of the cemetery, stepping gingerly between the last shelters of those who no longer belong to this world.
For a while, we walk in a serene hush. Then the counselor, who has taken off his roller skates, speaks up. "Sorry for scaring you, Masami."
"Um, that's okay, Mr. Small, it was funny," I shrug, not sure why he is apologizing for something unintended.
"Yes, but I still scared you, which wouldn't have happened if I hadn't brought my roller skates in the first place. Frightening his students is not something a teacher should do."
Now I feel something between confusion and awkwardness and don't know what to say. When the light of the flashlight captures Mr. Small's face out of the darkness, I can see it's contemplative and unusually serious.
"I bet you find my behavior weird sometimes," he speaks up again, looking at the ground beneath his grubby, bare feet.
"W-what? No, Mr. Small, I don't—"
"I know what the students think about me," he gently cuts me off.
I fall silent from the sad acceptance in his voice. For some reason, I have always thought he's oblivious to something like that—hence his hippie-ish conduct, after all.
"I'm aware that most students are quite skeptical about my beliefs and habits, such as yoga or alternative medicine, but that's not what I'm apologizing for," he continues as I pick up the pace to keep up with him. "You must have noticed that sometimes my mood switches from good and patient to impatient and angry…" Well, I can't argue with this point. "That's because I have Bipolar Disorder. And due to it I sometimes do unpredictable and inappropriate things, like wearing this roller skates for a walk across the cemetery. It was very insensible of me, besides, I could fall on you as well and hurt you. Sorry for that, Masami."
The name of the disorder sounds vaguely familiar, though I can't remember what exactly it means. "Bipolar Disorder?"
"Oh," Mr. Small looks like he just realized his slipup. "I probably shouldn't have told you… anyway, just sorry if I weirded you out."
"Don't worry, I won't tell a soul," I promise, floating beside him in the air. "And I'm not weirded out by you at all." This time it's a lie, but I don't care.
His brows rise. "Really?"
"Yes. And I also think you're a good and devoted teacher," wow, this came out unexpectedly even for me.
"Why, thank you."
Now Mr. Small is genuinely smiling.
It's funny, I think, how the simplest act of spontaneous kindness can make a person feel a little bit better and ginger up their day (or night, in the case). You can just make them a compliment or tell a joke, and they're already smiling, their worries and fears all forgotten in the briefest of moments. Kind words are so easy to say and yet they have so much power…
…and so do mean words.
We walk further in a comfortable silence.
The next day is Saturday. I come up to Mom when she's watching TV on the couch, still in her morning gown.
"Mom," I call her, and she turns her head to me, "What is Bipolar Disorder?"
She looks positively astonished.
"Why do you ask?"
I wasn't caught with my little going out last night and I don't intend to, so I have to concoct a lie: "I heard it at school. So, what's it? Is it… dangerous?"
Mom ponders for a moment as I float before her. Since today is Saturday, her white long hair is done in a loose bun and she's not wearing her lipstick. That makes her look homey. My mom always looks like a million dollars but when she's at home and relaxed, there's something special and motherly charming about her.
"Well, it's a mental illness," she responds slowly. "People who have it can sometimes behave in a weird way and their mood may change all of a sudden… I guess if there's something you should really know, it's that you shouldn't judge people for it. Your father was bipolar in his teens."
"Dad?"
"Yes. He had been taking medication for months when we first met, and when I was pregnant with you, he had already recovered from it, but it took him a while…"
As my mom goes on telling me more about mental diseases, I think of Mr. Small and make a mental note to never think of him as a "weirdo" again.
"Please tell me more… about our family," I ask. It's a strange urge—we usually don't talk with each other like this on weekends, mom just watches TV or does a cleaning, and I hang out in my room.
She eyes me attentively. A click on the remote turns the TV off, and then my mother gets up to pull something out of the chest of drawers. Then she returns to the couch, and her dainty white hand opens our large family album.
"Well, it all started years ago in a small Japanese town…"
I snuggle to her side to make myself comfortable, and in a minute or two Dad joins us.
Days and weeks pass as Mr. Small and I continue working on unchaining my "superpowers".
Usually, I just stay at school after my last period is over, and we try something different from what we tried the previous time. Invisibility, telepathy, omnilingualism, body possession—which is more of a Carrie thing than mine—atmogenesis, pyrokinesis… Before this book, I even didn't know that some of these superpowers existed.
At times, I get a tad tired and want to cease all these tries, but Mr. Small doesn't give up. He's full of willingness and vigor. I guess it's because I'm one of the very few students at the school—if not the only one—who sought his aid and is ready to listen. The other pupils usually don't take heed of his advice, but I do since he's the only one who knows about my secret and I want to thank him with something, even if that means following his advice. To my surprise, some of his recommendations really work: coloring, as it turns out, actually helps to relax before bed, and Miss Simian can forget about a test if you interrogate her about dinosaurs (an advantage of having a teacher that old). Gradually, I even develop a taste for his peculiar herbal tea, and each of our after-school ability tests starts with a cup thereof.
The gray stranger keeps bemusing me and coming to the bus stop every morning with begrudged accuracy. I'm not frightened by it, but I don't approach it anymore either. And still no one except me can see it.
Is it waiting for anyone? Meditating every morning? Trying to intimidate me? Performing a ritual? I don't know, but I hope to one day.
"Hello, stranger," I'll say then, "you've been puzzling me for quite a while, haven't you? But now I know who you are."
Maybe it'll say something in reply. Or won't say anything at all—I have no clue, but I'm still investigating. I want to know my fears.
I want to learn who The Gray Stranger is.
The sun is shining high in the cloudless sky. Birds sheltered in the trees' branches chirp, and people are milling around in the park, occupied with their business: mothers are walking their kids, couples are out on dates, old people are reading newspapers peacefully, enjoying the weather.
Mr. Small and I are sitting on a bench, the familiar open grimoire in between us. Since it's Sunday, my parents went to a restaurant so I thought it would be a good opportunity for practicing with Mr. Small. He even brought his thermos with some brewed herbal tea so I can relax despite all the people around.
"You're looking at me… you can feel my limbs as your own… you can control my body…"
I'm suspended above the bench in deep concentration. This time we're testing my ability to control minds, and I'm putting strenuous effort into attempting to move Mr. Small's body with the power of my thoughts. However, it's been half an hour already and my endeavor seems to be proving futile.
"Maybe we should get a little rest," the counselor suggests. He pulls a couple of oatmeal breakfast bars out of his pocket and offers me one. "Organic and good for digestion."
"Thank you, Mr.—"
I cut myself off and almost drop my breakfast bar.
Not so far from us, the golden couple of our class is out for a walk—Alan and Carmen. Heading in our direction, they are eating a cone of ice cream suspended in Alan's thread, and they take it in turns to lick it, smiling, giggling, totally and absolutely spoony over each other.
They look so happy together…
My heart drops to my feet as the sight of the two annihilates my appetite in less than a second.
"Is something wrong, Masami?" Mr. Small notices the change in my demeanor. "Did the practice tire you?"
I struggle to muster a decent answer as the couple inexorably approaches us. "N-nothing. Everything's okay."
"Oh, hi, Masami!" Carmen sees me. Her brows rise a little once she notices my bench neighbor. "And good morning, Mr. Small!"
I don't look at her. My eyes are nailed on Alan, who greets us as well in a cheerful voice, though I'm not listening to what he's saying. He's nice and polite, as he always is, and as I can't tear my eyes from his smile, a flash of memories flies before me…
The first grade.
The first kid who spoke to me...
The days of looking at him from my farthest desk, sighing, daydreaming...
The secret heart-shaped cards for Valentine's day…
I shake my head to make the unhappy memories go away. Alan and Carmen, as I see it now, have already bypassed us and are turning a corner.
"Was that the boy you like?"
My cheeks blush. "What?! No, no…" though who am I fooling? "Well, actually… yes."
Mr. Small nods thoughtfully, masticating his breakfast bar. "I know Alan, he's a good boy. Always cares about others, always glad to help. You have a good taste in men."
His words are nothing but a poignant reminder of my love manqué. "Yes, but… he loves that other girl, Carmen. They're together."
"Oh, she's one of my students, too! Very studious and diligent, though she used to be a troublemaker, if I remember correctly…"
I stare at the ground. Of course, I see Alan and Carmen at school every day, but meeting them in the park is something different, something I'm not accustomed to.
With the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Small giving me a sympathetic look. "Oh," he says with some understanding in his voice, "I know that feeling. Once there was a person in my life who I loved but who did not love me back…"
This time I actually drop my breakfast bar on the ground.
It shatters. A flock of pigeons flies over to its slivers and puts up a decathlon for the food.
"Really? You didn't make that up just to make me feel better?"
The counselor looks a little bit surprised. "What? No, I'm being genuine. There really was one person I was deeply in love with, but he told me flat-out that he only saw me as a friend and nothing more."
His white ponytail swung by the light wind, Mr. Small takes a dainty sip of the tea. I already feel incredibly awkward—seriously, if there's anything more awkward than being inquired by your parents about your personal life, it's your teacher telling you his love story.
I desperately try to come up with a new subject for conversation when Mr. Small speaks up again, and with a feeling of utter horror, I realize it's a lost cause.
"He was perfect for me: honest, creative, non-conformist. We spent some time together, but only as friends, and in fact, the only thing that welded us was the hippie subculture. Oh, how many times did I wish we were more than just friends…" Mr. Small shakes his head at the reminiscence.
The panic must be creasing my face right now because the passersby begin giving us looks. I didn't sign up for this!
"And… what happened?" Screw my upbringing, why do I have to be polite even at a moment like this?!
"Hmm… well, he got married."
The voice Mr. Small utters this is so nonchalant that my jaw nearly drops to the floor, where currently one pigeon is pecking another over what's left from my breakfast bar. I even forget about the awkwardness.
"Why are you so calm saying that?"
"Why not?"
"Well... Maybe because he got married! And he married not you!"
My teacher gives a shrug.
"Well, he married a person he loved. Isn't that beautiful that they found each other?"
I understand the point of what he's saying, but at the same time, I'm very, very confused and lost. I look up at him inquiringly, trying to come up with a decent counterargument. "But… but…"
"I believe that love isn't about possessiveness," Mr. Small begins in a teacher's voice. He squints at the sun, which casts dapples of light on us through the trees' crowns. "Love is about lots of things: care, faith, hope, but never about possession. A desire to possess a particular person, where jealousy stems from, by the way, isn't about love, it is something that comes from within."
I feel like I'm at school, listening to a lecture, though this time I'm the only student in the class. I land on the bench. "Can I disagree?"
"Of course, feel free to express your thoughts! I always encourage my students to have their own opinions."
"I think that if a person isn't jealous, that means they're not really in love… maybe just have a little crush or something."
With a thoughtful hum, Mr. Small shakes his head. "Well, and I think that a truly loving person never wants to own, conquer and possess the other… If you love someone, you want them to be happy, right?"
I nod.
"That's it. And if you love someone, their happiness is like bliss for you. If you get sad when they're happy not with you, it means that what you actually love isn't this person but how you feel when they're around. It's not about them then, it's about you, see? At least that's how I see it. Simple and straightforward…"
People pass us by. Some of them hurry someplace; others are having a slow, pleasant walk. Wordlessly, the leaves on the trees rustle, as though whispering something to each other in an unknown, ununderstandable for people language. I glance in the direction Alan and Carmen went about twenty minutes ago and try to process what Mr. Small just said.
My thoughts return to Alan.
So many times have I imagined what it would be like if he loved me back… and as many times I have seen him flirting with Carmen. With someone who makes him happy and is not me.
I look up at Mr. Small who is feeding the pigeons with the crumbs. The birds flap their wings, competitive, each wanting to grab the biggest piece of the hearty food.
"Can I feed them, too?"
My teacher pulls out one more breakfast bar out of his pocket and hands me it. Having snapped it in two, I follow his actions.
I raise my head skywards and perhaps for the first time in weeks or even months, I really notice how good the weather is. The deep azure of the sky tickles me, so impeccable and distant, and it's so warm today. The sunlight feels nicely soft on my skin. It's just a normal day and I'm in the park, occupied with something as simple as feeding pigeons. And yet…
…it feels fabulous.
"I was wondering… Mr. Small, where did you get this book?"
We're in the schoolyard. Mr. Small is helping an injured ant get back to his family: he holds it, tiny and brown, in his fluffy hand and tells it that it'll be alright while carrying the insect across the track-and-field area to its anthill. This is probably one of the most ridiculous scenes I have ever seen, and I know my classmates would be jeering at Mr. Small now should they be here. But I'm not laughing. Obviously, we came here not to help ants—to do some practice—but I don't mind this little distraction.
"I bought it at a van store," the counselor answers, cupping his hand so that the ant won't fall. "There was a very lovely van at the parking lot and it had a plenty of interesting merchandise to offer. That's where I saw this book and I had a feeling I'd need it one day."
The fact my teacher purchases stuff from suspicious strangers at parking lots even doesn't surprise me now.
"What else did you buy there, Mr. Small?"
"My guitar, of course! It still works after all these years."
"You can play the guitar?" He nods. "Wow, I didn't know."
"Well, if you want, I can play for you."
By this moment, I feel tired from all the superpowers thing. Besides, I wonder if Mr. Small's musical skills are as eccentric as he is, so I accept the invitation. After the wounded ant finally has been delivered home, the counselor escapes into the school building and comes back with a guitar.
"What do you want me to play, Masami?"
"Um, I don't know… something you like."
"Oh, I love lots of genres—country, indie, folk… okay, I think I got it. I'll play you one of my favorite melodies. It reminds me of… life."
I linger in the air, curious.
Mr. Small begins playing.
The flexible strings thrum under his plectrum, issuing lovely, exuberant sounds. The melody's pace is fast and jolly; it makes me look around for some reason: at the grass and asphalt and the school, as though I'm trying to see something new in it, accompanied by the song. Speaking about the school building—I notice that the principal, the nurse and Mr. Corneille are looking out of its windows and listening. The sounds of the instrument must have diverted them all from their work.
Mr. Small's eyes are closed, and only the moment his plectrum leaves the strings alone he opens them.
"So, how was it?" he asks.
Before I get a chance to say anything, abundant ovations break into the air. It's the school staff, applauding his performance. Mr. Small turns on his heels to face them and smiles. "Thank you!"
"I liked it too," I comment. Truth be told, it was uplifting and more awesome than I expected. "Looks like you really like playing that."
"Oh, yes. A person's life is nothing without music."
I remember my odious fiddle lessons. They never bring me anything akin to the joy that is now shining in Mr. Small's eyes. I even feel a little envious.
"But what if a person doesn't like playing instruments but they're made to?"
"Well," the counselor's face turns serious, "I don't think that anyone should be compelled to produce music. It's something that comes from a person's heart."
"Yes, but still…"
I sigh. I wish I could enjoy playing the fiddle like he enjoys playing his guitar…
"Hey, you look a little blue," Mr. Small notices. I don't want to complain in such moment, especially when Mr. Brown is still watching (doesn't he have anything else to do?!), so I just shrug it off. "Ah, just feeling a little under the weather."
"Ha-ha, good pun, Masami," Mr. Small smiles. "Let me play something else then, just to pick you up."
And he plays one song, then another one and again… Tearing the school staff from their dusty paperwork, making them look out of the windows outside, where the air is fresh and the wounded ant is being healed by its kin, still shocked. The music just flows, and we all listen.
We don't get to do our usual routine practice that day.
Is there anything in the world better than cookies? Chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal cookies, ginger men… I personally love cookies over any other confectionery. Rich, crusty dough melts in your mouth, letting the wonderful flavor unfold itself—what can be better?
Mr. Small seems to agree with me on that when I give him some cookies during one of our sessions.
"These are for you, Mr. Small," I say, handing in the toothsome pastry. "They're completely vegetarian, without eggs—I ensured, made of banana dough. My mother and I baked them just yesterday."
That's true. Usually, we have take-out food and my mom doesn't cook but yesterday she was in a remarkably good mood, so I volunteered to help and persuaded her to make vegetarian cookies so that I can share them with my hippie teacher. She was a bit surprised by this request but concurred.
"Why, thank you, Masami," his smile growing wide, he smells the cookies. "That was very nice of you."
I smile in reply. Although it was the first time in my life I tried cooking, nothing got burned in the process and I feel satisfied.
"Why don't we have them now with some tea? Since it's obvious you can't animate objects anyway so our practice for today is over."
The mild herbal fragrance wafts in the air while Mr. Small inclines the white kettle to pour the liquid into two cups. In less than a minute, we're having a small tea party, and Mr. Small is telling me something about the history of cookies.
Once we're done, I say goodbye and float out of the office toward the exit.
Due to our frequent after-class practice, I often don't get to ride home on the school bus with my peers, which means that I have to do a little floating. At first, it annoyed me to a degree, but I've gotten used to it. Some time with myself outdoors allows me to gather my thoughts after a hectic day.
However, this time, once I'm on the porch, I freeze.
The too familiar gray figure is at the bus stop.
It never stands there after my classes are over, ever. I only see it when going to school in the morning or later, when I can look at it through the corridor windows.
But today it's still there, and this change in its behavior stymies me. What has happened to its everyday schedule? It is waiting for… me?
Unsure and confused, I fly over to it and while doing so, my eyes bulge.
The stranger is much paler than it has ever been. All the vividness of its color is gone, as though it has drained, and it seems to be much shorter than I remember. And all this looks like it is… dying. Slowly, gradually dying, shrinking into a shadow of what it used to be just in front of me, and nobody cares because no one but me can see it.
Totally frightened, I rush back into the school building, then down the corridor, barging into Mr. Small's office.
"That figure… at the bus stop… dying…" my speech is erratic because I'm scared of the unknown.
Mr. Small gets the message in a second. Dropping the stack of paperwork he's carrying, he dashes after me, so in mere moments we both spring out of the building, panting.
"Here," I show and approach the figure.
Of course, the counselor can't see it, but he begins asking: what does it look like, why did I get so worried about it.
"Did it start… fading today? Or you noticed it before, too?"
"Um," I try to remember. "I think a week ago it was a little bit paler than usual, but I put it down to how the sunlight was falling that day."
With a nod, Mr. Small deliberates over what I have just said.
I look at the figure, horrified by its irrevocable withering. It isn't taller than three feet now and is hunched like a very old, fatigued person.
I'm scared.
Suddenly, I notice Mr. Small is… smiling.
"What?" I dash to him. "You just figured it out? We can help it?"
"No, Masami," he shakes his fluffy head. "I don't think we can help your gray friend… but I guess I know who it is."
The stranger's sleeves are trembling. It's fading, dissipating like a vampire in the sunlight.
"Who? Who? Please tell me already, Mr. Small!" I sound desperate. Is there really nothing we can do? It'll just die?
I have never seen anyone die…
Mr. Small, however, remains placid. The realization of what is going on is shining in his eyes.
"I think that the person you have been seeing," he nods in the direction of the shadow, "is your loneliness."
I blink. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that… Well, I think that you might have no superpowers at all," he decrees thoughtfully. "And… I'm not sure, of course, but from what I've inferred… I think the reason why only you can see it is that it's your loneliness, not anyone else's. This is your feeling, taken shape of a person in a gray cloak."
I try but can't wrap my head around it. The said person is shrinking, wilting before my eyes, feeble and helpless, and the weak aura around it is ready to die out any second, too.
Loneliness… I have been seeing my own loneliness this whole time? How is that possible? Although here in Elmore, many strange things are possible if you think about it…
"I… I don't understand…" I whisper. "My loneliness? But why? I'm not lonely… I think?"
For some reason, I believe every word the counselor is saying, I just struggle to comprehend it.
One of Mr. Small's hands lies on my shoulder in a bracing gesture.
"Masami, you know you're a good person, right?"
This comes out unexpectedly.
"However," he continues, "I couldn't help but noticed that you don't get on with your classmates very well. I think that they don't make the first step because they're intimidated by the fact your father owns the Rainbow Factory, where most of our students' parents work. And you… you don't try to assimilate yourself into the class, either."
A little voice inside me contests this allegation loudly. "I do! I really tried, Mr. Small, but they just… just… don't feel comfortable with me!"
Without resentment or discontent, Mr. Small shakes his head.
"Hmm… You see… Well, don't get me wrong, Masami, but I noticed that sometimes you—how do I put this?—can accidentally… flaunt your wealth. You don't do that on purpose, of course, no! But I couldn't help but overheard a couple of times when you told your classmates about your vacation in Egypt or your father's new car…" I blush. "That may have caused your classmates to think that you are a little arrogant and want to detach yourself from them."
Though his voice remains soft, it's also serious and professional.
"But… but…" I stutter. "I didn't know they… I just wanted to socialize! I told them about that to start a conversation… like all normal people do."
Did I really sound arrogant this whole time? Do my classmates think that I treat them with… condescension? A feeling of deep embarrassment overwhelms me.
"Of course, of course! I understand perfectly that that wasn't deliberate," Mr. Small reassures me. "But other students can—and do—take your actions wrong… Maybe you should try a different approach. For example," he ponders for a moment, "did you share those wonderful cookies with your classmates today?"
"What? No!"
The lack of understanding is written all over his face. "But why?"
" 'Cause it's… uncool? I don't know," I shrug. "If they know I cook... they will tease me and stuff. You ask really strange questions, Mr. Small."
Now the teacher looks surprised, both his brows raised.
"They wouldn't tease you for being able to cook, Masami. On the contrary, I think that if you did something like that, you thus would show them you're not that different from them despite your money. Plus, generosity is a good start for a friendship."
I look in his kind, understanding eyes. At this moment, they remind me of my father's.
"Thank you, Mr. Small," I say quietly. "I'll… take your advice."
He smiles.
"Good, because you deserve to have friends, Masami."
For a moment, a silence hangs between us two until a red car sprints by like a scarlet flash, and I remember about why we came here in the first place. I spin to face the stranger—or should I refer to it as the acquaintance now that I know it's my loneliness?
It's two feet tall now. Like a wizened mushroom, it is shaking while minute particles separate from it to disintegrate in the air.
"But why I hadn't seen it before the day I saw it for the first time?" I ask.
Mr. Small twirls his fingers in contemplation.
"Hmm… I don't know but… maybe that day you were feeling especially lonely, so detached from all the other people, and that feeling was so strong that it personified into something material?"
It's like a bulb clicks in my head, shedding light on what has been left in the dark for so long.
"Maybe… and it has been appearing before the school because the school is where I feel most lonely… because all my classmates have friends except for me. And that's why I didn't see it after classes—'cause that's when I go back home!"
"Hey, you don't even need my help here, you've just figured that out yourself," Mr. Small jokes.
My loneliness is barely visible now, pale gray and continuing to dissipate. It doesn't have a clear outline anymore.
"Can you still see it?"
"Yes, but it's very small now… almost transparent."
He makes a step forth to stand beside me as we both eye the same spot. "You shouldn't be disappointed by that… it wasn't a real person, after all, just your feeling. A bad one. The fact it is disintegrating is a good sign."
"Yeah, I get that… But I still don't understand something," I float a little higher so that I can face the counselor. "Why is it fading now? Nothing has happened to make it—"
I cut myself off when a sudden realization hits me.
It's as though a tape of the past few weeks was recorded and now is flashing before my eyes. The grimoire. The herbal tea. The cemetery. The park. So much has happened recently and I only realize it now.
Mr. Small must have read it in my face because his face is beaming, and he just nods to confirm my conjecture.
I turn my head downwards just on time—the last particles of the stranger tremble before melting in the air completely. In few seconds, all I can see on that spot is the pavement and a few leaves carried by the wind.
"It's gone," I say, not tearing my eyes from the leaves.
"Good."
We fall quiet.
"Just to make things clear… I'm glad you have a friend now, but I still think it's better for you to befriend your peers as well," my teacher speaks up, breaking the silence.
I eventually turn away from the spot.
"I will," I promise. "I won't forget your advice."
"It's still a pity you don't have any superpowers…" he sighs. "I guess I'll have to find another student then to use this book. But... you know you can still come to my office any time you have a problem or need something, right? Even if I'm meditating, don't hesitate to knock, I can make a break," Mr. Small smiles widely.
I give a chuckle, nodding.
"And," his face changes a little as though he's just remembered something, "I was thinking about opening a yoga club!"
"Awesome!"
"Yes! The students can go there after classes to relax and gain some mindfulness. This may also bring about a drop-off in fighting in corridors and improve the pupils' immunity... And I invite you, too."
"No, thanks, Mr. Small," I smile, "I actually guess I should enroll in the cooking club now."
He isn't offended in the slightest. "Great choice!"
"I guess so."
We smile to each other, say goodbye and I finally head home.
Mr. Small waves me have a good day until he disappears behind the school door. He's got some paperwork to do today, and I have to go home and prepare to talk with my father about my fiddle lessons—something I've been putting off for too long. Maybe he is strict, but he's not a monster, and maybe he'll agree to cancel those lessons for me. Seems like music just isn't my cup of tea.
I also think that I should call Sarah and offer to make the project Miss Simian has assigned us together. All the students in our class have divided into pairs, and Sarah and I are the only ones who have been left without a companion for the project. She was giving me looks back in class but apparently didn't have the guts to ask if I want to work on it together. So, time to fix that as well.
When turning the corner, I stop for a moment and spin to look back at the familiar bus stop.
It's empty, and for the first time, I know for sure I'll never see the Gray Stranger again.
