"...And this statue was brought to us from very far away. Hidden deep within one of the pyramids of Egypt, to be exact! Though its exact origins are not yet known, this piece remains one of our finest on exhibit!"
Nicholas breathed heavily through his nose, tapping his pencil to his clipboard absentmindedly, eyeing the museum director as his college class was led through the play-by-play of the Egyptian Conquests, their eyes wide and focus fully captured by the perfect atrocity that was the bust like hypnotized zombies or cattle being led to the slaughter. They were so clueless to the obviousness that he could very clearly see-and he wasn't even looking.
It was a fake. That was easy to tell by the slight off-colored markings lining the hair and chin. A clever cover-up for hasty work done incorrectly. A good copy, but a copy nevertheless. Even so, his schoolmates continued to swarm around it, admiring its beauty, a shimmering veil of illusion that fooled them all. Every one of them. Except for him.
He went back to studying his blank piece of paper; a report long overdue that he had simply continued to put off with very little real intent to complete, even if it did cost him a grade. Who really cared about this stuff anyway? History, he understood. Learn from the past to avoid making the same mistakes again. He got that. That reasoning was sound logic. Ancient Egyptian lore, however, was far from the same.
Bored.
He was so bored.
His pencil tapped quicker, the rhythm pulling through the stillness and unfurling like a score of music before his eyes. One-two. One-two-three-four. One-two. One. Two. Three. Four. The eraser quietly set the beat and the shuffling of the passerby's mixed to flow in a semi-harmonious way.
On beat. Offbeat. On. Off, two, three, four.
Everything swirled together into one massive montage of sound and melody. He closed his eyes, letting his surroundings carry him away from reality-from the tour guide's insistent, never-ending drone of absolute boredom-a drone that told him he'd given this same lecture about fifty times already that day. Also, by his bed-ragged appearance, the curator was already running late. Perhaps his shift had already ended but he had been asked to stay over and pull one last tour before retiring to his residence for the night. His apartment meanwhile, was being completely renovated. That much Nicholas could reason by the small, not greatly noticeable specks of blue and white paint dusting his coat, possibly an accidental brush against the new wall on his way out the door that morning combined with the anxious crying of one-no, two-children under the age of ten, given the way he handled his bulging pocket where he most likely kept his phone on vibrate in case of an emergency and he was forced to rush home to care for the toddlers.
It was quite an effective means of escape, Nicholas decided, as he sat back on the metal bench and rested his hands on his headphones, curved and wrapped securely around his neck, already pumping the unheard music through his brain. And it was smart too. No employer would deny their employee leave if their child needed assistance. He just wondered how much longer this charade would last.
"And if you all would just follow me down this way, I'll show you our most fascinating piece of Greek architecture!"
Oh, joy. More pottery. Like that's exciting to anybody.
"That means you as well, Mr. Lahiffe!" spoke another voice, sharply enough to get a rise from the teen. "You must keep up with the rest of the group or you'll be left behind!"
Go ahead then. Leave me. It's not like I can't find my way home on my own.
Nicholas sighed again, opening his eyes and slowly getting to his feet, tucking his clipboard under his arm and swinging his tattered backpack over his shoulders, scowling darkly at his classmates as they ogled at him as he shuffled over tiredly. His professor-a stern woman with wild purple hair and glasses that made her look ancient--peered at him with a disdainful frown as he passed. He shrugged her disapproval off and only trudged after the rest of his class, fully accustomed to her judgemental glares. He'd earned them every day since he'd begun college and he'd expect nothing less from her at this point.
Mr. Lahiffe! You didn't turn in your homework on time! Disappointed scowl.
Mr. Lahiffe, where is your test paper? And don't say your dog ate it! Disappointed scowl.
Nicholas! How many times must I tell you not to listen to your music during class? This is a classroom, not a concert hall! Detention! Disappointed scowl times a million.
So, she didn't like him too much. She thought he was the troublemaker and she wasn't wrong. It didn't bother him. Maybe it should have. His parents said he was smart and that if he just applied himself, he could make something great for himself. He wasn't sure, but he was pretty much going to guess flunking out of school and becoming a music star wasn't exactly at the top of their Nicholas-Is-Our-Shining-Achievement list.
They'd have an easier time being proud of the dog. And Dozer was only six months old.
Quietly, he slunk into the next hall behind the last of the students, aware of Ms. Mendeleiev moving off to the side to monitor the rest of the class. Her gaze fully diverted from him, he spotted his chance, carefully slipping away from the end of the line to wonder the enlarged hall as the tour guide began his recitations once again.
"Now, this piece of pottery came from an old vase during the fourteenth century! As you can see from the intricate designs, the artist who created this was both wise and practical with the strokes of his or her brush and each painting tells a story, a legend or a myth, passed down from generation to generation. Painting on these vases was a form of keeping the stories alive and as accurate as they could be as time went on!"
And that's all they are, Nicholas thought as his eyes drifted to an abstract painting that vaguely reminded him of the ocean. Legends and myths. There isn't a lick of truth in any of them. They are fairytales intended to keep the children in line and too afraid to think for themselves because they feared being overthrown. Talk about a utopia.
He wandered further, his attention sliding from the abstract to the geometrical-a glass box designed with several various shapes cut into its surface and a number of sheets of paper scattered throughout, obvious cutouts of newspapers as certain words were visible in a print that matched the city's chronicle perfectly. Dark. Sunlight. Overflowing. Majesty.
An interesting statement, very unlike the rest of the art in the hall. He was unsure exactly what the artist had been intending to say with it, but it was a fascinating piece nevertheless. Much more so than the flat old pottery that the tour guide was so enthusiastic about. Curious, he paused his impatient movements and knelt down to read more about it on the panel.
Glass House. Anonymous. Received as a gift from the benefactors of a charity auction in the late 1800s. Source: unknown.
Nicholas made a mental note to look up more on it later, once he wasn't being hounded by his professor to pay attention more in class (and field trips).
Speaking of which, the anticipated ringing of a cell suddenly drew his attention back to the guide who was struggling not to look relieved as he fished through his coat for his mobile. "Excuse me," he mumbled, bringing the phone to his ear and turning away from the group. "Emergency. One moment."
Called it.
Smirking at his success, Nicholas carefully began to work his way back across the room, keeping his gaze low and blending perfectly into the dissatisfied crowd as the expression on the tour guide's face grew more and more impatient by the moment. Nick estimated they had a minute and a half before-
"I'm sorry," the man spoke suddenly, snapping his phone shut and shoving it forcibly into his pocket. "But that's going to have to be the end of our tour for today. I'm sorry!" he said again over the disappointed groans (and Nicholas's far too exaggerated attempt to blend) of the students. "We can pick this up another time, yes?" He glanced pleadingly at their professor who looked very much like she wanted to argue with him, her mouth already moving to spiel a protest. However, with an extreme amount of dignity uncharacteristic of her, she managed to reign in her words and merely nodded stiffly.
"Very well. We can continue our tour later." Her words sounded hollow and ungenuine, but fortunately, she protested no further, choosing instead to begin rounding up the stragglers and bringing them back to the group. "Come along, children. The bus is this way. Hurry now. Keep up. We must be getting back."
Nicholas stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, sourly letting himself be bumped and jostled by the onslaught, shuffling his feet and intentionally falling toward the back of the group where, perhaps, he would be less noticeable.
Somehow, he doubted it.
"Now, don't forget!" their professor screamed as they all piled back onto the bus and all but ran to their seats to get out of range of a haphazardly-waved clipboard, "Your research is to be typed up into a three-page essay, double-spaced, and it is due next Monday! You have the entire weekend to work on it so there should be no trouble!"
The glint in her eyes almost dared someone to make an excuse or be tardy with their work.
Nicholas felt like that statement was most likely directed solely on him but he steeled himself from the reprieve and sunk into an open window seat, vaguely aware of how the other students, who were all swarming to find seats around him, abruptly twisted away from the vacant spot beside him, almost as though he carried some kind of contagious disease.
He didn't care. So what if the other students didn't like him? He wasn't in school to make friends. He was there to learn. Period. End of story. Alnihaya as his parents would say. There wasn't time for friendship or any of that lovey-dovey teenage drama he heard so much about. He had far too many responsibilities to get caught up in something so trifle as loyalty. A one-man show was his favorite way to describe himself. A rogue was how others saw him and that was okay. He didn't want their affections. He didn't need them.
Tired of listening to Ms. Mendeleiev go on about how terrible a student he was and why on earth he could possibly be failing his classes, he sighed, pulling the brim of his cap lower and slinging his headphones (a gift from his little brother for his birthday, though he knew perfectly well Nino was too young to even know what headphones were) over his head. They immediately canceled out of the noise, a pleasure he was greatly thankful for.
He flicked through his playlists absentmindedly. Someone kicked the back of his chair as the bus began to roll out of the parking lot and he sighed again, dissatisfied with his song choice and hastily swiping to the next one; an upbeat rap/rock mix. The dubstep hit hard and he settled back, letting the beat sweep him away from reality.
Unfortunately, that new reality did not last nearly long enough.
Even through his music, he could sense the stares radiating from the other passengers and he forced himself not to meet their gazes. The unsaid jeers were already there, unspoken only due to Ms. Mendeleiev's close proximity. Loner. Weirdo. Freak. Outcast. They were all parts of an old tune he'd heard a hundred times before. In their eyes, he wasn't like them. An 'ajnabiun. A stranger.
He was sure his broken French didn't help his position, and although he was excellent at understanding it when it was spoken, even after four years of living in Paris, he still struggled to form a whole sentence without any Arabic slipping past. That was another thing that distanced him from the other students. They couldn't understand him, ergo they attempted to avoid him.
And it would be a lie if he were to say that that didn't bother him just a little.
He understood where they were coming from. He was sure if a Parisian had shown up in his old school back in Morocco, he would have been wary at first as well. But four years seemed just a little extreme to him.
Just a little.
The bus pulled into the school not long after and he was one of the first to disembark, clinging to his bookbag tightly as his classmates once again swarmed him, calling out end-of-the-week farewells to their friends and heading off in separate directions. Waiting until the sidewalk was clear, Nicholas carefully crossed over to the stairs of the school and selected a thin board from behind the pedestals, the familiarity of it sending small relief through him and he threw it down, already thinking about the plans he and his family had made for the weekend. It was Nino's birthday soon and his father had decided to take them all out for ice cream (well, all except for his mother, who was very pregnant and probably should not be indulging in sweets).
Nicholas could already taste the raspberry chocolate chunk (with extra chocolate and strawberry syrup on top!).
Already imagining the cold sweetness on his tongue, he took off down the road, absentmindedly keeping pace and swerving in and out of the pedestrians as the bass drummed in his ears. He narrowly dodged an oncoming carriage, earning himself a startled exclamation from the mother, to which he quickly shouted an "Asf!" and then hastily corrected himself.
"Pardon!"
He glanced over his shoulder to check and make sure the woman wasn't mad-
-and slammed full force into a solid brick wall.
If a brick wall could let out a cry of surprise and fall down on top of him and send both of them crashing to the pavement.
"Pardon! Pardon!" Nicholas gasped, the first to right himself, sitting up and grabbing his skateboard before it could roll away under the trampling feet of the unbothered crowds. "Je..uh..." He scrambled for the right words. "Je suis vraiment désolé!"
"It's all right," grunted the other person, a boy possibly a year or two older than him, as he too slowly began to sit up. His French was unnatural also, Nicholas noted, but holding a hint of a different accent entirely. American, if he had to take a guess. He knew British English-well, some-and this was pretty similar. "It's my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."
Nicholas watched warily as the boy cautiously got to his feet, dusting off his fancy American-brand clothes, and eyed his board curiously. "Nice wheels," the teen commented, this time in English.
"Uh...thank you?" Nicholas tried, recalling the little of this boy's language he'd heard from tourists. "Um...I...I don't know...much English..."
The teen grinned. "That's okay," he said, transitioning over to French. "I'm terrible at languages. You'd be amazed how many pocket translators I have."
Nicholas only caught about half of that, but it was enough to tell that this boy wasn't mad at him or afraid of him and he didn't immediately run away upon sight. It felt rather-odd-to be able to talk to someone (well, understand might have been the better word) his own age without any of those.
"Are you okay?" the boy went on, adjusting his lenses and frowning slightly as Nicholas bent to get his board.
"Fine," Nicholas answered. "Sorry again. I really didn't mean to hit you."
"Water under the bridge," the blond laughed, waving him off with a hand. "You're pretty good on that board, you know! You'll have to teach me sometime! Pay me back for nearly running me over with it, all right?"
"Deal," Nicholas promised, scooping his hat off the sidewalk and gingerly setting it back over his unkempt hair.
"Well, I have to get going. I'm late already. But maybe I'll see you around then?" The teen stood up and shot him a small grin.
"Yeah, see you," Nicholas responded as the boy turned and started off down the sidewalk away from him. His gaze drifted from the blond down to his board, now slightly scuffed from the tumble, and his hands immediately went to his headphones, now dangling limply around his neck, not busted, but one end coming loose. He'd have to adjust them with some glue later. No biggie. It would be an easy fix.
If he could explain to his parents how it had happened in the first place.
Setting the board down and preparing to start home once more, he paused momentarily with one foot on the board and the other on the curb, to glance over his shoulder for the boy amongst the crowd, realizing he had never caught his name and had no idea how he was supposed to pay him back or teach him how to skate.
But it did him no good.
The street was empty. Even further down the road, there was no sign of the light-haired teen weaving in and out of the crowd, though Nicholas knew there were no alleys or bystreets between him and the school.
The boy was gone.
He'd vanished.
Almost as if he had never been there at all.
