The weekend flew by so fast it felt like it hadn't even happened. Naturally, with a lot of homework in my diary, I had endless tasks to do on Saturday and Sunday. But still, I managed to find a free moment to try out my new drawing pastels. Too bad I wouldn't get a chance to show the results to Dad, since he had already left.
The first weekday—Monday—passed almost as quickly as the weekend. Probably because it was the easiest day of the week for me. Maybe because there were only six lessons and two of them were my favorites, or maybe because there was no biology? I decided not to think too hard about that.
Without telling me, Mom had sorted out the minor formalities regarding my extra sessions with the biology teacher, and it turned out I had to attend them twice a week—on Tuesdays and Fridays. I wasn't particularly thrilled about this, considering that on the last weekday I didn't have to worry about biology, and now I would.
On Tuesday, right after the first lesson, Collins asked me to come to him after the seventh. Reluctantly agreeing, I showed up in room 209 at fifteen minutes past three. Diligently sketching something in the fifth-grade journal, as I noticed, the teacher didn't even bother to lift his eyes at me. He simply gave a short nod toward the first desk, asking me to sit there. With a languid sigh, I casually tossed my backpack onto the adjacent chair and settled in comfortably. For a while, the classroom was deathly quiet, and all I could hear was my own calm, measured breathing. Soon, however, the biology teacher exhaled in relief and snapped the journal shut so sharply that a thin layer of dust, which had been resting on the desk, instantly swirled into the air.
"Well then," Collins said, staring at me intently, his tone slow and deliberate, "now we'll see what you're really capable of."
Setting aside the fifth-graders' journal, he reached for ours, which had been resting at the edge of the teacher's desk.
"What is there to see about me?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in some kind of confusion, my tone matching my expression. It came out almost like I was mocking him, but thank the heavens, the biology teacher didn't care any more than I did about biology itself.
"Just tell me one thing," he said, after a moment's glance at the page in the journal, raising a curious look at me that practically begged for an explanation. "Why did you bother trying to fix a B? It's an acceptable grade, not a failing one."
"For a gold medalist?" I asked, tapping my fingers periodically on the perfectly smooth lacquered desk and lowering my eyes to it as well, my tone dripping with mockery as I arched one eyebrow in a teasing curve.
"Ah, so we have a gold medalist here?" Oh, didn't you know, teacher? Or maybe you really didn't. You've only been working here for a short while, haven't had time to get familiar with everything. Including the list of top students. Although, right next to the teacher's room, there was that huge board with photos of students with straight A's. I don't understand how someone could miss it. Surely, he must have glanced at it at least once. But never mind, that's not the point right now.
"Look at this," Collins said, flipping through the gradebook, scanning my marks, and pretending to be impressed. "You really are a gold medalist. Straight A's… neat rows in algebra, unlike in biology."
"Well, you don't give higher than a B, do you?"
"Because you don't learn above a B."
"Not true," I immediately put on a "frowning" mask, stubbornly trying to argue, convinced the teacher was lying. I do study biology, and I don't need anyone telling me otherwise…
"Alright then, tell me—what is the Golgi apparatus?" Collin's lips stretched into a slightly wicked grin as he noticed my brief hesitation. He looked at me expectantly, ready to hear an answer at any second, but as if he already knew I wouldn't get it right.
"Well, it's the one that…" I furrowed my brows, trying to remember anything about the question, but the only thing that surfaced in my brain was a substitution for the word "apparatus." Oh, and something else. "…the one that produces lysosomes. Yeah."
"And that's it?" Collins raised his eyebrows, surprised at my brevity about the Golgi apparatus.
"That's it—well, not everything, but it produces lysosomes," I replied in a tone that suggested I was somehow right. But inside, I felt completely different. As if I weren't just wrong, but also entirely clueless. Dumb, basically. Putting on a look as if I were already lost to society, and to biology in particular, the teacher sighed heavily.
"Another impertinent question: why are you torturing your brain with biology? Planning to pursue this as a specialty or something?" An interesting question, though not really for your concern. I lowered my eyes to my trembling fingers, thinking over how to phrase my answer. But honestly, there wasn't much to phrase.
"Yes, I am planning to," came my answer, far bolder than I intended, even though I tried to sound less confrontational. I felt my face flush, took a deeper, calmer breath, and after a moment added,
"Medical school."
"Oh, God forbid. We already have enough of those 'doctors'," he said, which sounded like a harmless joke, just the usual teacher's jab—but for some reason, it stung. I was trying, really trying, and yet…
"Alright, Striker," Collins said, setting our class journal aside and smoothly standing from his chair. "Let's get on with… biology, shall we?"
It sounded somehow loaded, almost too much. Or maybe it was just my overactive imagination, making me feel embarrassed and uncomfortable instantly. My cheeks flushed again, but I managed to squeak out a response:
"Sure."
And the biology teacher really knew his stuff. For a moment, I even stopped doubting his abilities, but his appearance—Collins could easily have been mistaken for any other high school senior—kept me from fully seeing him as an expert. That same day, my mom surprised me with some completely unexpected news, first landing on her head, and now on my long-suffering one. She had to go on a business trip. Most likely for a week.
And it was very sudden—by the time I got home from school, she was already hurriedly packing her suitcase. She told me the news just as quickly, almost in passing. Eh, leaving me alone—but at least she left five thousand. Said it should be enough for the week. And, of course, it would be enough for me. Enough and then some. Maybe I'd even buy some more supplies for drawing later.
So there I was, sitting in my room on one of those rainy days, carefully sketching something on a pristine white sheet—my homework long done—when I suddenly heard the click of a just-arrived message. Every fiber of my being told me it was from Vicky, because only she had the habit of not calling, but just tapping her fingers on the keyboard and then hitting "Send." Reluctantly pulling myself away from my painstaking, quite engrossing work, I grabbed my phone.
"Lily, wanna hit a club today? Alex has a friend I want you to meet," I read the message from my classmate. Brief, yes. Alex—he was Victoria's boyfriend, that annoying boy I disliked from the first time Smith introduced us.
"What club, Vicky? What friend? Are you out of your mind?"
Seriously, it felt like my brain was about to short-circuit. My friend had suggested going out, partying, hanging out countless times, and not even once had I agreed. Probably because I didn't really care for those places and the kind of crowd that goes there. Not Victoria, of course, but the throngs of people who hung out at such spots. I just didn't like noisy places, and clubs, even more so.
"No refusals, girlfriend. We'll pick you up at eight," Victoria Smith—stubborn, fiery girl—stood her ground. For the first time, she was pushing me this hard. I really shouldn't have mentioned that Mom was leaving on her business trip and that I'd be home alone. I really shouldn't. But alas, there's no point crying over spilled milk.
"Pick me up?" I raised an eyebrow skeptically as I sent her a message, which Vicky, apparently, hadn't even read—no reply came. Wonderful, what can I say.
The hour hand moved slowly on the wall clock shaped like a cute ginger cat, showing exactly six in the evening. Judging by the fact that an hour was more than enough for me to get ready, I still had time to spare. And I decided to spend it browsing the works of my favorite contemporary artist on my computer.
To the public, the artist was known only by the pseudonym "Connelly"; no one had ever seen this person's face or knew their real identity. Yet many admired his works, and even London had hosted an exhibition of them. His paintings held a certain mystery—they were simultaneously dark and light, blending the shadowed and bright sides of the soul. Many people admired them, and I wasn't an exception.
Every time I searched for inspiration for my next drawing, I looked at Connelly's paintings, and the idea would instantly hit me. Without hesitation, I would immediately transfer it onto a blank sheet, puffing and huffing over what seemed like such a trivial piece of paper. Yet in the end, I was always satisfied with the result and realized that two—or even three—hours had not been wasted.
Then the clock clicked loudly, and the persistent meowing filled the room—as it did every hour. The long, black hour hand, designed in some kind of intricate style, pointed clearly to seven, which meant only one thing—it was time to get ready. I lingered in the shower for ten to fifteen minutes before starting to choose what to wear. After five minutes of pondering, I settled on a fitted blue dress with knit sleeves that reached my knees, and black patent shoes with a chunky platform—honestly, the only pair I owned. I tied my curly red hair, which seemed even brighter, almost orange, against the dark dress, into a high ponytail. Since the weather today was unkind, I had to wear long black knee-high socks that reached the hem of my dress, and I threw a leather jacket over my shoulders.
Ready for any adventure on my much-abused… well, you get it, I examined myself in the wardrobe mirror—it seemed fine. I applied lip balm so my lips wouldn't chafe, took a deep breath, and a moment later heard the car's beep coming from the yard. Looking out the window, I saw Smith peeking out from the black, shadow-like foreign car and realized—it was here for me.
Fully aware that backing out was now completely impossible, I locked the apartment door, feeling some strange budding sensation inside me. Have I mentioned I have a knack for sensing impending disaster? Well, this felt something like that, though slightly different. Too bad I didn't pay much attention to the feeling at that moment.
And that was a mistake. A big mistake.