Just a Matter of Time
Page 3
“Ninth grade.”
It was true, of course, that Dad did spoil me. Only child of a single parent? It happened. The moment he walked in from his deployment, he’d want to take me to Build-a-Bear and the amusement park. And I was going to let him. It was as if every time he went away, he forgot how old I was. I didn’t just freeze in time; I went backward. And if Maya couldn’t remember a thing about me from all those years ago, then this wasn’t a relationship I could salvage.
I stood and planted my palms on the table. The surface was clammy, my skin hot and slick. I held fast and leaned forward.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I said to her. “Steal any more of my time and I will ruin you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Think you’ll make concertmaster next year if you botch the solo at the spring concert?”
Maya’s jaws went still.
“You know I can do it.” Maybe it was the only thing I could do, but Gordon was right. It was all I needed to keep her in check. “Remember that every time you pick up your bow.”
I pushed away from the table, making it rock. My half-empty cup toppled over. I grabbed my book bag, slung it over my shoulder, and left the coffee shop.
I was never coming back.
* * *
For the first time in ages (possibly since first grade), I had time to myself. I’d glance at the clock after finishing my homework to find the evening stretching long and leisurely before me. The late-day sun filled our back porch, making the whitewash glow. I took to playing my violin there—Maya’s solo piece in particular—just to prove I could.
“I simply can’t imagine why you didn’t get the solo,” Grandma said one night. “That other girl must be something else.”
“Yeah,” I said, holding the length of the violin against me. “She is.”
If you ever wanted to bottle up awkwardness and shame, all you needed to do was walk into first-block AP World History. Gordon had switched seats again. Maya never looked my way. The air was thick with static from broken hearts and broken dreams and broken hopes over the final exam.
Anyone with a passing acquaintance with Mrs. Harmon’s grading structure knew the final counted for fifty percent of the grade.
“Relax, people. It’s not the end of the world,” she said the day of the exam. “You still have time to raise your grade. If anyone wants to know the ins and outs of an extra credit report, talk to Sadie or Maya.”
Maya would probably tell them how to do it backwards, not that anyone would ask her—or me, for that matter. The thought struck hard, another blow against my smashed heart. No one would ask me. That was more than shameful. It was downright sad.
The AP World History final was the easiest test I have ever taken in my entire life. I knew all the answers—almost before I finished reading the questions. I went over the test twice. The idea of walking to the front of the room and plopping the year’s hardest exam onto Mrs. Harmon’s desk, after only twenty minutes, seemed insane.
What was I going to do with all this time? Or maybe I could steal a little more. What then? Perfect scores on the SAT? New Yorker–ready college application essays? Valedictorian? It was all there, all within my grasp. Wasn’t that what Maya was doing? I glanced toward her, a burst of something sweet and rancid filling me. Schadenfreude. A word I’d learned last year in German. Joy at the misfortune of others.
I never wanted to feel that again.
Exam paper in hand, I stood. A few students murmured behind me, a muted “No way!” summing up the room’s general opinion. Mrs. Harmon raised an eyebrow, both skeptical and a little impressed.
I halted halfway to her desk. Maya looked grim, her pencil logging answers like a marathoner who had hit the wall—slow, deliberate tracks across her paper. A sheen of sweat covered Gordon’s forehead. He was maybe a third of the way through the exam. And I knew this: he wouldn’t finish.
You could hoard time, hold it tight and miserly against your chest. You could steal it from others, leaving them gasping and grasping. But could you give it away?
I thought about what Gordon had said, about how it was like I was standing in the middle of the road, throwing twenty-dollar bills into the air for all to take. I remembered how I felt when Gordon gave me a bit of his time—how that was even better than taking it from Maya.
So I stood in the middle of AP World History and thought about how fluid time was. Instead of sucking it all in with a giant straw, I imagined a fountain, filled with endless water, its spray covering everything. Just enough water to cool Maya’s hand and wash the sweat from Gordon’s face.
Eyes closed, I brought my fingertips to my lips and blew the gentlest of kisses. Like dropping a pebble into still water, the ripples flowed, touching each student in the classroom. Something shifted behind me. Pens scratched faster against paper. I didn’t turn to look. Instead, I accepted the library pass Mrs. Harmon offered and took the steps to the third floor slowly, savoring each one.
I’m pretty sure I daydreamed.
* * *
I still don’t know what happened that day, but the effects continued to ripple throughout the entire school. Everyone passed the AP World History exam. Our combined average SAT and ACT scores were the highest in the state. The hallways felt different. Kids smiled and said hello. I did help a few classmates with AP World History extra credit reports. The girls from my calculus class invited me to eat lunch with them. They even remembered my name.
I had a sense for time now, too, like I could feel it flowing around me, through me, and through the school itself. If someone was sucking down too much of it, I’d reverse the flow—or give the hapless victim some of my own time. I’d learned to exist on a shoestring budget. I almost didn’t know what to do with the surplus I had now.
It was the last week of school when Gordon Bakersfield spoke to me again. I was on my way home, soaking up the June sun, when he ran up behind me. The footfalls had me turning around before my mind realized this wasn’t a boy who deserved any of my time.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say.” He held both hands outstretched, like I was a skittish deer who’d bolt at any second. “Hear me out?”
“I think I’ve given you enough of my time,” I said. “Besides, my dad will be home from Afghanistan in less than a month.” I fell quiet. Time might be fluid, but it could still feel static—if hopeful. Less than a month.
“I’m spending all my time with him,” I added.
“That’s great,” he said. “I’m glad for you guys.”
He sounded that way, too. Glad. Sincere. Honest. My stomach clenched. I knew better than to trust him. If Gordon were an alcoholic, I’d be a walking bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
“But here’s the thing,” he said. “I’m trying hard to live in real time.”
“I know.” My cheeks grew warm, and I hoped he’d think that was just the sun. “I mean, I can tell. At school, at least.”
“You can tell when someone steals time?”
I nodded.
“And you can—” He mimicked juggling. “—change things up, like that day in World History?”
Again, I nodded.
“You’re like the sheriff of time.”
“More like Robin Hood,” I said. “I’m just leveling the playing field.”
Gordon laughed. “So I’m trying. And it’s hard. I could use the help. Plus—” He broke off, shook his head. “Naw, it’s silly. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“In what?’
“I want to learn how to daydream and I thought you could teach me how.”
“You can’t teach someone to daydream.”
“How would you know? Have you tried?”
“You just can’t, that’s all.”
“Wow. I never pegged you for a cynic.”
If Gordon Bakersfield had used any other word that day, I would’ve walked away.
“I’ll need proof you’re sincere,” I said.
“I know that.”
>
“As in every-single-day proof you’re sincere.”
“That’s a given.”
“And I’m not going to trust you for a long time, maybe never.”
“Oh, you’ll trust me eventually.”
“You think so?” I tried for stern, but I noticed we’d fallen into step and those steps were leading us to the coffee shop.
“Sure,” Gordon said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
Also by Charity Tahmaseb:
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Novels
The Fine Art of Holding Your Breath
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet
The Geek Girl’s Guide to Cheerleading (with Darcy Vance)
Short Stories
The Trouble with Prom
The Trouble with Firsts
Ghost in the Coffee Machine
Knight in the Royal Arms
The Maze: Three Tales of the Future
THE FINE ART OF KEEPING QUIET
Sophomore Jolia does the one thing no one expects from the girl who has perfected the art of keeping quiet.
She joins the speech team.
Jolia can’t confess the real reason—not to her best friend, her new teammates, or even to crush-worthy rival Sam who offers to coach her in secret.
Keeping quiet might be the easy way out, but when what Jolia doesn’t say starts to hurt those around her, it might just cost her a best friend, her spot on the team, and even Sam.
But she isn’t the only one with a secret. It’s going to take words—her words—to make things right.
If only Jolia can find them.
About the Author
Charity Tahmaseb has slung corn on the cob for Green Giant and jumped out of airplanes (but not at the same time). She spent twelve years as a Girl Scout and six in the Army; that she wore a green uniform for both may not be a coincidence. These days, she writes fiction (long and short) and works as a technical writer for a software company in St. Paul.
Her novel, The Geek Girl’s Guide to Cheerleading (written with co-author Darcy Vance), was a YALSA 2012 Popular Paperback pick in the Get Your Geek On category.
Her short speculative fiction has appeared in UFO Publishing’s Unidentified Funny Objects and Coffee anthologies, Kazka Press, Sucker Literary Magazine and Cast of Wonders. She blogs (occasionally) at Writing Wrongs.
Copyright Information
Just a Matter of Time
Copyright © 2014 by Charity Tahmaseb
First published in Sucker Literary Magazine, Volume III, April 2014, edited by Hannah Goodman
Published by Collins Mark Books
Cover and Layout copyright © 2014 by Collins Mark Books
Cover design by Collins Mark Books
Cover art copyright © Masson/Shutterstock
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.