Dawn Hollow

XI

The final 10 minutes of class always seemed the most protracted, especially today. Everyone had their heads deep in the clouds, thinking about thousands of other, more exciting things. Perhaps plans for the rest of their day after getting out of school, or where they would meet up with their friends, maybe even about personal issues. Plenty of ordinary ideas to be deep in thought about. As for PJ, he was staring out the window in the middle of the crowded room. His hurting leg was stretched out underneath the angled crutches against the metal desk table. He was playing the conversation he had with Erica on repeat. Despite it being a week since they had talked about it, all of her words were just as clear as when she spoke them. Her insight on what was known as 'the project' made his head spin. He had questions in his head not only for Erica but also for the person he saw up there. Maybe they knew something as well! And if that was the case, he had to get up there sooner rather than later. But his interest grew as dangerous as poking a bear with a stick with no expectation of something to occur. But no matter the outside influence, he didn't let that stop him. His curiosity was more extensive than his fear.

But then again, the warnings of Erica and Noah were also both screaming at him. He couldn't shake the fear in Erica's eyes or the absurdity of Noah's tone. He admired their care about him, but he knew this was real. He knew whoever was up there wasn't dangerous. He knew what he saw. He was in the deep end now and couldn't hear the washed-away words of the worriers any longer.

With each new question that arrived in his head, he would scribble it down in his notebook next to the half-hearted attempt to take notes in his English class. Akin to most people responsible for his education, his teacher was a wannabe philosopher. And sure, while the familiar joke of the class was to ask him, 'what Galileo Galilei was like,' it usually meant five extra homework assignments, which no one was in the mood for. Not this late in the day. The poor man enthused about all of his stories. How the great works of literature of our time came to be, how he met specific authors, or even get into heated debates with the other students about how technology was ruining modern literature, which even got him in trouble with the school board on a few occasions. And although those days were indeed interesting, today was not one of those days.

The gnawing voice of his teacher continued to drill into his skull, but the more he carelessly scribbled, the less it mattered. He couldn't even make out any of the words leaving his mouth, so he didn't really care. Despite not many choosing to believe it, PJ was brilliant and was beyond a passing grade in this class. His preference was to be ahead in the majority of his classes, so on days like this, it didn't matter if he paid attention or not. Besides, from the places his mind was wandering, he was so beyond high school right now.

The biggest mystery right now happened to be the biggest question: what did his father have to do with this? It was muddled, but he could still hear the interaction between his father and that doctor...Dr. Marston. Everything said, and all the lies were openly being regarded or tossed aside. That was no typical business meeting that night. That was a small part of something much bigger. And PJ couldn't help but wonder if he was standing right in the middle of it.

He continued to get lost in his thoughts when he felt a slight, pointed sting on the back of his neck. It didn't hurt as much as it felt odd. Like a bee sting if the bee died halfway through the sting. PJ reached over and around his head, carefully removing the object from his skin. His hand shivered at the observation that it was dripping wet. Finally, it came into his view; a spitball sat between his fingers. Not wanting to take the chance of it being spit or water, he dropped it on the desk, dragging his disgusting fingers on his pants. The more his eyes couldn't remove themselves, the clearer the bleeding black ink on the inside of it was becoming to him.

The eyebrows on his face arched questioningly, but the words weren't clear in their current state. Nervously, the boy took his pen and pencil, using both ends of the writing utensils, and stuck them to the edges of the small wad of paper. Slowly it fell open. In a loose cursive, he could barely read the words, 'turn around.'