Time After Time

5

|Chapter 5|

≡ Mackenzie Ryder ≡

“Cute Buddha statue,” I look up at the jade figurine of the fat, laughing man in the corner of the room, and the oranges that are in a neat little pile on a plate in front of it. Least it gives me an excuse to look anywhere besides Mrs. Dillon’s face, “But I’m not sure if a painting of Jesus being crucified goes well with the décor…”

I hear her laugh, and my eyes slew to my hands, which lie demurely folded in my lap. Don’t look at her, don’t look at anyone. Just listen hard to the voices, like the doctors had advised. So I just listen to her laugh for a while, then her breathing. For some reason it calms me down a little, like watching those cottage videos on television do. Goddamn, did I just say that?

“I know it doesn’t, though I think it’s a masterpiece,” the guidance counselor replies, and I can barely see her put her hands together, fingers linking, “Anyway, we aren’t here to discuss spiritual artwork today. Maybe we can do that some other time. You’re here because it’s your first day at OxfordAcademy for the Arts, and because you’ve been labeled as…a special case.”

God, it’s funny how three words can make me feel even more like a freak. “A special case, huh.”

I sneak a glance at Mrs. Dillon, and see her purse her lips tightly at my remark, though she pretends she hadn’t heard it and continues. “So, Mackenzie, tell me about how your morning went.” She pauses, looks at me. “Well, start from first period. I heard you’re majoring in music arts. Congrats for getting the remaining spot left. I heard that there were nearly ninety applicants for grade eleven this year.”

I swallow. “Thanks. And it was good. Mrs. Timmons did a lot of the talking.”

My guidance counselor nods, as if I had said something extremely deep and revealing of my current psychological state or whatever, and she jots something down on a pad of paper in front of her. I try taking a quick peek at it, but it’s so messy and unreadable I don’t even want to try deciphering whatever she’s written about me on that goddamned page.

“Second period?”

“English. Mr. Bushnell was nice.”

“Third?” Mrs. Dillon’s beginning to look a little disappointed.

I shrug. “Economics. Boring.”

The woman scribbles down God-knows-what in her notebook, humming some old tune while she’s at it. Hey Jude. I try to stay as still as I can in the seat, but the song brings back so many bad memories I shift uncomfortably in my seat. She keeps humming it, oblivious to my discomfort. I don’t have anything against The Beatles or anything—in fact, I used to love them—but then after what happened this summer…

“Baby, come back.” I can still hear his steady voice say as his strong hands had circled my arm and pulled me off of the lawn, which I remember had been wet with spilled drink. The Dubstep blasting from the speakers changed to something more… mellow. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better… Wiping off grime and some blades of grass from my face, I had turned and looked at him. I tried jerking my arm out of his grip, but he was so goddamned strong. So I had just looked at him. Messed up hair, even more messed up than usual. And with this stupid face-blindness, I can’t even remember what his stupid face looked like then. All I know is that he hadn’t looked drunk at all. That’s why it made things more depressing. It sobered me.

Hey Jude, don’t be afraid. You were made to go out and get her, The Beatles sang, and as much as I had loved them then, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to smash the speakers and make the song go away. Because—it’s crazy, I know, but I promise I’m completely sane—I heard things with that song on at that party, even though his lips weren’t moving, but I heard him singing. Goddamned singing. And it was his voice, I was sure of it and thinking back on it I am sure right now. It was all in my head. Singing along to it. I must have been pretty drunk, I guess. And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don’t carry the world up on your shoulders…