Chapter 16 - March 13th, 1931 3:02 P.M.
868 Words
It took me less than five seconds to get laughed at. As soon as I left the bathroom, I realized I was in some sort of high school due to everyone being around the same age as me. The only difference was everyone was dressed far more formally than me, as if the place was a Catholic school. The girls wore a dark green dress with a black top with a picture of a lion on it, and the boys wore slacks and a button-up shirt. I stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowds with my Vicious Delicious shirt. I felt so damn embarrassed; I nearly considered traveling back to 2015.
“I didn’t know the circus was in town! Someone call P. T. Barnum!” some girl guffawed.
“What are you going on about?” I asked, confused.
“Your outfit… it’s dreadful! Mrs. Calbert will give you a whooping if she sees you like this. Ten smacks on the wrist with a ruler,” she said with a sneer before looking around in paranoia for her.
“Well, madam, you just tell her I’ll be waiting,” I replied with a smirk. Two could play at this game, and I was more than ready for it.
“You know what… I like you, mac; what’s your name?” she asked, patting my shoulder like my dad used to do or rather still does.
“David Newman,” I lied. The name came so quickly to me because it used to be what I called my alter ego as a child. Every time I got in trouble, I would blame it on him. I finally stopped using him as an excuse for my awful behavior when my dad told me that “I had my head up my arse.” He loves that last word, along with rubbish. If you were to show him a trash song, he wouldn’t call it s**t but say it was rubbish. 99.6% of rap music was rubbish to him; the only exceptions were Public Enemy, KRS-One, LL Cool J, The Beastie Boys, and Run-DMC. One of his favorite songs is actually Walk This Way by Run-DMC.
“My name is Delilah Andrews; it’s swell to meet you,” she replied, suddenly friendly.
I nearly choked upon hearing that sentence. This was my great-grandmother? She seemed very unkind. Aren’t grandmothers supposed to be nice?
“The Delilah that’s into photography?” I asked curiously. I couldn’t believe that it only took me a few seconds to find her.
“How do you know about that?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I uh… saw your camera in your locker once,” I lied.
No way will that work…
“Ah, you saw my No. 1A Autographic Kodak Junior! A great camera and a nice little family relic. I had to hide it to not get it confiscated,” she said, laughing a bit.
“What in the world were you photographing?” I asked, confused.
“My friends, nothing is better than having a permanent relic of the past. My mother would whoop me if she saw me taking it into school, but she could try to stop me. It’s in my blood to be a photographer and my dream to be recognized someday,” she said, smirking.
“I agree unless the past is too painful to remember,” I said, shaking my head at the memories of all that I lost. For some reason, whenever I was feeling half-decent, the horrible memories would flood my head all over again as if waiting to attack me at the perfect moment.
“I’m glad you understand how that feels. Now I suppose you’ve wanted to ask me why I reacted the way I did initially towards you?” she asked with a tiny smile.
“Indeed, I have; why did you act that way? You’re not very kind, you know,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Because this school is full of no-good lying, cheating, snobby little crazies. I associated you as just another one, and when you’ve had so many unpleasant experiences with people, you start to think that everyone is bad despite being false. I apologize sincerely.”
“You are forgiven,” I said, patting her shoulder precisely the way she did to me.
“You know it’s quite strange; I feel like I’m supposed to know you, but I don’t. Do you ever get that feeling? It’s eerie, but I’m likely just overthinking. Why, after seeing so many faces, you realize that everyone actually looks quite similar.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, nearly whispering in return. I couldn’t allow myself to say anything stupid to her or risk blowing my cover. I’ve already done it more than once, and three is supposed to be the magic number of screwups allowed.
“Anyway, why don’t we meet in the soup kitchen at 3:15? You seem quite interesting to get to know. Just be careful of getting mugged, my friend,” she said, winking before taking off to the exit on her side.
Well… she’s quite different from what I imagined…
- Writer
