Time Lifts the Light

I was the first one into History class. I utilized my long legs and made awkwardly big steps, easily overtaking a slow-walking pod of gossiping girls and the group of basketball players loitering near the bathrooms.

Mr. Cross smiled sharply at me as I sat down, my heart thundering painfully. I had to wait three agonizing minutes before D.B. and company entered the room.

"And then the bartender says, 'That wasn't a zookeeper, that was my wife!'"
"You told it wrong, Mikey!" Kim sighed. "The priest says that. Not the bartender."
"Oh. Oops. Can I start over?"
"No," D.B. sighed. "You've already had three chances."
"But I think I got it all straightened out now!"
"The joke's not even that funny," Kim muttered.

I turned around in my seat and tried to make meaningful eye contact with D.B. Just as he looked up and saw me, though, I realized I was being foolish. Yes, I was still curious... But what did I expect? For D.B. to loudly continue talking to me about time traveling in front of the entire class? For him to ditch his cool friends to have a little chat with the bean-pole new girl?

He's approaching me. Oh, God. What do I do? Stay calm. Stay clam. Clam? No... Focus. His desk is next to yours, after all! Why shouldn't he come over? Just casually greet him. Don't nod. That's idiotic. Wave? No, how old are you, five? Say something. He's close! God, just don't do anything embarrassing. He's sitting down! He's sitting down! Do something now before it's too late and it becomes awkward!

"Daniel," I blurted, giving a little nod.

It sounded unnecessarily formal. Like we were business associates, meeting for a luncheon. Lovely.

"D.B.," he corrected.
"What?"
"Every time you call me Daniel, I'm going to pretend your name is Indiana or Ingrid or something," he warned. "I don't like being called Daniel."

"Sorry," I said, flushing redder than I imagine was humanly possible.

Mikey was listening in on the conversation. He giggled under his breath as he tried to build a small teepee on top of his desk, using a few pencils and a rubber band.

"Do you have a ride home?" D.B. asked brightly, leaning across the aisle and ignoring my embarrassment. "If you don't, I could drop you off with Kimmy and Mike. Where do you live?"
"Oh, no... I can ride the bus-"
"Seriously?" he asked, raising his eyebrows playfully. The scar danced.
"I, uh..." I muttered. "I live on Greenshed Drive."
He smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Good girl!"

While I tried to decide whether that was a term of endearment or if he was confusing me with a dog, the bell rang. Mr. Cross sighed and slowly surveyed the class, his eyes lingering on D.B., Mikey, and Kim. I noted that he was scrutinizing their attire, a routine that he seemed to be particularly fond of.

"Michael," he barked in a cold voice. "Shirt."

Mikey tried to remain tough and unafraid, but I suspect he was secretly terrified of Mr. Cross's creepy walrus mustache. The way it wiggled when he yelled was quite unnerving. He pretended to sigh in an uninterested way and tucked in his shirt with slightly shaking hands.

"Miss Marcolini," he said slowly, turning on Kim. "Please remove that awful occult figurine from your hair."

She raised a hand to touch - not remove - her skull barrette.

"It's not an occult figurine," she scowled, remaining much cooler than Mikey under the assault of the mustache. "It's a Mexican Day of the Dead skull. I got it on vacation last-"
"How fascinating," Mr. Cross said dryly. "Remove it."

Kim stared at him for a few more seconds before slowly taking out her clip. As he turned away from her to look at D.B., she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Daniel," he sighed. "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel."

A muscle in D.B.'s cheek twitched like fire.

"Go to the office," Mr. Cross ordered lazily.
"What?" he cried, indignantly leaning forward in his seat.
"Go. To. The. Office."
"Mr. Cross-"
"You are testing my patience, Mr. Hawkins."
"I'm not going if you don't tell me why, damn it!"
"You have now crossed the line. You are wasting my time, as well as the class's time. The office. Now."

"What the hell is going on?" he shouted, exasperated. He turned to Mikey behind him. "Is someone playing a joke on me?" he asked in a desperate voice.

"You really expect me to ignore your complete and utter lack of respect for the school code, Daniel?" Mr. Cross demanded cooly. "You are not wearing your proper dress shoes, nor have you ever worn your proper dress shoes. The bottom hems of your slacks look as if they've been run through a lawnmower, and you don't seem to care in the slightest what you-"
"This is about the way I'm dressed?" D.B. shouted, pounding his fist down on his desk.

"Oh, I'm not finished yet, Daniel," Mr. Cross continued, spittle flying from his lips. "I have yet to mention your constant tardiness! I have yet to mention your utter lack of respect for the school rules!"

D.B. leapt up from his desk and crossed to the door. As an afterthought, he turned around, one hand on the doorknob.

"I don't need this!" D.B. shouted menacingly, shooting a dark stare at Mr. Cross. "This class is a waste of my time! I know everything you teach us and more!"
This got Mr. Cross red in the face. "Go to the office!"

D.B. turned and kicked the small trash can in the corner. It bounced against the wall, then spun off and flew on its side, spewing its contents all over the linoleum. Then, with one last acid look at Mr. Cross, D.B. flung the door open. I could hear the crack of metal against plaster as the handle hit the outside wall. He stormed out of the classroom, muttering something that sounded curiously like, "...what a joke! Da Vinci was left handed, told me himself."

Once he was gone, an eerie silence descended over the room. Mr. Cross composed himself and flicked on the overhead, but the students were still in shock. Mr. Cross was known to fire off, but never before had they seen Daniel Booker Hawkins lose control. He was always so cool, so composed.

And yet, despite the calm confidence and moderate respect for authority, most of the teachers at James Monroe seemed to hold a grudge against him. I would soon find out that it was jealousy and resentment that fueled their hate.

D.B. was smart. Smarter than all of his fellow students, and smarter than most of the staff. It unnerved the teachers to think of how easily the required material came to D.B. It had, after all, taken them years of college to learn it all.

History was a joke to him. He slept or doodled on his hands and arms through most of the classes and still finished every test first. Once, he handed in his Spanish homework written entirely in German. When Señor Gonsalves handed it back, confused, D.B. had simply said, "Whoopsies." And Ms. Warren, the Latin teacher, swore she heard him singing "Tommy Gun" by The Clash in Italian.

He had no problems in English, either. He could quickly decipher Shakespeare's complex language, understanding the most obscure idioms and references. He could decode the attacks on a materialistic society in Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl" with unbelievable ease. He even went so far as saying, "Al was a pretty cool guy." Albeit, Kim was the only one close enough to hear him add in an undertone: "He had a death-grip of a handshake," but that was beside the point. He was so worldly and fluent that the teachers all agreed; it was as if, somehow, he'd actually been there.