“Any last questions before class is over?” She searched our faces for “a question mark on our foreheads,” as she says. Nobody said zip.
Those few seconds felt like eternity before the bell rang. I packed my books into my bag as quickly as I could. People kept bumping purposely into the back of my chair on their way out, muttering their final stinging comments before they went. I tried to stand up to leave, but Waximitt flapped his wings in my face, snarling, “Sid down, ya smarty-pants, and git yer head on straight.” I had no choice until they were all gone, heading to fill their growling bellies with all manner of poor foods and sweets optional at lunch time.
I pushed my chair back to the table a bit harder than I intended to. I mumbled an apology as I headed for the door. “Miss Emmaline,” spoke Mrs. Plumbottle. I halted in my tracks.
“Would you do me a favor, please?”
“Um…what is it?”
“Could you draw what you saw on the board, please? It would mean a great deal to me,” she explained as she sat down at her desk in the back corner. “I’m doing some research,” she continued, “about the number of people who can translate extensionals naturally in their head. Don’t worry, it’s not a test,” she replied to the nervous expression on my face. “I just want to see what you can do. Alright? Good!” she concluded cheerfully, as she ruffled through some test papers from yesterday.
I went to the front and drew everything I could remember, starting with a giant swirling figure on the left. That’s strange, I thought as I wrote the rest on the board. I don’t actually remember seeing any of this in the wave of light. Maybe that’s part of the translation process, I wondered as I finished my masterpiece. I put down the pen and stepped back.
Guinolia Nut = 8’s approximate quantical configimagine, factoring quirbal plunification
I picked my bag up off the floor and turned to see Mrs. Plumbottle gaping at what I had covered her board with. Looking back and forth between her and the board, I grew concerned.
“Is everything alright, Mrs. Plumbottle?”
She had a strange look in her eyes, like she couldn’t—or didn’t—want to comprehend what she was seeing. “What?” she asked me, perplexed. “Oh, no, everything’s fine…you did very well, I must say. You’re excused now, Miss Emmaline,” she answered, acting like nothing had happened at all.
I left the room with far graver concerns than being worried about people laughing in my face for the next week. First that dream, and then Mom and Ashlee, and now this? I interrogated myself as I headed for the lunchroom. What in God’s name is going on around here?
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