JUST A MATTER OF TIME
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: You’re running out of time
If time is money, then someone is robbing you blind.
A Friend
WHEN THE MESSAGE LANDED IN MY EMAIL, from a fake account, I ignored it. It was spam. Or a joke. Or one of those random things that happen on the Internet—and if you fell into that time suck, then you deserved to get robbed.
So I deleted it and went back to AP World History.
But two weeks later, as I sat in the orchestra room, my hand clutched the neck of my violin like I might strangle it. I wondered if I really had run out of time—or become very bad at managing it. I’d been late for tonight’s special practice. I let the violin strings bite into my fingers, preferring pain to shame.
I blinked, trying to figure out when the room had cleared. I blinked again as if waking from a dream and breathed in the stale, silent air. I looked from my own hands, still clutching the violin, to the ones on the clock.
6:38.
The fire of lost time started in my toes, raced up my legs and straight to my heart. I jumped. My music stand crashed into the director’s podium, but I didn’t bother to right it. In the storage room, my fingers fumbled with the closures to my violin case. I had everything locked in the cubby, but when I turned to leave, I nearly crushed my bow beneath the sole of my ballet flat. More wasted time.
Bow tucked away, I sprinted to the lobby, fear like a fist in my stomach. The significance of the closed auditorium doors slammed into me—and me into them. The thud echoed, then died. Above me, the clock read:
7:00.
Muted applause reached me from behind the closed doors. A name echoed, one that sounded a lot like Sadie Lin . Somehow I’d missed the start of the National Honor Society induction ceremony. Missed it—and had no idea what to do. Should I barge in and demand my certificate and pin? Should I wait? Or was it better to hide? My legs shook, then gave out. I sank to the floor, closed my eyes, and let the linoleum cool my sweaty palms.
Half an hour later, when the doors swung open, I was still slumped on the floor. Maya Milansky floated from the auditorium, gold pin glowing on her collar, certificate clutched in her hand. We hadn’t been friends since ninth grade, so when she spun and said, “We missed you, Sadie,” it wasn’t sympathy I heard in her voice. It was something sweeter—and nastier—all wrapped up in Maya’s fake red hair and the fake butterfly tattoo on her ankle.
Other students filed out, followed by parents and teachers, each set giving me odd looks. The AP World History teacher, Mrs. Harmon, opened her mouth as if to say something consoling, but closed it and hurried off.
At least none of the parents or grandparents belonged to me. If there was a bright spot to this night, it was that. My mom died when I was three. All my memories of her were misty things. My grandmother wasn’t well enough to attend—just a bad cold. Not that it stopped me from worrying. As for my dad? Well, the commute from Afghanistan was a long one.
I decided to search out the NHS advisor, get my pin and certificate, and make up a story about the ceremony for my grandmother.
Before I could stand, a shadow fell across my legs. Gordon Bakersfield stood so the toes of his shoes touched the heels of mine. In his hand, he held two certificates. He didn’t smile, or give me any sort of look born of sympathy. He simply stared; the intensity in his eyes unnerved me.
I sighed. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You don’t.”
* * *
When I left school that night, the hands on the clock read 8:15. I had no memory of the lobby clearing, or parents leaving, or Gordon Bakersfield vanishing from my sight. All I remembered was sitting on the floor, linoleum chilling my legs, the National Honor Society certificate and pin by my side. Had Gordon done
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