The clock above Mr. Kerry's head ticked. It was a loud, slow sound. Each tick made the space between seconds feel longer. I counted them. Thirteen ticks since he last adjusted his tie.
His tie was blue with small, sharp, green triangles. They pointed downward. I let my eyes follow one line of triangles from his collar to his waist. My pencil moved on the margin of my history notebook almost on its own. A line, then another, making the same pattern. My version had a little ladder leaning against the triangles.
"The Treaty of Versailles," Mr. Kerry said, his voice a dry drone, "can be seen as a primary catalyst."
I wrote the word 'catalyst' and circled it. I didn't write anything else. I looked out the window. A maintenance worker was outside, setting up a tall aluminum ladder against the side of the gym building. He tested the first rung with his foot.
My pencil went back to the margin. I drew a quick, stubby figure at the bottom of the ladder in my notebook. The bell rang, a sharp electric buzz that made everyone jolt into motion. Chairs scraped, binders zipped, voices erupted.
I shoved my notebook into my backpack and stood up. The hallway was a river of bodies and noise. I kept my head down, navigating by sneakers and locker doors.
"Hey. Mitchell."
I looked up. Liam fell into step beside me, his backpack hanging off one shoulder. "You were zoning out hardcore in there. Kerry almost called on you."
"He didn't," I said. My voice sounded flat, even to me.
"Only because you have that invisible shield," he said. We pushed through the main doors. The afternoon air was cool and smelled like cut grass.
"What shield?"
"The 'don't-perceive-me' shield. You're good at it." He grinned. It was a joke, but it felt like a fact. I observed. I wasn't observed.
My house was a twelve-minute walk. I did it every day. Past the yellow house with the barking terrier, past the stop sign with the faded sticker, across the intersection where the crosswalk paint was brightest.
I let myself in through the side door into the kitchen. The smell of coffee and something lemony hung in the air. My mom was at the sink, scrubbing a pot.
"Hi, honey." She didn't turn around. "How was school?"
"Fine." I dropped my backpack on a chair. The kitchen table was clean except for a pile of mail. A red 'FINAL NOTICE' envelope was on top. I looked away.
"Dad's working late again," she said. The sponge squeaked against the metal. "Chloe has study group. Alex texted. He's at Jordan's. There's leftover pasta in the fridge."
"Okay." I got a glass of water. I watched her shoulders. They were tight, up near her ears. Her scrubbing was methodical, furious. I wanted to say something. I observed the tension in her knuckles, the too-hard set of her jaw. I said nothing.
In my room, I dumped my backpack on the floor. I took out my history notebook and flipped it open to the margin with the ladder doodle. The little stick figure at the bottom looked stupid. I closed the book.
My phone buzzed. A text from Alex.
Alex: Don't tell mom I'm at Jordan's. Tell her I'm at the library.
I typed back.
Me: She didn't ask.
I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a small water stain in the corner that looked like a thumbprint. I'd noticed it four months ago. It hadn't changed.
Dinner was quiet. Just me and my mom at the table. The pasta was lukewarm.
"How's your friend… Liam?" she asked, pushing food around her plate.
"He's fine."
"That's good."
The silence came back, broken only by forks on plates. I heard the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a TV from next door.
Later, as I brushed my teeth, I heard the garage door open. Dad was home. I heard his briefcase thump on the mudroom floor, his low, tired sigh. I heard my mom's voice, a murmur. His answer was too quiet to make out.
I went back to my room. The closet was a mess. My mom had been on a cleaning kick last weekend and had shoved everything to one side. A cardboard box I didn't recognize was partly visible under a stack of old sweaters. I pulled it out. It was dusty. The word "Mitchell – Old Art" was written on the side in my mom's looping handwriting.
I sat on the floor and opened the flaps. Inside were stacks of construction paper, faded and curling. Drawings. I sifted through them. They were from when I was little. A house with a huge sun. A family of stick figures with big smiles.
Then I picked up one near the bottom. It was on plain white paper, more detailed. It showed a man. He was wearing a blue shirt. He was falling from a ladder. The lines were frantic, dark. I'd pressed so hard with the crayon I'd almost torn the paper. In the corner, I'd written my name. The 'M' was backwards.
It was just a kid's drawing. A weird, violent one. I put it back in the box, feeling a strange, cold knot in my stomach. I shoved the box back into the closet, under the sweaters.
I got into bed and turned off the light. I thought about the maintenance worker I saw after school, testing the ladder against the gym. I thought about the falling man in the drawing.
It was just a coincidence. A stupid, random coincidence.
I closed my eyes and listened to the house settle. A pipe knocked. A car passed outside, its headlights sweeping across my ceiling. I counted the ticks of an imaginary clock, waiting for sleep.