I'm on my bike, moving slowly through a nearly empty landscape. The sky above me is clear, and the meadows glow with the saturated colors of the low, descending sun. Above my head, swallows are hunting for insects. "Warm weather tomorrow," I mumble to myself. At least, that's what Gran taught me about swallows flying high in the evening. My brain tells my legs to move faster, but they don't. They're just too tired.
Only an hour ago, when I had escaped the vice-principal’s office, the last remnants of adrenaline evaporated. My legs gave way, and I collapsed unceremoniously into Williams’s arms. I was so exhausted that even the sounds of violence and destruction coming from behind the vice-principal’s office door couldn't compel me to go back and help. It wasn’t my fight anymore. I had something else to do. I had a new assignment."
Williams had no problem supporting me, but keeping Shadow, Slug, and Gnat at bay as they rushed toward me, had been more challenging. Only after he assured them that everything was alright and that he would explain everything the next school day did they back off. I only smiled. It felt wonderfully comforting that people were this worried about me. It's great to have friends. Eventually, they did as they were told and left as slowly as possible, undoubtedly with some help from Slug. Right before they turned the corner, I waved. I’m not sure if they saw it.
Moving slowly along to his office, we didn’t speak… at all. We didn’t need to. Eventually, he sat me down and filled a reasonably clean glass with drops from a dozen different flasks, like a medieval alchemist. Even the fact that his concoction tasted seriously disgusting could not elicit a response. When I winced at the taste, he only put his hand on my shoulder. That was all.
To be fair, right after I managed to swallow the liquid without throwing up, I felt a surge of energy course through my body, although standing up was still out of the question. So, there I sat in silence, staring into the distance, occasionally glancing at Williams, who was sitting opposite me like a statue. The only thing moving were his fingers, which were uncharacteristically restless. "Ha," I thought, "he’s a smoker, or at least he has been for a long time." I felt even more sympathy for him because of it. Gran smoked about four cigarettes a year, and only when she was really, really happy. For me, the smell of burning cigarettes was the smell of happiness. Completely politically incorrect, but what can you do?
The moment I thought of Gran, I knew I had to go. I got up, wanting to shake Williams’s hand but giving him a hug instead. I walked out of the school, unlocked my bike, and rode away—out of the city, into the polder, on my way to Gran. Not to my father, nor my neighbor, nor anyone else—just Gran.
My head was still silent. Tomorrow, it would again be the usual tinderbox of explosive thoughts and emotions, but not now. Now, it was blissfully empty, like the polder through which I moved, impossibly slow.
When I finally arrived at our house, I let the bike slip from my fingers and walked straight through the kitchen and hallway into the living room, where Gran sat precisely where she always sits at this time of day: in the enormous, third-hand armchair with a scorched flower print.
When she looked up from her knitting, she glanced me over from head to toe and stretched out her arms without quoting a single proverb. I climbed onto her lap, curled up, hooked my fingers into the fabric of her dress, breathed in the smell of lavender and patchouli, as I had done all my life, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.