I watch in disbelief as little white clouds leave my lips with every breath. It doesn’t affect me, of course, but it must be extremely cold. Aside from that, the office is exactly as I remember it—packed from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, yet impeccably organized. Not a single piece of paper, book, or pencil seems out of place. At the same time, everything feels completely different. I am different. I’m not the same girl who rushed into this office just a week or so ago. I’ve seen things, endured, and learned.
The fact that the vice-principal doesn’t acknowledge my presence would have irritated the hell out of me just two hours ago. I would have blurted out something stupid just to get her attention. But today, I don't take the bait.
With this fragile, newfound maturity, I now have the time to look around and notice things I missed during my first visit. The extremely old books, of course—shelves, cases, and tables filled with them, but also archaic, futuristic artifacts, instruments, and various other objects—standing on the ground, hanging from the ceiling, or displayed in elaborately decorated showcases.
When I turn my gaze back to the desk, I jump. Two bright gray eyes pierce so deeply into mine that they seem to burn through to the back of my head. Yet, I don’t look away—not anymore.
“That’s better. What a difference a little awareness makes,” she says approvingly, with a soft and clear voice. “Still, I must admit, I had lost all hope until I saw you with my own eyes only a few hours ago. That was a real game changer.”
“A few hours?” I think. If she had said it was three weeks ago, when we actually rolled into Kwant’s classroom, I would have believed her too. It’s still unclear to me if I traveled back in time or if I brought the past to the present.
“Ahem, Maxime? I believe you have something for me. Could you bring it here? Walking is a bit of a challenge right now.” Her voice remains as controlled as ever, but when my gaze shifts downward, I notice her left foot dangling powerlessly from her pinstriped pants. The shoe is nowhere to be seen.
“Eh... Miss? Is everything okay?” She looks up in surprise, and then, completely unexpectedly, a radiant smile spreads across her usually unreadable face. It’s like the sun breaking through an overcast sky.
“That’s sweet of you, Max. It’s been centuries since someone worried about me. I will be alright. I have lived through worse. Still, thank you for caring.” And the smile is gone again.
Despite her reassuring words, I can’t help but keep looking at her foot, moving slowly back and forth, as if it’s attached to her leg by only a few threads. Who or what could have done this to her?
“The list, Maxime?” she prompts. Ah yes, the list. I walk up to the desk, place it in front of her, and step back. To my surprise, her eyes remain so fixed on me that it feels intrusive, maybe even rude, triggering some of my natural resistance and suddenly I realize something is bothering me.
“Miss? I was not the only one looking for that list.”
“Indeed, Maxime. Roberto Pugno and his friends were too.”
“And you knew?”
“Of course. I gave the order.”
“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?”
“What good would that have done, Maxime? It would only have distracted you.”
“I knew that the Flintstones were your personal hit squad, but I would never...”
“The Flintstones?” she interrupts, tasting the words on her tongue, and when she finally gets it, another smile spreads across her face. “Like the old cartoon series?” I feel a bit embarrassed, like an adult caught playing with toy soldiers.
“Funny.”
“Well, eh... that was not the point.”
“You don’t have that from your mother.”
“What?”
“Humor.”
“Humor?” I’m confused. What is she implying?
“I mean, your mother wasn’t funny. She was extremely talented, determined, headstrong, focused, disciplined, but I never heard her tell a joke or see her make anyone laugh. She did try to be funny, but she just wasn’t. I think it’s the only thing she acknowledged your father’s superiority in. He made her laugh like no one else. He made her laugh until she choked. I always thought that that was the main reason she fell in love with him.”
I didn’t ask for this unsolicited insight into my parents' youth. Why is she telling me this?
“Your father was completely different, of course. That little rascal was always getting into trouble. He hardly ever got punished for it, though, because most teachers couldn’t resist his disarming mix of charm and humor. To be honest, even I couldn’t sometimes. It was a rare talent in itself,” she says with a smile, her voice unexpectedly warm and tender.
However, I don’t feel warm or tender at all. Instead, I feel confused and annoyed. The image of my parents in love, laughing, and enjoying themselves is unexpectedly painful. It’s something I will never see for myself, let alone be a part of. The revelation that my grumpy, uncouth father was once a charming, funny boy contradicts my own experience so much that I never want to hear anything about his past again.
“The Flintstones?”
“I hope you don’t take this too personally, but I had so little reason to believe you would be anything more than a complete failure that I put them to work weeks before I even asked you. Without any realistic hope of success, of course—they’re not the brightest bunch, as you well know.”
Behind me, the glass showcases start to tremble. “The fact that the four of you succeeded in entering that classroom so unexpectedly, did change everything,” she continues, undeterred, ignoring the showcases that are now seriously shaking behind me.
“And?” I repeat, with more emphasis this time, forcing myself to ignore the trembling too. “No reason to tell me?”
“Look, Maxime, the only thing that counts is the result. It’s simple math. Two chances are better than one. As I said earlier, you probably would have been so angry that you wouldn’t have been able to open up to your intuition as you have now.”
“Intuition?”
“By now, even you must realize that it’s not your brains that will save the day. By the gods, you suppress your true self with all your might. What a waste of energy. Roberto Pugno and his friends might not be very bright, but at least they embrace their talents with malicious enthusiasm. They carry out my orders with unwavering determination. They even tried to threaten Williams.” Her expression remains unchanged, but her voice carries an unmistakable undertone of gloating. “I told you, they weren’t very intelligent.”
Finally, her eyes drift to the room behind me. Not only are the glass showcases shaking ferociously now, but the whole room is. Something is coming, someone is coming. Without apparent urgency or hurry, she says, “Better take a step or two to the left, Maxime.” And when I don’t react right away, she adds softly, “Like now!”
I move just in time. The door that bursts into the classroom, along with its frame and large chunks of wall, misses me by only a hair. Quickly I move further into the office, but the vice-principal doesn’t move an inch. First, she observes the chaos in her once meticulously organized domain and only then does her gaze shift to the enormous hole in the wall, now filled with the gigantic silhouette of Roberto Pugno, the son of Italian immigrants, infamous for his short temper and feared for his use of unnecessary violence. He looks at her with big, confused eyes before taking a large step forward.