Well-rested after seven hours of uninterrupted sleep and the powerful knowledge of having surpassed myself, it’s in high spirits that I wake up the next morning next to Dorian Gray still open to the last page read.
My father’s eyes widen in shock when he sees me slink out of my bedroom an hour earlier than usual. He probably thinks his little speech is the reason for my early rising, but he’s wrong. It’s not his anger, but mine, that got me up so early. I’m going to show Michael how wrong he is about me, and that I’m not just really handsome, but also super smart. Okay, fine, that might be a bit much. But my mind’s made up. I’m determined to innocently stumble upon him on the way to school to tell him I’ve read a quarter of the book by myself and without a glance at the pictures. Not that I want to impress him. Just to show him I’m not the idiot he thinks I am.
“Are you okay this morning?” my dad asks when I sit at the kitchen table. He pours me a healthy dose of black coffee. “You look feverish.”
“I’m fine. There are just many, many things to do. Busy year. Lots of work to be done.”
If I leave now, I’ll probably catch Michael. He looks like the type of bloke who’s early for just about anything, with spare time to read the paper before leaving the house, like some sort of 1950s nuclear-family-super-dad.
My dad watches me devour a piece of toast and take a large swig of steaming coffee. It’s like lava. I’m pretty sure it will melt my organs on the way down.
“What news about your essay?” he asks.
I get up, eyes streaming. My backpack and sunglasses are waiting for me under the coat rack. “I’m working on it tonight.” Probably. “Might be late.” My burnt tongue is still prickling when I shut the door behind me.
It’s with a good song on my lips that I careen down the stairs, backpack swaying off my shoulder, until a vision of horror stops me in my tracks. The old lady from the second floor is there. Clad in black slacks and the pinkest blouse, arms folded over her chest, she’s staring right at me.
“Good morning, young man.” We gaze at each other through squinted eyes, sizing each other up.
Oh, I knew: My time was bound to come one day. Like the brave young men of her generation who evaded the war long enough and eventually were called to the front. I had been too good at dodging her, and part of her always wanted to get me for it. But bad news for her, people don’t go to war anymore, they go to school, and she doesn’t have to know how early I am. Ostensibly checking my phone for the time, I mutter Good morning back.
She studies me through her sharp brown eyes, her bob of white hair perfectly framing her wrinkled face. “You look like you certainly have the time to help an old lady.”
Do I? Do I? Really? That’s funny. Was I not literally running down the stairs? Emphasis on RUNNING? But she’s so tiny and wrinkly… what would happen if I refused her? I don’t know what she needs help with. Heartbroken at my refusal, she might attempt the job herself. Then she’d break her hip, and I’d never forgive myself.
Throwing a longing look down the stairs, I advance toward her. “What do you need?”
Her eyes light up. “It’s nothing. I just need you to take a box out of my closet. It’s too heavy, I can’t lift it by myself. But for someone like you, it won’t take a minute.”
Dragging my feet, I follow her into her flat and in through a dark and narrow corridor. She practically hisses at me when I bump into one of the million and a half picture frames she’s got hanging on each wall. I was half expecting the old lady’s home to smell musty, like old people, or worse, like cat pee, but it smells just fine. She probably doesn’t even own a cat. I only wish she’d walk faster; I’ve got things to do, curly-haired people to talk to. She probably can’t comprehend it at her advanced age, but I’ve got a life.
At the end of the corridor, the door to her living room is ajar. I catch a glimpse of a cosy-looking rug and a squashy-looking sofa and piles and piles of bits of paper littering the handsome carved coffee table. But we’re not going in there. Old Lady turns left into another, shorter corridor and pushes open the door to a medium-sized bedroom. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn, giving the room a gloomy feeling.
I stroll in, both hands on my hips. “Jesus… did somebody die in here?”
She gives a dry chuckle. “You could say that.”
All right, I see, she’s pulling my leg. Or the box she wants me to lift contains somebody’s decaying body. Above the bed, an old clock informs me that I’ve already wasted too much time; Michael might have already left. Who knows when I’ll have another opportunity to shove my achievement down his throat?
The impatient click of my tongue earns me a disapproving glare. Old Lady points at the massive wardrobe on my right. “The box is in there. Top shelf. You can’t miss it.”
I shuffle hesitantly to the imposing wardrobe, put my hand on the handle, turn around. God knows what’s in there. What if I come face to face with some… old lady things?
She waves for me to get on with it. “Go ahead, it’s not going to bite. But don’t drop it, or I’ll skin you alive.”
Okay, I see. You’re a funny one. “Can I at least have some light or something?”
“No.” My grimace makes her scoff. “Don’t look so miserable.”
“I’m not miserable, I’m just… busy.” I remove my sunglasses and hand them over to her. “Here, hold this.”
Old Lady takes them with an amused look. “Busy or not, you’re young, you’re supposed to have a good time.”
Rich. I was having a great time before she forced me into unpaid child labour. “Look, if you don’t mind…” My phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I ignore it, pull the handle, and the door creaks open. Thank goodness, no threatening old lady things, but coats and things like that. But despite standing on my toes, I can still barely reach the top shelf. I start feeling around for the box with my fingertips, while she watches me, her eyes twinkling. She’s having fun, watching me poke around her wardrobe in the dark.
“I have to go to school, you know,” I say, mildly offended. “What about my bright future?”
She lets out a stifled laugh. “Is it school that makes you so miserable?”
Inside my pocket, my phone won’t stop vibrating, adding to my irritability. “I’m not miserable!” I throw her a nasty glare over my shoulder. “I can’t feel it. Where is it?”
“Perhaps a little deeper.”
“Look, I don’t know how tall you thought I was, but it’s not—oh.” At last, I can feel the edge of a cardboard box deep into the wardrobe. “Okay, I almost got it. Where do you want it, by the way?”
“What? You’re mumbling. I can’t hear you.”
“Where do you want it?”
Her white head appears next to me. “Leave it on the bed. If you ever manage to get it out, I mean.”
For fuck’s sake. Grasping the box as firmly as my extended fingers allow it, I give it a good pull. It’s heavier than I thought. What does she have in there? Gold bars? Who knows… Maybe she used to work for a cartel or something. Am I to become an accomplice? Perhaps she’ll give me a bar as a thank you.
The box is stuck. Straining under the effort, I pull and twist and pull some more, until it suddenly breaks free, sending us both, the box and me, flying backwards. The old lady lurches forward, seizes the collar of my leather jacket and twirls me around. Before I know it, I’m falling backwards into her open wardrobe. One of the gold bars jumps out of the box and lands heavily on top of my head. Mercifully, her pile of fluffy coats stops my fall.
The old lady laughs at the curse that escapes my lips. “Careful, you wouldn’t want to get stuck in there.” She helps me up and out of the wardrobe.
I look down at the thing that struck me. It wasn’t a gold bar; it was an old metal box, but it felt just the same. “This thing almost gave me brain damage. My father would have sued you.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “I’m not afraid of your father.”
Well, can’t exactly blame her for that. And all the while, I haven’t dropped her stupid cardboard box, and my phone’s still vibrating in my pocket. It stops just as I drop the blasted thing on the bedspread. Then I take notice of the clock above the bed. If that’s the time, I’m officially late now. Thanks, thanks a lot, old lady.
Wiping my brow with one hand, I take my phone out of my pocket with the other. The harassment was from Lucie. She wants to know what to do this weekend. Why? Why? I’m going to see her in about ten minutes.
“All right,” I say, turning on my heel to face my tormentor, “all done.”
She’s gone. What if she’s looking for other chores for me to do? Hell, no. I need to get out of here, now. Retracing my steps quickly through the corridor, my hand’s already on the handle of the front door when she calls out.
“Wait, I’ve got something for you.”
My fingers freeze around the handle. That’s actually really nice. I wait in silence as she ambles toward me.
“Thank you for your help,” Old Lady says. She presses something into my hand. It’s round and heavy, so fat chance for a twenty-euros note. I stare down in disbelief: it’s a bottle of shampoo. “It looks like you really need it, dear.”
“Are you for real?” I almost broke my neck retrieving her gold, and she insults my lifestyle?
“Don’t forget these either.” My sunglasses are dangling from her tiny fist. Snatching them, and not without one last glare, I leave her chuckling in the middle of the corridor, not bothering to shut the door behind me.
On second thought, I can at least appreciate that her shampoo looks high-end, Champs-Elysées super-shampoo sort of stuff. With a groan, I stick it in my backpack.
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