Chapter Eleven: Timeless by Rosaline Saul
I look at the new boy and I smile friendly. Even if love has gone lost, there is no need not to have manners. I say pleasantly, “Hiya.” I bring my hand up to my chest as if to point me out to him, as I say, “I am Heather.”
He smiles faintly and there is a gleam in his eyes. He looks
at me as if he knows me and this makes me feel awkward, so I turn away from him
and reach up to my locker to get my books.
It turns out Kieran is in almost all my classes with me. He
slouches in his chair in every class, twirling his pen through his fingers. He
must be clever because he seems not to make any effort to pay attention.
Whenever I glance in his direction, I see him staring at me absorbed. Either he
is psycho, or he likes me. These days it is hard to tell, and I hope, against
my will, because of the love thing, it might be the latter.
When we walk into our history class, Mr. Hittler instructs
Kieran in his clipped words to, “Please wait. Here. Young Mr. Fitzgerald.”
As I walk past Kieran on my way to my desk, I glance at him
sideways, amused.
Mr. Hittler is not related to the Hitler from Germany,
although my history teacher did adopt some of the historical tyrant’s
mannerisms and fashion sense. Mr. Hittler combs his short black hair in a
severe middle path, and he has a moustache. I surmise he is not brave enough to
have only the little square to underline his nose, so his is a little bit
longer.
Usually when we take too long to settle down, he knocks his
heels together and I always have the urge to jump up and point my fingers, palm
face-down, into the distant horizon and exclaim, “Yawhol,” but I never have
enough courage. If I ever did it though, I am positive Mr. Hittler will confine
me to life detention without parole.
I can see Mr. Hittler is starting to get itchy and then he
brings his heels together with a loud knocking sound. Often, I wonder if this
hurts, but if it did, he never shows the pain.
The class falls silent immediately and all eyes are focused
on Mr. Hittler. He swishes his leather whip through the air like a magic wand.
This is where his power lies. Although all hell will break loose if he ever did
hit any of us with it, we are too scared to push him over the edge. Even if he
is fired and our parents came to school, threatening to sue every living person
associated with the school for every penny they own or ever will own, it just
is not worth the pain we would have to endure first to set this chain of events
into motion.
Mr. Hittler turns to Kieran. “Mr. Fitzgerald. Tell us. A
little. About your history.”
Kieran raises his eyebrows amused. He looks across the faces
of the students seated in front of him, and he shrugs. “I don’t really know
what to say.” He adds unsure, “My history?”
Mr. Hittler looks agitated. “Yes. What is. Your Christian
Name?” He looks down at a piece of paper in his hand. When he looks up, he
says, “Kieran?”
Kieran looks at Mr. Hittler questioningly.
Mr. Hittler continues, “For instance. Your history. Are you
perhaps. Related to the Fitzgerald’s. From Kildare?”
Kieran shakes his head in denial. “I don’t think so.”
“You
are not. Irish?”
“No,”
Kieran says unsure.
Mr. Hittler mutters impatiently and then tell him, “Take a
seat. Lad.”
Kieran walks away from him and then sits down in the only
vacant seat behind me. I feel every muscle in my body go rigid.
I feel his breath on my neck as he leans across his desk. I
hear his voice say close to my ear, “Relax Heather, I won’t bite you.”
I keep my eyes on Mr. Hittler, and I hear Mr. Hittler say,
“In fourteen seventy-seven. Géaroid Mór Fitzgerald. Became the. Chief Deputy of
Ireland. In fact. He was so. Powerful. He was looked upon. As the uncrowned.
King of Ireland.”
After that, everything goes blank as I zone out.
At lunch break, Shannon and I wait for Dermot in smoker’s
alley. I lean against the brick wall, annoyed, because I am hungry and I want
to run across the road to get a warm chicken and mayo baguette, but Shannon
wants to wait for Dermot.
When Shannon stops mid-sentence and stares past me, I turn
to look around as well.
Kieran smiles as he walks toward us casually. His hands are
deep in his school pants pockets. The sleeves of his navy jumper are pulled up
to his elbows and the white of his collar looks brilliant against his tanned
neck. His jumper hangs loosely on him, but I can actually imagine his shoulders
and biceps under the fabric. I remind myself that a rush of hormones does not
constitute love, probably the main reason why love never lasts, because it is
too often misjudged as love.
Shannon calls out to Kieran, “Kieran, what’s your hi-story.”
She starts to laugh hysterically at her own joke, and I start laughing as well.
Kieran grins as he comes to stand next to me. He glances at me again as if he knows me, and I stop laughing self-consciously.
Dermot blows smoke up into the air. “Yeah, Kieran, what is your history?”
