04. We're not in Lit class anymore

(not quite) The events of October 24, part 2

She later sat in English Literature class feeling much easier than she had all day. This was her oasis in the desert, her one happy escape from the strain and confusion of all her other classes. As much as Leila was supposed to feel grateful for her language skills allowing her entrance into this academy, she couldn’t help but feel sometimes, in the back of her mind, like Belmonte was getting more out of the deal than she was. She’d been featured back in September, sporting formal academy garb, in her local newspaper as one of the school’s new talents. The note highlighted her first place win in the regional children’s short story competition hosted by their state University. The note failed to mention she had won that prize the year before, when she was still in elementary school.

It makes sense that they’d fish for talent to boast. How could anyone hope to show off these clowns at all? They’re basically robots. They have to be, to be able to process all the junk they feed us. I plainly don’t see how any one brain can digest everything we’re expected to mill and churn out in this place. I hope they’ll at least let me finish off the school year before giving me the boot. Could I convince my parents to let me be self-taught, maybe? Stay at home and read novels all day and call it an education?

A movement just above her glossy-eyed stare into oblivion caught her attention. Miss Allen had written the page of their lesson on the board. Leila couldn’t quite make it out, but didn’t stop to think about it and just opened her book to where they’d left off. She should know what story was next; she’d already consumed the entire Literature book in the first few days of the school year, and was expecting to see another familiar text, but instead was greeted with art she had never seen before.

It was a blue brook under a dark night sky. The same one she had seen in her dream.

What is this? Did I forget this was here when I dreamt about it? 

She was about to touch the page when another thought arrested her mind, and she grew cold with the realization.

How did I get here? What happened during the last three periods? Is it still Wednesday? Calm down, you’re fine. Ask Evelyn, she’ll set you straight.

Leila turned to face her friend only to find her seat empty and her backpack gone. She felt surprisingly composed considering the situation, and as the class read in silence she meditated on what was happening. The last thing she remembered clearly was first period History, and Miss Epps’s note.

Did I even read the note? I don’t remember at all. I have to read it. I just do.

She swiftly took out her History notebook and opened it on the last written page. The red ink was there, writing was there, but she couldn’t make out a single word. Words were there, but they were dancing, swimming with an undulating cadence in front of her eyes. The more she tried to focus, the more they spaced out over the page and became meaningless drifting lines and swirls.

I’m not here.

I’m dreaming.

What’s different? Everyone’s actually reading, that should have tipped me off. They’re not moving. Miss Allen is gone and Evelyn is back in her place. This image in my Lit book, it’s definitely not in the real one, this should be the place of the story of a woman who studied wolves in the Arctic for a year. But this is my dream scene. It’s my locus amoenus, blue, dark and isolated. I love this place. I belong there.

Leila perceived a light chuckle just as she was about to run her fingers through the page. She knew she was being watched before she heard it, and felt a jumble of emotions at what she beheld, with no memory or conscience of looking up.

There was a person standing in the place where the teacher’s desk should have been. There was no way for Leila to discern if it was a man or a woman. Their hair was just a shaggy mess of dirty, dark blonde frizz half-sitting, half-standing and framing a handsome face. The features were perfectly outlined and expertly executed. They reminded Leila of token fantasy novel elves, complete with sparkling, ageless eyes of shimmering blue-green. The one feature that seemed to be most difficult to make out was their mouth, which appeared to transition between pink, regular-sized if rather oval-shaped and expressive lips when relaxed, and an obviously outlined deep matte pink pout whenever they smiled.

Leila carefully stood up. She had to tell herself to ease her mind when she felt a brush of reasoning enter her subconscious, and the entire scene darkened for a still second.

Don’t try to move.

The character before her gracefully stretched their hands forward with delicately upturned palms. Leila didn’t know how to process or describe their attire, even for a dream it seemed a chore to gain possession of something so spellbinding. The garment seemed to be made not of fabric, but of thread that spun itself into wavering shapes, colors and textures, and seemed to be catching its own light from every angle. It eventually settled into long, flowing robes in marbled tones reminiscent of tiger’s eye. The person’s features took on a masculine bearing in that hue, with a high, polished brow and a straight-bridged nose with a slightly rounded tip. The eyes seemed to turn down slightly at the corners and gain a generous, but still dignified air. The skin was glowing honey, lit from within, warm and inviting.

Leila was bewildered, her subconscious a muddled, matted jumble of thoughts and sensations she couldn’t find a beginning or an end to.

Speak.

She thought it as a command and the young man before her mouthed a silent phrase. Consciousness was creeping into Leila’s mind, and she forced herself to remain detached enough to continue admiring this vision before her.

He wants to tell me something.

The scene was slowly collapsing on itself. Her classmates were gone. The room blurred and fizzed away as darkness settled in from every corner. She was barely holding on to the dream.

What did you say?

She attempted to walk without consciously willing herself. It felt less like walking and more like being transported on a conveyor belt set underwater.

Please don’t fade, please don’t go yet.

She inched closer to the boy’s upturned hands. She knew she wanted to grab them but she couldn’t even perceive her own hands anymore.

WHAT DID YOU SAY?

As the whole set disappeared and was consumed by the obscurity brought upon by awareness, she felt the eye of her mind set dead center on the boy’s face, and clearly heard him say the words.

“I said, not yet”.