![]() ![]() The only light comes from the slide projector near the teacher’s desk, the screen lowered from the ceiling, an oblivion-bright portal. The extra minutes add up to extra hours, and the extra hours add up to extra days, more time we spend chained to our desks. ![]() Rumor has it the school officials slowed down the clocks. The breaks between classes are getting shorter. I hurry to third period-art class-my steps echoing through the empty hall. The pain isn’t real if no one else knows it’s there. I cradle my throbbing hand against my chest. The last lingering students disappear through darkened doorways. Something gives in the soft space between my thumb and first finger, a wet snapping sound, pain blowing out beneath the skin. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? I bite down on the pain inside myself and punch the face of my locker, throw my fist just hard enough to feel it. I pull on the lock, but the shackle holds tight. I can never remember how many times I’m supposed to turn the dial on the third digit, whether it should be clockwise or counter-clockwise, two or three times past. I’m still fumbling with the dial on the combination lock when the second bell rings. ![]()
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