Misfile fanfic: Busted

Based on characters and situations created by Chris Hazleton. All misfile characters copyright Chris Hazleton

In retrospect, realized Emily, the tap on her shoulder shouldn’t have surprised her.

“Miss McArthur, could you please stay after class?” It was Mr. Dawson, her Calculus teacher. “I know you’re free next period, and I think we need to talk.”

Emily watched nervously as the rest of the class filed out, some giving her odd looks. When the room was empty, Mr. Dawson motioned for her to sit down and set next to her, rather than at his desk.

“Emily, I have been very pleased to have you as a student. It’s been quite some time since I have had a sophomore in my class, and you have been exemplary. You have earned top marks for the first two marking periods, and I fully expected this to continue all year. I had visions of you becoming a top-notch mathematician in college, and was reveling in the idea that I would have the good fortune to teach someone of your caliber.

“But for some weeks, something has been different. Your test scores have been well below what I know you can achieve, your in-class participation has fallen to almost nothing, and your enthusiasm has vanished.

“Now, I am very familiar with the ‘senior slump’ that many students go through at this time after receiving their college acceptances, but that doesn’t apply to you. You’re just a sophomore.”

Emily cringed at the reminder, but did not answer. She knew that he couldn’t possibly know how much it hurt to hear him say it.

“And I am not unused to seeing young women seem to lose interest in mathematics, especially when they are involved with boys – but none of my colleagues remembers seeing you act like a girl who is dating or mooning after a boy. And apparently, mine is not the only class in which you have lost interest. I have checked with your other teachers, and they all report the same thing. They also tell me that about the time this started, you stopped spending time with your senior friends and starting hanging around with that racer girl and her strangely popular “Canadian” boyfriend. These are not the kind of people with whom I would have expected you to associate.

“All of this is leading me to some rather uncomfortable conclusions. Emily, I have to presume that these people are a very bad influence on you. I suspect that this young man is a drug dealer, but I have not been able to prove it. I would like your help there – and I think I need to suggest to your mother that she forbid you from seeing them.”

That was too much for Emily. “No,” she gasped, “You can’t. He’s the only one keeping me sane!”

Mr. Dawson peered at her through his bifocals. “That’s what I was afraid of. Emily, when you think you need a drug dealer to keep you sane…”

“No,” she insisted, “it’s not like that. And I meant to say, ‘she.’ I meant Ash. Not Rumisiel. Ash”

“I fail to see how this girl, with whom you cannot possibly have anything in common, could be ‘keeping you sane.’ Especially when the appalling drop-off in your school performance seems to have happened at right about the time when you started keeping company with her. I can understand that this can be painful, but I see no alternative to suggesting that you avoid her and – ‘Rumisiel,’ did you say?

“You need to understand that I only want what is best for you. I know how much you want to get into Harvard, and you had been doing so well. Just two more years of the kind of work I have seen from you, and I would be shocked if you failed to be accepted…”

“I was accepted, “ Emily exploded, “and he took it all away from me, and –” She stopped in horror, clasping her hands to her mouth. “Please,” she begged, “don’t say anything. Forget what I said. Nobody’s allowed to know, or it will all vanish for good.”

She stopped at her teacher’s look of total astonishment, which he slowly controlled and replaced with concern.

“Emily,” he started, “do you believe that I only want what is best for you? That I am just interested in seeing a top-notch student achieve her potential?”

“I suppose so,” she whimpered.

“Then why not tell me what is going on? Make me understand why it is a good thing that you have changed your friends so suddenly. Why this is not the cause of your loss of enthusiasm for your studies. If you want it kept secret, that is fine. As long as nobody else is being hurt and there is nothing illegal involved, I do not need to tell anyone anything.”

“I – can’t. Nobody can know. And you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I will not think you’re crazy. And I will not tell anybody anything.”

Emily looked at Mr. Dawson carefully. She had always had a good relationship with all of her teachers, and he was no exception. He seemed such a fatherly type, and it would be good to talk about it to an adult for once. Ash had always leaned on her more than the reverse, and she really felt the need to pour out her frustrations to someone a little less needy.

So she told him how the best day of her life had been followed by the worst. How she had been so giddy to receive her acceptance letter that she couldn’t let go of it, so she had placed it under her pillow to ensure pleasant dreams – and how she had been unable to find it in the morning. How she had searched, first in annoyance at her carelessness, and then in increasing panic as she had unmade the bed, moved the mattress, and practically tore the room apart until she heard a voice say, “You’re not going to find it. Whatever it is, if you had it yesterday, it’s not there.”

“So I looked up,” she continued, “and there was this creepy-looking boy standing in my room, looking at me in my pajamas. Of course I grabbed the blanket as a cover-up. And then he told me that he was an angel, and that the reason that I couldn’t find the letter was that he had misplaced two years of my life!”

“An angel. Misplaced two years of your life,” repeated her teacher, with raised eyebrows.

“That’s what he said. And when I looked in the mirror, I really did look two years younger than I had the night before. And he seemed to think I should be pleased.” She paused to take a deep breath.”

“So what are we talking here – time travel?”

“No,” explained Emily. This is the same year that I remember. But now all the records and everyone’s memory of me is that I was born two years later than I remember. That’s why I used to be friends with Molly. She and I were the same age, and our mothers saw to it that we got together a lot. We grew up together, applied to colleges together… and now she’s going to college next year and I’m stuck here for another two years.

“And that’s why I’m having so much trouble in school. I learned all of this stuff two years ago, and now I don’t remember it as well – and I just can’t face studying it all over again. I did it. I was finished. I had won. And now it’s all gone.”

“And where do… Ash and Rumisiel come into this?”

“Well, Rumisiel is the angel, and he took me to meet Ash right after that, after I got dressed in the bathroom. Apparently, I was not the only one whose life he screwed up.”

“So Ash also lost two years?”

“No, but that’s hi- her secret. I really can’t tell you any more about that. We’ve sort of been supporting each other through this. Rumisiel says that if things work out, he’ll be able to undo this, and we won’t even remember it happening. In the meantime, Ash has been making him come to school with her, because he’s not exactly the most reliable angel around.”

“I suppose not, if he’s going around misplacing pieces of people’s lives!” smiled Mr. Dawson. “Um, that was supposed to be a joke.”

“I suppose it sounds funny to you. It’s not to us. And Rumisiel says that it has to be kept secret, because if his bosses find out, they’ll cover it all up so that it can never be fixed, and we won’t even know what we lost.”

“Well, that’s an extremely imaginative story, Emily. But surely you see why it cannot possibly be true. I mean, even if we allow for the possibility of angels and playing with memories and reality and such.”

Emily sighed, “I told you that you wouldn’t believe it. But why is it impossible?”

“Because,” Mr. Dawson explained patiently, “if it were true, then presumably you would know even more advanced math than I have taught you in this class. I presume you would have taken an advanced Calculus class and would now understand things like partial derivatives and linear algebra, and …”

“You mean, like this?” said Emily, going to the board, and writing a set of equations. “This is what I was studying, right before the misfile.”

“Where did you learn that?” asked her teacher, in astonishment.

“Actually, you taught it to me, as part of a special advanced class,” said Emily triumphantly. “I remember it a lot better than the work we are doing now.”

Mr. Dawson walked slowly over to the board and stared at what Emily had written, as though it might be possible to understand its implications through sheer willpower. He felt extremely disoriented, as though he had walked into the wrong classroom – or the wrong school. Logically, he knew it was impossible for Emily to know this level of math yet. Surely, she had just learned a few equations by rote, just to tweak him? But then, how could she know what he would ask? He had to test her. He had to prove to himself that what she was saying was just imagination. But as he posed her problem after problem, she was able to solve many of them, especially those he would have taught in the middle of the year in such a course.

“And you can do this in all of your subjects?” he asked, trembling.

“Well it depends. I remember the ones I learned as a senior pretty well. AP Biology, American History... My junior subjects are a bit hazier. But my sophomore courses? No way – I sort of remember them, but not enough to get the kinds of grades I got the first time. I’m afraid that I’m going to really mess up and never get into Harvard after all. I’ve just been counting on Rumisiel to fix things so I don’t have to do it again.”

“But what if he can’t?” Mr. Dawson pointed out. “I’m not saying that I believe this story of yours. But doesn’t it seem foolish to depend on someone you think of as unreliable?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what else to do. I worked really hard to get where I was. I gave up a lot – like my entire social life. If he can’t fix it, my life is ruined, I guess. I’m burnt out. I just don’t have the heart to spend the next two years relearning things I’ve forgotten so I can get the same grades on the same tests.”

“Hmmm. Maybe you won’t have to. Some exceptional students, such as you, can go right to college after junior year. I can talk to your guidance counselor. I am sure that we can put together a program for you that would let you take advantage of what you know even though your transcript doesn’t show it. If you only needed to relearn some things, and only needed to do it for a year, do you think you could find the drive to get into Harvard a year early?”

For the first time since the misfile, Emily felt a glimmer of hope. “Is that really possible? I could skip a year? And you wouldn’t need to tell anyone about – about what I told you?”

“I think so. Look, Emily. If you really know all of these things, relearning will not be nearly as hard as learning them the first time. I don’t know if you have ever heard of something called ‘the lemonade theory of life.’ If life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade. When something bad happens to you, you find some way to get something positive out of it. If you work at this – and I will help you – you can go to college at the age of 17, and not have to sacrifice as much this ‘second time.’ Would that not be a goal worth shooting for?

“And the same goes for your friend, Ash. Whatever she has lost, surely there must be a way for her to recover it, if she works at it?”

This time, Emily found herself laughing a bit. “I don’t think that’s going to work for Ash. But I’ll be sure to suggest it!”