• Missing Number
    By: Kit Katy

    The shadows spread like frightened sparrows as they move from my window screen.
    I want to know; why it’s forbidden to exit the school premises. All that I do know is what is allowed and what’s not. No one will answer my questions about what’s so dangerous outside.
    When I do, people stare at me with pleading eyes, begging me to not make them tell. Spikes of fear and depression are seen in their pale faces.
    The only thing I know is; something horrifying happened outside school grounds. If you did step off the premises, you were scolded and weren’t allowed to come out of your dorm for a week.

    School was as normal as it could have been until evening crept around the corner. Classes made a ruckus in the hall, like usual. Some students skip class, which happens more than you would think. And the teachers are still as grouchy as ever.

    Mrs. Bertz, my math teacher, scribbled a complicated fraction onto the black board. As she spoke, you can hear the British accent in every word. Sometimes, it was difficult for me to understand her because her accent was overpowering.

    “Dawn? Dawn, are you paying any attention?” She asked me. My nose was stuck in one of my spirals. I kept creating strange doodles that popped into my head. A young delicate looking girl stood beside an oak tree with a strange flute in her hand. Aside from the girl and tree, I drew a couple of leaves that fell all around the picture.

    “Dawn? Dawn!” Mrs. Bertz called again. My head shot right up from my note book to focus on a hot headed elderly lady. “What is so important that you are ignoring my teaching?” Mrs. Bertz asked as she came over to my desk.

    Mrs. Bertz’s scarlet hair was neatly tied in a bun and her light purple dress swayed when she walked. Her yellow high heels made clanking noises as she stepped on the wooden floorboard. The way she dressed, it reminded me of Easter. She always wore colorful clothing. Not that I think a lot of color is a bad thing, but there’s a time when you’ve gone too far with it. Mrs. Bertz was the type to go too far.

    Her eyes scanned my drawing, and the color in her face started to drain. “What made you draw this?” she asked.

    “A dream, that girl was in a dream of mine” I answered. It was the truth. I’ve seen this girl in my drawing many times in my sleep. The girl would try to talk to me, but I didn’t hear a single word come out of her.

    The girl would frown and continue looking at an old house while she stayed perched on a lush green hill. Her lips would press against the flute in her hands.

    Mrs. Bertz asked me to explain my dream, so I explained as much as I could remember.
    I stopped when I came to the flute part. The students watched me in interest and listened to every detail.

    “Interesting story, Dawn” the teacher said with a small smile. “If you don’t mind, it’s time to continue with class, not dilly dally with drawings or stories.”

    Mrs. Bertz turned on her heel to head back to the black board. Class continued as if nothing ever happened. Well, almost. The teacher wirily stared in my direction and some of the kids chatter among themselves about my crazy dream.

    I took notes during the rest of class since I knew I’d get caught if I decided to draw again. A loud tinging came from the hallway. It was now passing period.

    Passing period was supposed to give students enough time to get to class and retrieve what was needed from their lockers. Even though that was its purpose, students used passing period to just stand in the hall like a bunch of scarecrows and chatter with friends.

    I gathered my belongings and started for the door, but the Mrs. Bertz calling my name made me pause. “Would mind speaking with me a moment?” She had asked in a quiet yet shaken tone. I turned on my heels; my black clogs made a loud squeak as they came to a halt. My hand pushed back my brownish red curls as I peered up at her.

    “I’m not in trouble, am I? I did stop like you asked me to...” I responded in defense. She shook her head at me. Her face seemed to darken.

    She came over to my desk and asked for my sketch I made during class. Was she praising me or was she concerned about the picture? I figured it could be ether one or even both answers.

    I plopped the plain black sketch book on the desk and scanned through to find the picture. She stopped me when I was about to flip the page for the fourth time. The page I stopped on was of the same girl; she was sitting down on a pile of rocks with a browns helmet in her lap. The helmet looked similar to the medieval times armor; guards wore chain mail and fairly large helmets.

    “You say that these came from your dreams?” Mrs. Bertz asked. I nodded.