Sunlight peeked through the windows and made Hugo wish he’d worn more than pink boxers to bed.  He checked the alarm clock.  Subtracting his set-the-clock-forward-to-make-it-seem-later-and-thereby-avoid-being-late-38 minutes from 7:15 made it 6:37, which meant he could afford one more snooze before unraveling the covers and officially starting his day.  Emily nudged him with her foot.  More of a kick, really.  And if the first one didn’t qualify as a full-kick, the third and fourth did.  Time to get up.

Hugo showered, shaved, brushed his teeth and hair with their respective brushes, and dressed.  Fearing the wrath of Emily if he woke their son in the next room, he crept quietly through the kitchen, eschewed the breakfast he’d have preferred actually chewing, and let himself out the garage. 

Outside was cooler than he expected.  It was the kind of morning that made him wish he had a jacket, though this kind of morning often started the kind of day that warmed enough to make Hugo resent carrying a jacket.  It was best without one.  Blue shirt and khakis, ready to face his students.

He secured rubber bands around the ankles of his pants and hopped on his mountain bike.  Moments like these reminded him why it wasn’t always a benefit to live in a secluded cul-de-sac at the bottom of a hill.  Sure, the coast home was nice.  But the daily ascent hurt worse than Emily’s bed jabs.  He shifted into first gear, pedaled vigorously, and tested his extra-strength deodorant. 

Three minutes and a half mile later, he crested the hill and turned on Ezra Point.  What a glorious view: autumn’s paintbrush swept over the oaks and maples early this year.  He checked his watch, subtracted 24 minutes, and started down the incline towards school.

Strickland Elementary was a cookie-cutter configuration of red bricks, right angles, brown double-doors, a smooth blacktop parking lot – it was exactly what would be expected for a new school in a new subdivision.  Or a prison.  But why would someone put either a new school inside a prison or a prison in a new subdivision? 

Hugo secured his Schwinn to the bike rack and started inside.  His loafers slid along the waxed linoleum past bare walls – still too early in the school year to hang student artwork.  The doorknobs sparkled.  He’d been in hospitals that weren’t so sterile. 

Twenty-five student desks formed a grid in his classroom.  Alphabetized name cards stood atop the desktops, from Bantam to Walters.  (He couldn’t recall the last time he taught an A to Z class, then dismissed the prospect since he was one desk short of representing the entire alphabet anyway.)

Hugo opened a box of chalk and broke the blankness by writing his name in large, capital letters. 

His right hand hurt.  Blisters bubbled on the tips of three fingers.  He dropped the tiny fragment of chalk left and wiped off yellow dust.  Behind him, two dozen children sat at their desks and watched silently.  He looked at the chalkboard and backed away slowly.

Two of the three panels contained drawings and the middle board was filled with words in his handwriting.  They weren’t any more coherent than he was, resembling the text in those spam emails that made it through his filter.

spider form calligraphy two chuckles posture Helvetica missus stellar cheese
Dramamine node foxtrot storm jeans nested piccolo albumen Yankee goblin
dartboard camel petticoat stern happenstance aquamarine
Studebaker pasta antelope rasp plunger

Did any of this relate to the woman’s portrait on the right?  Since when could Hugo draw so well?  Texture, proportion, chiaroscuro – he’d never taken an art class in his life.  Did he recognize the face?  Was this someone he saw once in a subway station or a restaurant?  What impact did she hold on his life?  More importantly, what made him remember her now?

The other panel displayed a bird’s-eye view of a giant oak tree, detailed to the point of veins on the leaves and bumps on acorn caps.  If it wasn’t done in yellow chalk against a green background, he felt he could step into the image.

Hugo glanced up and noticed something else odd.  The hands on the classroom clock hadn’t moved.  Double-checking his watch, he discovered it was 24 minutes behind now. 

Jason Bantam, the sandy-haired, chubby boy in the first chair raised his hand and asked, “Are you okay, Mr. Wilton?”

Snapping out of it, Hugo, stammered, “Yes. Uh, yes, Jason, I’m fine.  How are you?” 

A small voice squeaked, “Why did you draw Mrs. Colson’s picture on the board?” 

“Mrs. Colson?” he asked. 

“She was our teacher before you,” said Jason.  “She went away.” 

It wasn’t a typical going away.  More of an escape, leaving everything behind – her car, her clothes, her monogrammed bowling ball.  No one had seen her in weeks.  “I’ll be right back,” Hugo assured.

He rushed past blank walls to the administrative office.  Mrs. Hintermeyer, the principal’s assistant, looked up from her Harlequin romance and nodded at him.  Hugo wasted no time asking questions – he’d never heard Mrs. H. speak a single word and there was no reason that should change now.  How does someone like that get a job where answering phones is part of the daily routine? he wondered.  Sadly, it wasn’t a big enough mystery to displace his racing mind from the phantom drawing.  He knocked twice on Dr. Porter’s door and let himself in.

“Dr. Porter?”

“Call me Joe.”

Hugo nodded.  “Sorry.  Joe.”

“Doctor Joe.”

Joe Porter was the youngest principal Hugo had ever met.  Acne-ridden and oily-haired, Joe was home schooled because he was classified so high above genius, no schools were able to keep up with his learning rate.  High school diploma at age nine, M.A. in Liberal Arts by eleven, doctorate sixteen months thereafter.  Hugo couldn’t understand why a teenager would want to run an elementary school, but what else were you supposed to do with a degree in liberal arts?

“Dr. Joe,” Hugo began, “Has anyone reported anything strange?”

The principal cut him off with a clap.  “Someone used my parking spot today.”

“I didn’t know you drove a car.”

“I don’t.  And yet, there’s a go-cart in the spot where I park every day.  Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you think I should discipline the proprietor of such a shenanigan?”

Hugo shook his head and made a mental note to steer his bike clear of any reserved parking spots.  His mental pen was running out of ink, so he started scribbling verbally before everything went dry.  “I drew a picture of Mrs. Colson this morning.  On my chalkboard.  I’m not sure how I did it, though.  I don’t draw that well.”

“Interesting.”  Dr. Joe didn’t appear remotely interested.

“I thought so,” Hugo said.  “What’s more, I never met the woman.  Did you know her?”

“Not nearly as well as I wanted to.”

The prospect of further details was unappetizing, so Hugo endured the uncomfortable silence by filling his head with thoughts of new lollipop flavors.  The best way to work with first graders was to think like one, he justified.  But how would that help explain the artwork?