The Old School (Commission)

A short commission for a long-time supporter.

The sky was threatening rain, and Bill had no umbrella. October winds blew through his thinning hair, making him wish that he had thought to grab a hat when he had stormed out of the apartment. The discomfort seemed appropriate, though, so he kept marching on, despite having no destination. He was walking away to wherever the sidewalk took him. When the first drops hit his face and ran down his cheeks like icy tears, he began to look for some kind of shelter. It was then that he noticed where he was.

Beside him, boarded up, was Middleton Elementary School. A chain link fence had been erected around the whole property, indicating that the building was about to be demolished. His already broken heart crumbled to dust. This had been his school. He had grown up in there. Seeing it in such disrepair, ready to be torn down, hit him as though he were witnessing the dying moments of a beloved pet. He wanted to rescue the place or, at least, touch it again, comfort it somehow. As the rain began to fall in earnest, he found a gap in the fence and trespassed. Then, he found a window where the plywood had been peeled back to let in spray-can-wielding vandals and autumn leaves. He climbed inside, through the broken glass.

The darkness was all-encompassing, but Bill knew the building so well that he could find his way around with his eyes shut. He located his old locker, but was disappointed to discover that the combination had faded from his memories. His first homeroom was a short walk down the hallway, so he drifted that way. The door had been removed from the hinges, but there were still child-sized desks inside. He wedged his 33-year-old body into a desk near where he had sat two-and-a-half decades ago. Despite the cold, despite the moldy odor, despite the blackness, he felt comforted. He was home.

Shutting his eyes, he could see the room more clearly. Mrs. Watson was there with her curly red hair and reading glasses that hung from her neck on a string. She had decorated the room with colorful posters, and the walls proudly displayed the art of her students. He could smell white glue and crayons. He knew that he could lift up the top of his desk to find a ruler and pencils and safety scissors inside. Behind him, there would be cubbies with little jackets and backpacks. Everything was neatly placed where it belonged, the toys carefully stored away, the books shelved in alphabetical order. He felt as though he could hear the room as well, little voices whispering, chuckling, squealing in delight, and overall being innocent little darlings.

“Billy?” said Mrs. Watson.

He recognized her voice although he had not heard it in decades.

“Billy,” she repeated, sounding more insistent.

The room felt warmer now, and he thought that someone had shone a light in his face.

“Billy, wake up,” Mrs. Watson said.

He opened his eyes and squinted. The lights were on in the classroom now, and the whole place looked just like he remembered. He glanced around to discover that he was surrounded by seated children, only they seemed enormous, as though they were the same size as him.

“W-what?” he asked and gasped when he heard the squeaky sound of his own voice.

He looked down at himself. The body below was one he had not inhabited in years. Little Billy, 6 or 7 years old, small, soft, smooth, unblemished and bursting with potential. He wiggled his little fingers, struggling to believe that they belonged to him.

“I’m back,” he said to hear his flute-like voice again. “I’m Billy.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Watson said. “Try to keep your eyes open, please.”

“S-sorry,” Billy replied. “I will.” He smiled to see her nod and turn back to the board, continuing the arithmetic lesson that she must have interrupted to wake him up.

“But, how?” he wondered, silently.

He must be dreaming. That was the only answer. This was a dream, a very vivid dream. He had entered the building and fell asleep sitting at this little desk. For the moment, he had gifted himself a dream retreat into memories of his childhood. No doubt he would soon wake up again and have to face adulthood, where a woman who had once loved him would have finished collecting her things from the apartment they had shared. He would go to bed alone and wake up the next morning to go and spend hours in an office and hammer meaningless things into a keyboard, as he did every weekday. For now, however, those concerns were decades away. The weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. The sun was shining outside from a clear blue sky. He was little Billy. His only purpose was to learn and play and grow. Grinning, he fervently wished for this dream to never end.

Class continued, and Billy tried to make the most of the experience. He played along, doing his best to pretend to be a little boy again, which was surprisingly easy to do. Being in this young body made it difficult to believe that he had been an adult just that morning. Some kind of instinct took over, leading him through the routine of class, to lunchtime, then to the playground for recess. He ran and jumped and played with nimble limbs powered by boundless energy. All the while, he tried to ignore the nagging thought that this would all be over soon and that he would wake up again in a ruined classroom.

The school day ended, and he rode a yellow bus home, where his young mother greeted him. She seemed enormous, like all adults from his perspective, one of a race of giants, separate from the race of children to which he now belonged. One day, he would be like them, but not yet, not for a long while. He kept on playing, taking time to enjoy every toy in his bedroom. He watched old cartoons and ate whatever sweet candy he could beg his mother to give him. Dinner was macaroni and cheese, a delicious feast to his young palate. It was all so wonderful, but he could not help but feel as though he was eating his last meal. Then, not long after sunset, he began yawning, sleep overtaking his immature brain. His mother walked him through his bedtime routine. Then, dressed in colorful pajamas, he was tucked into bed. Shutting his eyes, he prepared himself to wake up again as an adult, saying a quiet goodbye to this brief reprise of childhood.

***

“Billy?” said his mother’s voice. “Wake up.”

Billy opened his eyes to find himself still lying in his childhood bed, still wearing his colorful pajamas, still surrounded by his beloved toys. He was still Billy, still a young boy.

“What?” he asked. “Why am I still a kid?”

Misunderstanding his confusion as disappointment, his mother said, “You’ve still got some growing up to do.” She took a seat on his bed, heavily tipping him toward her, and placed a loving hand on his round cheek. “Just wait. It’ll happen in time.”

Billy felt tears in his eyes, tears of joy. Had his wish come true? Had he really gone back to his childhood again? It seemed as though this was really happening, or else this was the longest and most realistic dream he had ever had.

Excited, he worked through his morning routine, devouring waffles and gathering up his school things. Then, waiting at the bus stop, he had time to consider the implications of being a boy again. His future was wide open. He could take any path now. And, with the wisdom of his adulthood, he could make much better choices this time around. This time he could get it right. He could follow his passions. He could live the life he had always wished to have lived. So what if he would need to grow up again and struggle through the pains of puberty once more? So what if he would feel awkward at times to be surrounded by children with adult memories lingering in his mind? This second chance was worth it. He knew it was. It had to be. Right?

The bus arrived and opened its door, inviting him in. Billy climbed inside, ready to ride back to school, to the rest of this childhood and beyond.