The lunch box lay empty on the green campus bench with nothing but birds trying to feed off its plastic chips and paper clips. Kids swayed and turned all day long, played hide-and-seek, caught balls with their arms and noses, but the lunch box stood still. The girl with a pink ribbon, all dressed in yellow, covered in snow, had the swing to her possession for half of the year and she, too, laid claim to the odd lunch box. Spring went by, the green paints faded and the sight of the box remained unchanged.
“Oh, the principal!” said she.
A drop of blood was all it took, but the leaf covered all of its glory. It was biology class. The room became too humid for the 40 sophomores gathered around the little table. Bottles replaced test tubes, test tubes became the new ink. Half of the class were too busy modifying their work, with the teacher too busy as well with the new student’s indifference. A foreign student’s class card turned out missing, but where was he?
“There, the blood sample,” pointed out the teacher.
The clerk stationed himself behind the filing cabinet not to be out of view, but to be beside a rusty typewriter that kept the office up and running. People came and went, this is a Tuesday; no, not too busy as it was yesterday. Some parents brought their children along and this held the clerk at its fingertips. Instead of a puncher he came to a conclusion that a carbon paper was more useful for this very day. People came and left, said thank you, and said good bye. The very Tuesday it was.
“Who are you?” asks the janitor.