This is a slice of a short story I wrote in 2018, named Threads of Time. Right at the beginning of my writing journey. It’s plenty raw and dated, but I’ve only edited it slightly to read a little better.
Hugely inspired by the friendships made at boarding school, I was testing the waters. Writing sort of blindly and seeing if I could get it published. Maybe there was a novel hiding somewhere at the end. Sadly (or fortunately perhaps) it was never published and a novel never materialised, but the desire to write a story in a boarding school never left.
I’m sharing this story for no other reason than this was a fun look back for me and seeing how my current WIP is a bit of an offshoot.
Hope you enjoy it….
THREADS OF TIME
by Tomi Oyemakinde
I take a deep breath. The air is crisp, even as the sun takes front and centre in a stonewashed-denim sky.
Mum says there’s nothing new under the sun and I’m inclined to agree with that. I consider it fact. Yet when it comes to my hair—denser and fuller than a broccoli floret—people choose to forget the idiom. Ironically, their ignorant actions fulfil the very meaning of the phrase.
To me at least.
I wonder if people will be different here as my family walk with me through the doors of my new home—Pleasant Cottage—one of the boarding houses of Low Valley School.
It’s been a few days since I said goodbye to my family.
Fun fact: It’s also the first morning I’ve woken up without puffy eyes. The worst is behind me. Hopefully.
Glancing across the room my roommate’s duvet rises and falls. I’ve gotten used to his snoring, just about. My roommate—Bowie—is quite peculiar but I like him. We both see things in a way that’s hard to explain: we’re both awkward.
He’s near-sighted with slick, jet black hair and an accent that belongs nowhere he claims. The second thing he told me was that he does not practice a martial art.
I apologised for my ignorance, but he had a sound riposte and he now knows I have never walked five miles for fresh water. There’s also a bruise the shape of my knee on his thigh.
We haven’t played on stereotypes since then.
Slipping out of bed as quietly as I can, grabbing my towel that’s draped over my wardrobe door, I take my washbag and slouch to the communal bathrooms.
It’s ghostly quiet. Typical for six in the morning.
I brush quickly, but with purpose, remembering to gargle as my parents taught me. I hop in the shower and let the steaming hot water lash me. When I’m done, I do my best to dry off within the shower cubicle, water still running.
The chill of six in the morning is a cruel mistress.
When I step into the room Bowie is now up. He’s been waiting for me to return. There are four cubicles but the water pressure is siphoned off according to how many people shower. We are often the first ones to rise and it’s an unwritten rule between us to never shower at the same time.
“Morning,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, before staggering off to have his shower.
We are often the first ones in the dining room for breakfast.
Today is no different. We take our trays to inspect and deliberate over what we want. I fix my plate with a croissant, one slice of bacon and two sausages.
As the room fills up we’re joined by two girls—Lila and Jolie.
Lila is in the habit of changing her hair colour every few weeks. She finds solace in standing out by not trying to fit in. I applaud her for it. Can’t say I truly get it but Bowie is absolutely smitten.
Jolie is more my type. Wicked sense of humour, petulant, knows every song to High School Musical. I don’t know why I gravitate toward her. Some (Bowie) allege it’s because I see her as someone to nurture, to look after.
Nonetheless, no matter how we see these girls, we couldn’t be any closer as friends. There is one more member to our group, but he’s a day boy.
While eating, I notice Lila stays quiet, disengaged from the idle chit-chat. I send her a message on BBM and her phone vibrates.
She looks down and smiles before reverting back to form.
It bothers me but I don’t push. Don’t want to draw attention to her. I let it be.
“Oh-my-gosh. I totally forgot!” exclaims Jolie.
“What?” Bowie asks, mouth full with food. Wolfing down his seconds. He thinks muscle is the way to a woman’s heart. Going off the behaviour of girls at Low Valley School, he’s not wrong.
“It’s Week B,” Jolie says.
“And?” I ask. I hardly think it’s a revelation.
“Friendship. Over,” Jolie says.
“What? I really don’t get what you’re talking about,” I say.
Bowie looks at me with a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t get it either.
“We were just talking about it last weekend,” Lila says.
I think long and hard but I can recall nothing after sneaking out in the dead of night to drink, underage of course, in the woodlands.
“We agreed that when we all had the same free period slot we’d go and smoke pasta in the loft Lila and I found,” Jolie says.
Pasta was the code word for weed Jolie and other users creatively used.
“Oh, really?” I muster.
“Yesss!” Jolie stresses.
“Sure then.” I shrug. “But I have to give a presentation for Miss Hatter. She’ll know something is up. As long as it’s just a few hits, we’re good.”
“Perfect,” Jolie says with glee. ‘One forty-five. Be there or be square.’
The loft is a tight squeeze.
A single bulb hangs from the ceiling’s wooden beam, providing dim lighting.
Guilt claws its way up from my stomach to my heart and squeezes. Mum would rip into me if she knew. Dad would likely give me a sincere talking to, displaying disappointment. Two different styles, both equally effective at making me feel like one-day-old room temperature tea.
Once isn’t enough to do any harm right?
I sit between Henry, the day boy, and Lila.
Lila has cheered up somewhat. She appears just as silent as she was earlier. The only difference is that she is wearing lip-gloss. Noticeably absent at breakfast.
Jolie crushes the weed, deftly mixing it with tobacco. She wraps a filter in a paper, putting everything into another rolling paper before crafting the blunt. In the poor light it’s astonishing how dexterous she is.
We admire Jolie’s handiwork as she holds it up for us to see.
There’s something beautiful about the forbidden. I file those words away for later. Sounds like a good line to use in a poem.
“Lighter,” orders Jolie.
Lila hands her a purple lighter and it takes Jolie several attempts to conjure a flame. Soon enough the blunt is alight, wisps of smoke dancing.
Jolie takes two hits, inhaling deeply each time. She passes it to Bowie and he does the same.
As the blunt reaches Lila, apprehension builds within me. The first time I ever inhale anything and it’s going to be weed. The devil’s broccoli according to my mother.
I hope God can forgive me.
Lila passes me the blunt, ash sprinkling down toward the wooden floor. I watch it drop as if each piece is time taken off my life.
Inhaling, my throat is tickled by fingers of smoke. I let out a cough, smoke seeping into my being. “Is that it?” I ask. Bravado masks my fear well.
“It takes a while bud. Peace be the journey,” Henry says as he takes his two hits.
He’s the only person I know who doesn’t need drugs to sound like he lives in another dimension.
We go through another two rotations before the devil’s broccoli take a hold of all of us.
Jolie is a statue, breaking her Zen to launch into random raucous laughter before clamming up; Henry stays spewing absurd philosophical ideas that make no sense; Lila, to my joy and amusement, is all smiles, swaying to the music that plays — Young Wild and Free. I would have bet against her knowing all the words to a song she described as mind-numbing a few days prior. Bowie is unchanged, apart from his eyes. They’re slightly reddened and that’s it. Does anything faze this guy?
Everything feels surreal now. The solitary light bulb is as intense as it has ever been. My nose feels odd. Like it’s running except there’s nothing as I wipe at it. I’m giggling a lot more than usual. I’m aware of it but I can’t help it.
Our phones, blackberries of different colours, start to vibrate.
We burst into laughter at the coincidence.
I check my phone. It buzzes in my hand but won’t unlock.
The light overhead flickers.
I start to feel dizzy, nauseated. The words of my mother echo through my head. Life is about choices. Everything is a blur and lacking colour.
All at once the loft falls away, being drawn away from my vision as if it were a curtain. My surroundings are black and within moments I land with a thud. I am outdoors. It takes me a few seconds to readjust my eyes. The sunlight is blinding.
I’m not prepared for what I see.
I’m at the edge of some wood, the air is dry and the ground is sweet-potato orange.
Several structures in the distance litter the landscape like mirages. Three. Huge, lopsided, pyramid-like and inelegant. Greater observation reveals buildings stacked on top of each other. Like the awkward, self-made jenga structures I made as a child. I see walkways, exposed elevators and cable cars for connectivity within the massive structures.
My awe is broken by Jolie. “Where the hell are we?” she cries.