He held the door for her, and when she passed through, he let it close by itself—or so that another gentleman could hold it for another girl. Then he followed Moira and caught up with her on the stairs. The spacious playing field and the large, green lawn surrounding the university building were teeming with students strolling or lounging carefree in the May sun between lectures. But for Moira Parks and Hank, classes were over.
They walked side by side down a quiet path shaded by chestnut trees, clutching their lecture notes.
"Interesting what he talked about today, don't you think?" Moira asked.
"About destiny?
" "That's not exactly what I'm talking about... But it's interesting that you asked, especially in the context of this topic.
" "Maybe it's destiny? Maybe that's what I was supposed to talk to you about," the boy laughed.
"Maybe.
" "Do you believe in destiny?" Hank asked with a wry smile.
"Don't you?"
"But I prefer to believe I have some control over what I do, not that I'm just an executor of someone else's will, or just a puppet dancing to their tune. I want to think that if I kick this pebble," he said, sending a small pebble flying into the street with his shoe, "I'm doing it of my own free will. Maybe because I'm mean, or because I like taking out my aggression on small objects."
"Now think," Moira said, stopping and forcing Hank to stop and look at a pebble lying on the road, "what effect what you did might have on the lives of others. You kicked a small, sharp pebble onto the road. Let's say a car drives by. Nothing's coming now, but eventually something will. And let's say it runs over that very pebble. Maybe it has old, worn-out tires. And boom! The pebble punctures the tire. It flattens. Maybe that person has a spare tire, maybe not. And maybe he'll call the nearest garage to have the car towed, or maybe he'll push the car onto the sidewalk and change the flat tire himself. Maybe he has a jack, maybe not. Maybe he'll call this door, or this door, and ask for a jack. Maybe a man will open the door and help him with the tire. Or maybe a woman. Some divorced woman who lives here alone with her daughter. Maybe he's single, or divorced. And maybe nothing will happen, but she might as well invite him for tea. And over that tea, they'll have the most profound conversation either of them has ever had. Word by word, they'll fall head over heels in love. Then marriage. A second child, this time together. But after four years, they'll grow bored with each other, she'll become bitter, he'll become frustrated, and he'll start looking around. And maybe one day he'll think that if it weren't for that damned rock, his life would have turned out completely differently. Maybe he'll find true, unbreakable love somewhere else entirely. And maybe he'll grit his teeth and just silently curse whoever threw that pebble there, or maybe...
Hank stared in dismay at the pebble in the middle of the street.
"You know what, maybe I'll grab it?" he said, and after looking left and right, he ran out into the street and grabbed the pebble.
"And what are you going to do with it?" Moira asked.
"Well... I'll throw it away," he said.
"Where?
" "On the sidewalk?
" "Someone might trip over it, or some cyclist might flatten their tire, fall off their bike and somersault four meters, maybe break something, and end up in the hospital. And there, with his left arm and right leg in a sling, his only entertainment will be conversations with the broken people in the same room. And he'll meet a girl... Her name is Ashley. She's lying on the right side of his bed, and both her arms are broken. And she's pretty, cool, kind, talkative, and intelligent. But... but there's also a nurse... Sarah... Sarah, who is the embodiment of a movie nurse, a Miss Universe in a white coat." And our culprit has a dilemma: Ashley or Sarah, Sarah or Ashley... He'll choose Sarah because he's a typical guy, but he'll regret it someday because Ashley could have been something more... - said Moira, tilting her head.
She was a strange girl. Hank had a vague feeling she was pretty, but she seemed to be trying to hide her beauty. She wore a brown wool turtleneck that effectively concealed any curves she might have. She had long, auburn hair and smooth, fair skin with strong, yet alluring features. Those glasses, however, ruined everything. The hideous, thick, black frames made her look like some kind of library moth. If this girl wanted to, she could be the queen of the dorm party. But she clearly didn't.
Hank dropped a pebble in the grass.
"And this," he asked, "will do what?"
"Oh, the possibilities are endless," Moira stated emphatically. "But quite possibly nothing.
" "What exactly are you getting at?"
"I want to show you that you're wrong. You want control over your life, and you want to believe you can. But that's not true, Hank. I just showed you, using a simple example, how with one move you can change someone's life 180 degrees. And not because you want to or do it consciously. But because you kicked a pebble this way or that, out of pure malice or anger. And that pebble triggers an avalanche on the slope of this or that mountain. But ultimately, your contribution to it is actually insignificant, and you have no control over it whatsoever. It's possible that we don't really have control over our own lives, because every move we make somehow changes our world, but also because even someone's wave of the hand somewhere a few years ago could have had a significant impact on something you did today.
Hank laughed softly.
"And a fly fart in Bangladesh causes the stock market to fluctuate on Wall Street.
" "Very funny..." Moira muttered. "I mean, everything is a chain of actions and reactions. Like, for example, us walking down the avenue right now. We." Today, right now, down this aisle, on this side of it, and we're talking about what we're talking about. How many components do you think this circumstance has?
"Hmm... A lot?
" "Let's see... What have you done since Professor Dougherty finished his lecture?
" "Let me think... I packed up my notes... I stood up... I bent down to tie my shoelaces...
" "Exactly! How often do you tie your shoelaces before leaving the lecture hall?
" "Sometimes.
" "So it's unlikely I'd be walking past you just as you looked up. We're not friends, so if I had passed you, you wouldn't have chased me, and if you'd managed to get your shoes on a few seconds faster, you wouldn't have waited for me. Besides, I know you're not interested in me."
Hank lowered his gaze, embarrassed by the remark.
"Don't worry," Moira reassured him. "I'm not into you either. So we're even." And back to our conversation... We left the room together, keeping each other company as part of our general openness to others. Because we can just talk. Even though we're not friends, we don't hate each other, so I'm allowed to have a few words with you, if you don't mind. Quite by chance, we're also heading in the same direction. And we're talking about fate. And you might think it's a coincidence. I think it happens because someone wants it. Because we both need this conversation.
" "Yes?
" "Yes. I think you'll find my perspective useful, and I'm sure it'll be good for you to clarify what I think but have never discussed. I'm grateful I can talk about it, even if you laugh at me. I think someone pushed us against each other. That someone wanted us to talk." Maybe that someone wanted you to kick that pebble into the street. Or maybe someone else entirely. And yet another person threw me at you, and as I told you, it's better not to, thus thwarting the intentions of the one who wanted someone to flatten their tire on that pebble. As if we were puppets of different puppeteers, not just one. And those puppeteers can't agree, they have their own ideas for directing and they're ripping us out of each other's hands, forcing their own version.
Hank snorted.
"Are there strings here?" he asked. He ran his hand up and down over his shoulder a few times. "There aren't any! There aren't any strings!
" "Fine, consider yourself the master of your own fate," Moira said, shrugging, "but don't come complaining to me later that you didn't win the lottery.
" "I'm not even counting on that. The lottery is a game of chance. I can't plan that myself.
" "What do you think life is? A series of coincidences?" The result of the free will of several billion people? No, that's also a game of chance. The same numbers over and over again, and if you don't realize it, you're either blind or have sclerosis.
"By the way," Hank mused, "it would be interesting to know the lottery results in advance and win the entire jackpot. Don't you think so? And
if it's as you say, meaning that fate exists, then the results for tomorrow's drawing are probably already written down somewhere, and probably predetermined since the creation of the world. It would be nice to get my hands on that list and write down those numbers.
" "And surely one win would be enough for you?
" "At least for a while...
" "And then what?
" "Then I'd probably look at that list again and write down the numbers from the next two or three drawings...
" "What if you could look at it just once? Just once in your entire life...
" "Well, then I'd probably build myself a solid reserve for the future, so that I could win the entire jackpot at least once a year...
" "Isn't that enough for you?"
"You're right! Maybe once a month?
" "Exactly," Moira said with wild satisfaction and a certain sense of superiority. She would probably never do that. "Wouldn't you be tempted, with a book like that in your hands, where everything, absolutely everything, is written and described: lottery results from all over the world, from prehistoric times to Judgment Day, answers from Millionaires, the Kennedy assassination, and above all, your entire life, from beginning to end, to read a little while you're writing down the numbers?
" "Oh yes!" Hank laughed. "I'd definitely photocopy a few pages.
" "And why?
" "What do you mean, why? To know what's going to happen in my life and prepare myself in advance, or simply to avoid something unpleasant.
" "But don't you think that living life without that certainty is better, more interesting, than knowing everything? Everything that will happen?
" "Sometimes, yes, but would you agree that there are some things no one wants to experience?" Let's say, unhappy loves.
"Well, yes... But let's assume you have your life story copied on a Xerox, available for viewing anytime, anywhere. And let's say it's written down like a bullet that the girl you'll be with in a few years will dump you. So what do you do? You never even date her, so you'll never get involved with her, and so she'll never dump you. As a result, you don't meet any of her friends, including the one who helped you find a job after meeting her. And so on and so forth.
" "Okay, but let's assume I do date her anyway, and I'm prepared for her to dump me.
" "Is there any point in that?
" "At least I'll live my life as I'm meant to.
" "But that defeats the purpose! Besides, you have no idea how much it would cost to act everything out exactly as you want it to be. First, you'd have to carry that massive Xeroxed volume around with you all the time, like a script, and quote it word for word." You'd be like an actor in a movie called "The Life of Hank." And what's worse, you'd have to spend hours reading all this. You'd have to wake up at four in the morning and read until six, so you'd know what to do and how to do it between six and six-thirty. It would take you longer to memorize your life than to live it. And you'd have to have no arms and legs, and someone would have to sew your mouth shut to keep you from screwing up. And then you wouldn't get anything done anyway.
"Okay, that's a really bad idea," Hank agreed. "But at least a little help, a hint of what's coming... Every once in a while. Like a horoscope or a fortune teller's advice. Would that be a bad thing?"
"Horoscope? Hank, have mercy, I'm leaving right now," Moira snorted. "What will the horoscope tell you? 'Someone will change your life this week.' And you can guess and guess who and how! Maybe I'm changing your life right now with what I'm saying. But it could just as easily be Cindy, or your brother, your father, your mother, or someone you don't know yet but will by the end of the week. But the truth is, someone changes your life all the time, to a greater or lesser extent, dramatically and visibly, or completely unnoticeably. And the horoscope is made of butter, because it can mean everything and nothing. Horoscopes sell truisms. And a fortune teller? Let's say you want to release an album with your band...
" "I don't have a band.
" "Well... I don't know... publish a book... make a movie..." And you go to the fortune teller to ask: Will I succeed?" The fortune teller, after charging you twenty bucks, tells you no. Well, that's a bummer!" The fortune teller said, so she's probably right, right? Well, if she says you won't succeed, you don't even try. And if you don't try, it's obvious you won't succeed. So the fortune teller was right? Oh well! It's just a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you didn't know what would happen, and therefore weren't sure whether you'd succeed or not, you'd definitely try, and there's a fifty-fifty chance you would succeed. Isn't that beautiful? Isn't that how it should be?
"Well, yes... But I'm not even talking about a horoscope, but something short that might save my life. You know, like a sixth sense that would tell me in advance: watch out, a ten-ton anvil is about to fall from the sky on you!" Then I take a step to the side, and the anvil falls right next to me, punching its way to the center of the earth, and I'm unharmed.
" "Who knows? Maybe that would even be cool?" Moira shrugged.
"It was nice talking, but we'll say goodbye here," Hank said. "I live across the street."
"Hi!" the girl replied. "We'll talk tomorrow! If you don't mind?
" "They say it's not up to me what I do."
Moira laughed. She continued down the aisle shaded by the chestnut trees.
Hank crossed the street. He stared at Moira for a long time, growing smaller and smaller, farther and farther away—until she finally disappeared from sight. He shook his head. He didn't know what to think of her.
Still looking in that direction, he finally went home.
He tripped in the driveway, fell flat, and his notes and books spread out in a beautiful rosette on the concrete.
Hank growled under his breath. He thought that this was exactly the kind of thing he'd want to be warned about.
He got up and began gathering the scattered notes from the driveway. He quickly sorted them out and clipped them into a binder.
On the inside of the hardcover of the binder he found a small yellow Post-it note with a hastily scribbled note.
He was surprised because he didn't remember taking notes. He didn't remember pasting the Post-it himself. Besides, the handwriting wasn't his.
He read the note.
"Watch out for Moira. Be very careful," the yellow note read.
Hank ruffled his eyebrows.
"P.S. Be careful, you'll trip on the driveway."
Troy
's enormous Afro effectively hid Hank from the lecturer's gaze, who was so preoccupied with very smart people, long dead, that he completely ignored the students gathered in the lecture hall—here and now. Hank didn't sleep. He'd doze off during one lecture or another, sometimes getting away with it, sometimes ending in embarrassment in front of two hundred people. He'd scramble, trying to improvise an answer to a question he couldn't hear because his snoring drowned it out. Now, however, he was alert and focused. Not during the lecture at all.
He stared from under his ruffled eyebrows at the yellow Post-it note.
"Tie your left shoelace," it read. "Otherwise, you'll trip on the fifth flagstone and break your nose because Marsha will step on it."
He quickly tied the shoelace, but he checked every few seconds to make sure he'd done it right, to make sure the knot wouldn't come undone as soon as he left the classroom. And while Professor Dougherty pontificated on Kierkegaard, Hank kept his eyes glued to the yellow Post-it note.
"P.S. Be careful with Moira. Be very careful."
Moira Parks sat in the front row, right under the nose of the professor as he paced back and forth. She sat there, listening intently to his words, following him with her watchful gaze from beneath her armor-piercing glasses. Sometimes she raised her hand—which he paid no attention to, though she held it up until all the blood drained from it. The professor was probably entertaining himself in other spheres, and in the lecture hall, he was merely a body.
Hank saw that hand poking obtrusively above the gathered crowd.
"Put that hand down," he prayed silently. He shook his head.
He checked his left shoe again. Meanwhile, a veritable Gordian knot had formed on it, one he couldn't untie at home without a hacksaw. But he didn't want to stay in the lecture hall a second longer than necessary. With any luck, he'd manage to avoid Moira in the hallway, and there would be no headache-inducing discussions.
After an hour and a half, the professor, with a mixture of astonishment and disgust, returned to Earth, to a lecture hall packed with students, and began stuffing his notes into his briefcase, amidst the growing noise of chairs being pushed and pulled. Hank grabbed a binder from the desk, pocketed a yellow Post-it note, and ran out of the room.
In the hallway, he slipped on something and almost fell backward onto the hard floor. He did a pretty good split. A few people passing him chuckled, and one even applauded, but no one helped him up. Hank managed to get up on his own. He dusted off his knees and surreptitiously glanced to see if the split had ripped the crotch of his pants. Out of
the corner of his eye, he noticed a yellow note. It hadn't fallen out of his pocket—which, in fact, he quickly checked. He pulled a Post-it note from under his right shoe and read it.
"Tie your right shoe too. And sew your pants together at the butt."
Hank blushed. He surreptitiously pulled his sweater lower.
"P.S. Watch out for Moira!"
"Hi, Hank! "
He only managed to tuck the crumpled note into his pocket.
"Moira...! Hi... What a... surprise..." he muttered.
Now he couldn't escape it. He could have tried to flee in a panic—screaming—but he seemed to have sprained his ankle, so he limped slightly. He hobbled down the hallway to the exit, across the playing field, and down the alley shaded by the chestnut trees, Moira following him. There was another option, namely to tell her pointedly, "Back off, you freak!" but after some consideration, he decided against it—firstly, because it would have been a bit rude, and secondly, he had the distinct impression that she might have cursed him in retaliation. There was something in her eyes that made Hank think she would definitely be capable of it—or at least know how to cast the curse.
"It's interesting what he was talking about today, don't you think?"
"I wasn't listening," Hank replied, intending to end the conversation once and for all. It was true, though.
Moira took a deep breath and held it for a long moment. She looked away. She looked offended, as if she'd sensed the hint.
"Would you like a drink?" "She asked, suddenly thrusting a small bottle at him.
"What's that?" he asked. He took it instinctively, before he could consider whether it was safe.
"Cherry juice. I have two, so I figured since we're going together, I wouldn't drink two at once while you're dying of thirst. "
Hank raised the bottle to his eyes and looked at it against the light, searching for any unhealthy purple hue, bubbles, or floating patches of mold in the cherry juice.
"What are you doing?" Moira asked, seeing his grimace. "Because I'll drink it myself soon, and you'll die of thirst on the way.
" "Nothing, nothing, sorry, just checking the chemical composition—you know, all those E's with numbers," he lied.
"Do you know anything about that?
" "No, but if there are too many E's for my liking, I don't touch them.
" "So?" Moira asked, pointing pointedly at the bottle.
Hank shrugged.
"I guess it's okay. Thanks."
- Please.
The boy fumbled with the cap for a long moment. The damn thing was so tightly screwed on that he couldn't open it. He suspected the glass had eaten into the tin cap and become permanently fused with it, meaning he'd never be able to drink. Furthermore, the bottle's neck was so narrow and delicate that any force would have shattered it rather than opened it. He considered it a malicious act of Fate to have sent him Moira, who, with unspeakable perfidy, had offered him cherry juice in a bottle more airtight and bulletproof than many a safe.
He folded. He held the bottle in his hand and gazed longingly at the juice he would never taste.
For a moment, he thought he was just imagining it. But he looked closer and was surprised to see that on the back of the label, which he examined through the prism of cherry juice, it read in large black letters: "You won't make it."
Moira had been watching him for some time with growing amusement. She hadn't opened her own bottle yet.
"Here," she said, opening hers with a quick, efficient movement. She handed it to him and took the one he couldn't handle.
"I can't open it!" Hank groaned, grimacing.
To his surprise, Moira opened the bottle just like that, barely touching it.
"I probably almost opened it myself," he said.
"I definitely did," Moira laughed. She unscrewed the cap completely and took a sip of juice. "What's on your cap?
" "What?" Hank asked, surprised.
"There's always something written on the bottom of the cap. Murphy's Law or something clever."
Hank turned the cap over and read the block-print slogan.
"'Someone's going to step in a lot of shit here.' "
Moira laughed.
"That's so... metaphysical..." she said, and burst into laughter again, a low, throaty one.
"What's on yours?" he asked.
"'He who laughs last, laughs best...'" the girl read, her expression falling. "Hmm..."
After a few steps, she stopped—and not to think things over calmly.
"Ugh..." she groaned.
For a long moment, she rubbed the sole of her shoe on the grass, trying as thoroughly as possible to wipe off the dog feces she'd stepped in.
Hank laughed nervously. Despite her attempts to interest him and win his affection—whether through intelligent conversation or by offering him juice from a bulletproof bottle— she
still somehow frightened him.
Hank was rubbing a large lump on the top of his head. He'd gotten it earlier that day, or rather, it had been given to him. He was walking to school along a shady path lined with a long row of chestnut trees, and out of nowhere, he spotted a yellow Post-it note on one of the trees. Intrigued, he approached and read on the note, attached to the tree with only weak adhesive: "Be careful, chestnut!"—and then he was hit on the head with a young, prickly chestnut.
The lump effectively distracted him, which was somewhat bothersome during the test. He rubbed his aching scalp as if trying to squeeze something out of it. Dr. Alice Guzman eyed the clearly irritated student suspiciously. She suspected he hadn't studied for the test, and a cursory glance at his paper—still mostly blank—only confirmed her belief.
Hank wrote with one hand—or rather, he only tried to, because he had no idea what to write—and with the other, he absentmindedly wandered along the underside of the desk. He did this completely unconsciously. Sometimes he found dried gum stuck there by others.
He was surprised, however, when, instead of disgusting, stale mint gum, his fingers found a small note stuck to the underside of the desk. He tore it off and, cupping it in his hand, read it surreptitiously.
His eyes widened. He glanced nervously around the classroom—left, right, and behind him. He froze,
his gaze fixed on the window. As if searching for someone there. "Mr. Maddock..." Dr. Guzman suddenly said, a malicious smile crossing her face.
Hank froze at her words. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she slowly, gallantly walked toward him.
"Are you looking for the answer outside the window?" she continued mockingly. "You didn't find it here in the classroom, neither to the left, nor to the right, nor behind you? And that note you took from under the desk? Didn't help?
" "Um... No..." Hank mumbled.
"Could I see it?"
The boy shook his head nervously in denial.
"I insist," Guzman smiled.
She took the yellow Post-it note from Hank's limp hand and adjusted her glasses on her nose to read the small writing.
"Watch out for Moira."
"Hmm..." the teacher said in surprise.
"P.S. She keeps staring at you.
"
Hank walked down the hall, ignoring greetings and shoving people aside as they passed. He was furious. Dr. Guzman not only kept the yellow note for herself, but she immediately confiscated his work—which he might have passed if he'd scratched his head harder. After all, he'd studied, he'd studied hard—and it was only that damned lump, pricked by that damned chestnut, that had effectively unsettled him and prevented him from thinking logically and coherently. He was going to have to retake his class, not to mention a confrontation with that old hag Guzman. He didn't think she was going to take anything for granted. No, she treated everyone equally. She despised all students equally and took equal delight in trampling them into the ground like a monolith.
And the worst part was that at the end, she'd read the note on the yellow note in front of the entire class. Hank turned beet red, and the whole class couldn't stop giggling for another five minutes. His classmates slapped him on the back, congratulating him for who knows what.
"Hi, Hank!" Moira shouted, clearly delighted, appearing right in front of him and firmly blocking his path.
Oh no, the boy thought, you're the only one missing here. You're the only one left...
"Get away from me, you witch!" he blurted out, barely a thought in his head before hurriedly striding away with a determined stride.
Moira just stared at him wide-eyed. But Hank didn't care. He believed he'd done the right thing, for many reasons. He didn't want any more of her informative talks, which stirred his mind like a blender from a convenience store. He didn't want her heavy-duty juices. He didn't want her company on the ride home. And above all, he was tired of the congratulations showering him from all sides. "Moira... Ho ho, staaaary, not bad..." "
And don't come near me again!" "—he shouted at the end of the hallway before disappearing through the front door.
***
On his way home, he noticed a yellow note stuck to the trunk of one of the chestnut trees.
"Oh no..." he snorted, spreading his arms in a theatrical gesture.
He was about to leave and had already taken a few steps, but curiosity got the better of him and he stepped back. He approached the chestnut tree, shielding his head with a binder of notes. With his free hand, he tore off a yellow Post-it note.
The note, written in large, bold letters, read: "YOU ARE AN IDIOT!"
***
He thought the whole thing over calmly and decided he was a complete idiot and a boor. Moira might be confusing, but the juice itself was delicious, and she probably washed the dog feces she'd stepped in off her shoe until she was exhausted, so these miracles were definitely not her doing. He wasn't fond of her, but her company wasn't that pushy or unbearable, after all. And she certainly didn't deserve to be humiliated like that in front of the entire school, no matter what his friends had told him, because Guzman couldn't resist. He was going to apologize. He'd even bought her that cherry juice with the cap soldered to the bottle.
He waited with growing impatience for Professor Dougherty to finally shut up, stop rambling about some Greek from thousands of years ago, get down to earth, and let the students go home. Moira sat, as usual, in the front row, her hand rising and falling like a detention device, which—as usual—completely escaped the professor's notice. Hank could have walked up to her desk and apologized—right under the professor's nose—and he wouldn't have paid the slightest attention. He was too busy with his Greek. But Hank didn't want to make a scene in front of the entire class; he preferred to handle it quietly, after class. Besides, dramatically handing her a bottle of cherry juice on his lap would have looked foolish, to say the least.
When the lecture ended, Hank jumped up from his desk and stood on tiptoe to see where Moira was. She was clearly walking toward him. He was sitting near the door, and now he was almost at the exit, so she had to walk past him.
"Moira!" he whispered when she was close enough to hear him.
But she lowered her gaze and passed him without a word. He tried to grab her arm, but with a quick movement, she slipped away and disappeared into the crowd pouring through the doorway into the hallway.
Hank pushed brutally through the crowd, elbowing his way forward, stubbornly pushing forward.
He was almost out of the crowd when his foot suddenly slipped. He tripped over someone's calf and only just managed to spread his arms to avoid falling flat on his face. His forehead hit a dropped folder.
He growled softly and rose to his feet.
He tore something from his forehead that had stuck to it.
A yellow note stuck to his finger.
"Don't push!"
Hank stuffed it into his pocket and raced through the crowd. He hoped he'd catch Moira. In fact, he knew he'd catch her anyway, because she was heading in the same direction as him. Besides, he was a head taller than her and had longer legs, so she'd have to have the strength of a cheerleader to escape him—and Moira was a library bug. Nevertheless, he chased her with all his might. For an apology to be successful, it had to be dramatic—and there's nothing more romantic than a panting, sweaty guy with his shirt open, too breathless to say anything.
He ran out onto the field, and not seeing her there, he ran as fast as he could.
He saw her black silhouette—a girl with long, auburn hair, a thick brown sweater, and a floor-length skirt—walking away, disappearing among the trees on a steeply ascending path.
"Moira!" he shouted.
If it did anything, it was that the girl quickened her pace.
Hank raced after her. He was getting closer. He ran, she walked. A minute—and he'd catch up.
He gasped. He couldn't catch his breath. He figured if he didn't stop, he'd fall, and if Moira forgave him, it would be posthumously.
He stopped. He put his hands on his knees and tried to calm his breathing. He heard the thunder of his own pulse in his ears. He closed his eyes.
Over his rattling breaths, he heard a clang, then a bang. A moment later—a piercing scream.
The sound came from somewhere ahead of him, higher up the path.
Without thinking, Hank broke into a run.
He was at the accident scene in half a minute. He saw a cyclist in a helmet, sprawled awkwardly on the asphalt. A little further on, his bike lay on its side, one wheel still spinning. A small crowd had gathered around the boy. Someone was checking his pulse, someone was checking if his arms were okay. Someone was marching in circles, trying to call the emergency services on his cell phone.
Another group of people stood a little further away.
Hank pushed his way toward them.
"What happened?" he gasped.
"The one on the bike got distracted, ran into a girl, and you got—" a skinny guy replied, shaking his head. He sighed heavily.
"Let me get to her!" Hank repeated, pushing through the crowd. "Come on, move!"
Moira was lying on the sidewalk. She cleared her throat. Her lips were red, furiously red with blood. A trickle of blood seeped timidly from her left nostril. Her eyebrow was split. She had turned paper-pale. She'd never been overly tanned, but now she looked worse than bad.
Her glasses, with their thick, black frames, lay two feet away, between the legs of the gawkers.
She looked much better without them. Hank thought, at the most inopportune moment, that she was pretty.
"Hank..." she whispered, catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye.
"I'm here..." he replied quietly. Nothing else came to mind. He'd forgotten the carefully crafted apology, or rather, the entire two-part drama he'd written out in his head during Professor Dougherty's lecture.
His eyes darted around the large, dark puddle around the girl.
"It's just... juice..." she smiled weakly. "H-hank...?
" "What, Moira?"
"Hank... This isn't... supposed to be..." Moira stammered.
Her eyes rolled upward. Her eyelids fluttered again, and her head lolled to the side.
The sound of an ambulance siren rang out. A moment later, the crunch of tires right next to the accident site. The slam of doors opening and closing. The clang of a stretcher being pulled out of the vehicle, and the rattle of the frame as the wheels hit the ground.
"Stand back!" the nurse shouted. "Ladies and gentlemen, stand back!
"
Hank walked home along the avenue shaded by the chestnut trees. He swayed on stiff legs, as if drunk, or as if he'd been hit hard on the head. The blood roared in his ears, but he could still hear her last words clearly in his mind: "It wasn't supposed to be like this..." Absolutely not. And it was all his fault. If he'd been paying attention, this would never have happened. If he'd handled it differently, he'd be walking down that street with Moira now. And he'd be sipping cherry juice. If he could turn back time, he would have done so many things differently. If someone had warned him, he wouldn't have made so many stupid mistakes. If only...
A yellow rectangle of paper fluttered before his eyes like a butterfly. It spun in the wind, twisting and turning, pirouetting.
It eluded Hank's fingers by millimeters. The boy chased it. He jumped, trying to catch it, but the Post-it note maliciously flew higher and glided further and further.
"Come here..." Hank gasped.
He leaped through the tall grass onto the street, bounced again and again, as if in a triple jump, and grabbed the note. He crumpled it in his hand.
With trembling hands, he unfolded the yellow ball and tried to read it with his darting eyes.
The car didn't even brake. It hit him at full throttle. Hank hit the hood, smashed the window with his elbow, rolled across the roof, and fell onto the street. The driver slammed on the brakes only a few meters away, the old, worn tires screeching against the asphalt.
The man got out of the car and, looking around at the people gathering, muttered:
"He... he jumped... I couldn't brake... I didn't make it in time... "
A woman found a note clutched in the boy's hand. She pulled it from his contracted fingers, smoothed it out, and read.
"Watch out! Car!"
A little below, she found a small note.
"P.S. You idiot, you were supposed to watch out for her!"
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