Holly Greer
December 01, 2008 3:06 PM
Next Day: Meeting After Classes by Holly Greer
He's wearing a mask, Holly told herself, knowing it was a lie, but willing herself to believe it anyway. It's a latex prosthetic, not an ear, she continued, needing to accept these statements as fact. She'd been repeating them, over and over again, ever since Ms. Yuma suggested thinking of him as badly costumed rather than simply revolting. He just really, really likes Halloween.She could handle Halloween. Almost. Though she preferred to dress up as Snow White or Sleeping Beauty rather than The Beast or Quasimodo. Half-formed, indeed. De-formed, more likely. He's wearing a mask, and a wig.
She repeated the lies over and over repeatedly all day, all through her other classes, all during lunch, and most especially, as she walked toward the Potions office. By the time she hesitantly knocked on his door, she was dosed up to gills with calming draughts and anti-nausea potions and half-convinced Professor Schmidt really was just a crazy who wore his nasty Halloween costume all year round.
She still closed her eyes as she entered the room once she was invited in. Her nose wrinkled in distaste, the stench of potions making never pleasant, least of all when smell was the sense that was most prominent in telling her about where she was and what she was surrounded by.
Against her better judgment, she took a deep breath (and wished immediately she had a meditation technique that was better suited to a stench-filled environment) and opened her eyes.
Good Gosh, that was an ugly costume.
She looked away quickly and found a seat. Perching on its edge, she lowered her eyes to the floor and hoped she was coming off as apologetic and ashamed of running out and maybe a bit shy rather than afraid of looking at him. Fortunately, though, the anti-nausea potion was doing its job and she was at no immediate risk of another unladylike hurling.
"You wanted to talk to me, Professor?" she asked, not looking up beyond the tips of her pale pink patent leather ballet flats. If her eyes were busy double checking that her white tights had no runs in them, and the hem of her school robes had no pulled threads or fraying, and her shoes lacked any sort of scuff marks, then she wouldn't have to look at her teacher's disturbing mask.
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