Time Hole

Our school is filled with signs and slogans telling students they're special, and specifically how they're the most important person in the whole wide world, which is a wholly paradoxical statement. Assletes, cakers, gamers, floaters, good-ats, skaters and stoners lose mindfulness here and become self-centered, in my opinion. When my schoolmates get caught doing something wrong they'll throw up their hands and shout, I'm only 16. I go to Earl Haig.

Watching the sunset from my favourite window in the chemistry lab is a new experience and a sure sign my life's out of whack. In four years I've never stayed this late, because why? My dad's house is less than two blocks away. I can almost see it.

Footsteps in the corridor mark the arrival of our school principal, locking up classrooms before he leaves. It's showtime.

Mr. Belial was a Canadian Olympic athlete once, a Track & Field star. And he's also a failed mayoral candidate, amateur theatre producer and police informant. He's a medium-sized grouch who's forever snooping and always intruding and is someone with whom I've had some unpleasant encounters. I'll be his hero now though.

"What are you doing in here Neil?" He scans the lab and finding the room empty, narrows his eyes at me.

"Waiting for the word from Mr. Alder." I raise my knapsack and smile meekly signaling, I'm good to go.

Parked in front of me is the expensive SPFX stage prop I've assembled for this year's school play. It's a six foot diameter wooden ring and taller than me when set on furniture dollies. Mr. Belial already knows about it because the school paid for the magnets which line its interior.

"The Distant Mirror. It's ready." I report.

"So why are you here? You can't wait in the theatre like everyone else?" He scans the room again for anything suspicious. He doesn't like that I'm alone in the lab despite how all the chemicals are secured in glass cabinets.

The school got bomb threats last year and hundreds of lockers were checked, mine included, but nothing was ever found. Toronto police sent letters to all parents telling them not to worry. They reasoned that only one kid in a hundred thousand would know how to make anything dangerous, and I agree while at the same time recognizing, I am that individual.

Building a bomb after school would be easy for me. There’s both sodium and potassium nitrate in the cabinet behind the counter. Even better, there's nitric acid in a 2L plastic jug. Next door, in Biology there are glycerin-filled sealer jars with animal organs on display. At the end of the hall, on a shelf in the Art room there's a container filled with white cotton puffs.

"Careful..." Mr. Belial watches me wheel the six foot tall set piece towards the door. His face contorts in a curious sneer as though listening to my thoughts, watching me sprinkle diatomaceous earth over a nitrogen infused glycerin cellulose.

In truth, if I really wanted to destroy this place, I'd favour incendiaries over explosives. The janitorial staff cleans the floor with a sodium-base Green Plus product which would readily drink-up ethanol from the auto shop to form an almost undetectable, yet highly combustible ethanoate. Or, I could phosgene the furnace room and poison the whole school by simply pouring bleach and vinegar in the HVAC system. Or . . .

"I like that you're smiling Neil." Principal Belial holds the door. "This assignment has been good for you I think."

"Sure. I guess." Whatever you say boss. I won't mention how I have a hundred better things to do at home. I'll shut my mouth and play along because it’s all part of my best life strategy.

The reward for all this nonsense is twenty hours of Esprite de Ecole - Extra Curricular which is what the 2026 Admissions Director at McGill University will circle on my application. Dad says if I can get my picture in The Star it'll be my Ace card. Fast tracking a Chemistry degree in Montreal will open doors all over the world.

My schoolmates are mostly imbeciles and few have any idea what they'll do with themselves after high school. Excepting the assletes who strive to turn professional, and the YouTubers already making an income, the others are floaters with no plans. Dad says I should try and make friends, but honestly why?

-

The auditorium is where nothing good happens and everything bad happens and it’s my least favourite part of the school. The place usually smells like BBQ corn chips but this evening it reeks of acrylic paint because the art-imps are in here colouring backdrops for the play.

“Will you demonstrate it?” Mr. Belial checks my hands as though I’m palming some secret ingredient.

“It’s good to go.”

“Come on then.” Visibly impatient, he widens his arms to signal others to stand clear.

The Distant Mirror is an custom SPFX theatre prop built using an antique wooden circle rescued from a church Nativity scene. The teak-wood is a foot thick and heavy and has 137 hockey puck size neodymium disc magnets glued inside. A roll of clear nylon mesh on top touches the doorframe as I wheel the unit into the room. They’ll want me to present it and prove it works, but I doubt they'll have what's required. “Do you even have the projector?”

“It’s up there.” Mr. Belial regards the stage happily but frowns when he spies a white poodle on approach. “Stay back Candy.”

He hisses and stamps his foot but the creature defies him. The drama teacher’s pet dog is half poodle, half teddy bear and looks like a plush toy come to life. Like most canines, Candy is naturally inclined to watch doors and sniff new arrivals' pantlegs. She senses the magnets in the ring and growls.

“Go on.” I shoo her away.

“He’s looking forward to seeing it,” Mr. Belial says and must be referring to Mr. Alder who is busy directing singers on the far side of the room. He lets the door close behind us. “How certain are you it’ll work?”

“One hundred percent.”

He nods approvingly, and I wheel the heavy set piece off to the side when he paces away towards the rehearsal. Candy follows, but loses interest and circles two grade nine students painting flats. They stop work and kneel down to pet the living teddy bear.

The hard surfaces in here, the steel rafters and cement walls echo the enthusiasm everyone has for Rockin’ Robin Hood, a musical written and directed by Mr. Alder. The actors mingle excitedly and practice their lines publicly. My stomach churns.

Jennifer Hooten sits on a waist-high pile of rubber floormats with her back to the wall. She must feel the magnets in my rig because she looks up and smiles and her sandy blond hair and elf-like persona strike me as attractive. I stand close enough we could talk if she wanted, but she just shrugs and returns to her phone.

The girl never seems to have any friends which is a mystery that intrigues me. She’s cute and smart, but is always alone. It could be she's hyper-focused on her music, but I've heard it said her family is so poor she wears her mother’s clothes. Her green running shoes match a tattered army jacket which has Iraqi flags on the shoulders. A pink electric guitar rests on her legs and she holds her scratched-up iPhone with both hands.

Claudia Fawcett approaches and glares at me until I look away. Our school’s favourite cheerleader plays Maid Marion.

“You recorded me singing?” She points accusingly at Jen’s phone. “I don’t give you permission.”

“I just...” Jennifer looks frightened.

Peter Dingman comes to her rescue, awkwardly.

“She’s your understudy Miss Fawcett,” Peter is in Grade 12 and tries to look stern and motion her away. “She has the right to record.” He knows he’s correct but is cowed by Claudia’s intensity and withers in her gaze. Pete is this year’s Stage Manager and he has a brand new Teacher-Speaker strapped to his chest. The rig has a microphone on a gooseneck which hovers near his mouth and he could easily switch it on and shout her down, but instead he raises and shields himself with his plastic clipboard.

Claudia stares at Jennifer’s guitar.

“I spoke to Mr. Alder. They’re not gonna use any of your songs. So you don’t need to keep bringing it.”

“You asked him that?” Jennifer can’t hide her disappointment.

“Wow. You’re obsessed with her.” Peter shakes his head like he can’t believe she's being so wicked.

“It’s called quality control.” Claudia raises her middle finger as she walks away. “Keep being a loser, Candle-girl.”

Jennifer pouts like she’s going to cry. Peter bites his bottom lip but doesn't try to console her. He focuses on me.

“What role you'd get Beld?” He raises his clipboard to search for my name. “Oh. The Distant Mirror. Right.” He stands back to appraise my handiwork. “Love the magnets. Does it function?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see I guess.”

“We will.”

A piano jangles on the far side of the room to restart the rehearsal. The stage is raised one meter above the floor and theatre flats on either side have been given thatch roofs and made to resemble houses in a medieval village. In the spotlight, Claudia leads the village maids in a dance number.

“It’s Robin of Loxley and his merry men. They hide in the forest to escape the war.

He steals from the rich and gives to the poor. He punishes tyrants and helps those who are good.

And none can stand before his longbow of wood! Oh Robin Hood, Robin Hood, oh Robin Hood!

The girls sing and shuffle their feet until a man in a peacock robe claps to end their routine. The actors relax and wait for critique, but Mr. Alder doesn’t get a chance to say much before Mr. Belial calls for a conference. They’re talking about me and the set piece.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

Monique de Sousa’s piercing voice directs her painters away from the distracting poodle and back to work. The Portuguese girl is the visionary in charge of crafting Sherwood Forest. She wears paint-soaked coveralls over her street clothes and has a tool belt. Her conscripts are the school’s Arts’ students who make my skin crawl, but none more than Monique. She's a religious freak, our school’s very own sixteen-year-old Catholic proselytizer.

Anyone who doesn’t know better might find Monique attractive. She’s petite and has a pretty face and long black hair, but no self-respecting guy would ever try and get with her. It’d never happen. Her dad’s a preacher, or maybe it’s her mom. That’s the only way she could ever be so brainwashed; last Wednesday she came to school with wood ash smudged between her eyes and spoke Latin before each class. I don’t mind an honest freak, but I know she’s a fraud because nobody could be that into God. Not at our age.

“Welcome Neil Beld,” Monique opens her arms as though we’re old friends who’d enjoy a hug. I step back and she takes the hint. She lowers her paint splotched appendages, but her enthusiasm remains. “I’m thankful you’re here. We’re blessed to have you.”

“Yeah. Go Earl Haig. Every son and daughter sings your praise.”

Monique smiles at my pep rally parody, oblivious to sarcasm.

The red-haired star of the show pushes through the others to make his grand appearance.

“Why should we trust anything you’ve monkeyed?” Allan Mendes challenges me, which is nothing new. He’s been against me since Grade 9 despite us being best friends in primary school. “I heard this thing is cursed.” He regards the set piece, “and now you’ve likely double-hoaxed it.” This earns some laughs as the others chuckle at the idea of me jinxing an already-bedeviled object, leaving it doubly cursed.

Allan and I were born in the same hospital, three days apart but we might as well be different species. His father sells cars downtown and his mom is a doctor. He has red hair and a big chin which most girls seem to appreciate. Playing Robin Hood should come natural as it parallels his everyday heroism as our school’s number one heartthrob. Even Jennifer watches with interest.

Claudia Fawcett returns at the head of her girl-gang and takes Allan’s arm before rolling her eyes at me. Her dancers stand behind her in loose formation to mirror her contempt in synchronicity.

“You’re getting special credit for this?” She acts like it’s a scandal.

I ignore them all because the drama teacher paces closer with Mr. Belial and their inspection is about to begin.

“How much did it cost?” Mr. Alder asks, and our Principal grunts like it doesn’t matter.

Our school’s most beloved teacher rests his eyes on me which causes the others to stare and my heart to beat faster. But his kind face calms me, and his wry smile is a joy to behold. He scratches his goatee and contemplates the new set piece and I hope he recognizes its quality. Principal Belial may have supplied the schematics, and sourced the parts, but no other E.H.H.S. student could have assembled it so flawlessly.

“It’s money well spent,” Mr. Belial says. “This’ll get us in the newspapers.” He chuckles proudly and now I’m thinking the Distant Mirror was his idea and probably only serves to showcase his contribution as the show's Producer.

“How fortunate you secured that donation.” Mr. Alder says dryly.

Earl Haig students adore Gildrich Alder because it feels like he’s on our side. He’s always voted Best Teacher and there’s lots of good-natured graffiti celebrating his quirky manner all over school. He’s beloved for his self-deprecating humour which makes us laugh. He's the Head of the English Department, and the annual school play is core to his being. He writes, directs and celebrates the occasion with extra-flamboyant clothes. Today’s robe makes him look like the king in a deck of playing cards.

“How does it work?” Mr. Alder asks me directly. “Is this the pin?”

He reaches.

“The pin is the release,” Principal Belial blocks his hand and steps in front of me to take all the credit. “The mesh has ferric material sewn in the fringe.”

“Ferrous,” I correct him. Ferric material, as he said, would be iron-three oxide, which is rust.

Mr. Alder’s eyes twinkle with amusement. Mr. Belial pretends not to hear me and gestures toward the stage.

“Can we get it in position?”

“Certainly. We’ll run Act Four.” Mr. Alder glances around to find Mrs. Sweeney who nods to confirm.

Peter Dingman swivels to rally his stagehands, cueing his Teacher-Speaker which burps and squawks. But his helpers don’t wait for him to bark orders. They follow Monique.

My dollies make ragged tracks through the sawdust as I thread my way between half-painted flats toward the raised platform. Theatre lights in the pipe grid overhead give the bandshell an eerie glow. The curtains are tied at both sides to make more room for the rehearsals.

The wheelchair ramp has been removed which means the heavy set piece must be hoisted-up and over the footlights. Mr. Belial helps, and Peter and Mr. Alder lift the other side. I raise and reposition the dollies.

Behind us, Monique turns all the flats around to transform the medieval village into King John’s Castle in under a minute. The stage wall now features a cloth tapestry which has three golden lions elongated across a red background.

The others stop what they’re doing and crowd around, naturally curious. Jennifer rises and wanders closer. Allan and Claudia are flanked by their friends as they watch from the sidelines, ready to ridicule me should my presentation fail to amaze them.

“The projector? It needs to be there,” I point backstage, about four meters away and look for the hardware, yet unseen.

“I figured as much,” Monique drags a 4x8 flat painted with stone blocks to simulate a castle wall. She slides open a hole in the façade to reveal the glass lens of a video projector hidden behind the Masonite. Impressive.

“Turn it on,” Mr. Alder sits in a folding chair in what will be the first row, taking the audiences’ perspective.

The projector twinkles to life and Monique’s fingers peck a laptop which she cradles in her arms. The white light becomes blue when she links the two devices. Then it turns silver with black & white cinema starring an actor named Errol Flynn.

I nudge the wooden hoop to my left a few inches, one squeak of the wheels, to center it in the light beam. Glancing around at the others, I step through the aperture to prove there’s no barrier. Before anyone can say anything rude, I return, pulling the pin and let the sheer fabric tumble-down behind me. There are loud clicks as the metal bits stick to the magnets all around the circumference and the gauze is pulled tight in the aperture.

Now the images being rear projected can be easily discerned, despite being backwards. The timing is excellent too because just as everything sticks in place, Errol Flynn appears in close-up. The actor grins and adjusts his feather cap and looks very much like Robin Hood.

“Nicely done,” Mr. Alder slow claps from the front row. He can see its quality. Everyone is impressed and there’s loud applause.

Allan looks away in disgust and Claudia frowns, but everyone else cheers. Monique sets her laptop on the floor so she can join in the clapping and Jennifer nods, well done.

“Tally ho!” Mr. Belial mimics Robin’s signature call which triggers Candy to bark at the display. The poodle’s anger makes the girls laugh, and Claudia and her maidens crowd around the furry beast to calm its tiny brain.