Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope

by Anne Plichota

  “No talking, please!” ordered Dr McGraw sternly. “Do we have some volunteers for an hour’s detention on the very first day?”

  Their enthusiasm dampened, the class walked upstairs and entered a bright room with anatomical charts on the walls. The double desks were made of dark wood and smelt of polish.

  “Sit down!” shouted Dr McGraw imperiously.

  “Wherever we like, sir?” asked a student.

  “Wherever you like. As long as it’s within these four walls, obviously,” replied their teacher sarcastically. “You can leave your things at the foot of your desks for now. Later, I’ll show you the lockers where you can keep anything you might find useful: snacks, sports gear, books, lucky charms, comforters, etc.,” he added with a little sardonic laugh. “We’ll be spending the morning together, and I’ll explain school procedures and tell you about your timetable and your teachers. I’m Dr McGraw; I’ll be taking you for maths and physical sciences, and I’ll also be your form teacher. But let me make it quite clear that I haven’t got any time for childish nonsense. You’re no longer in Year 7; you have to take responsibility for who you are and what you do. I’m only prepared to listen to you if you have something valid and important to say, do you understand? I expect you to be highly disciplined and to work as hard as you can. Neither I nor this school will tolerate laziness or mediocrity. You’re only allowed to be mediocre if that’s the very best you can do. Your pinnacle of achievement, your finest effort. We expect you to do your best and nothing less. Understand?”

  A polite murmur ran through the class. Sitting beside Gus, Oksa made herself as small as possible. She desperately hoped that she never had to ask Dr McGraw for anything. If she had a problem, she’d find someone else to give her some advice. At that precise moment she wasn’t feeling too good, partly because of Dr McGraw’s speech, which made her feel uncomfortably pressurized. But it wasn’t just that she was overawed. That man was really making her feel ill.

  “Now I’ve introduced myself, it’s your turn,” he continued in an icy tone, more likely to encourage them to run for the hills than have a cosy little chat. “Tell us briefly who you are, what subjects you’re good at, your passions if you have any and anything else you’d like your classmates and me to know about you. But don’t get carried away and please don’t feel obliged to tell us your life story… young man, will you begin, please?”

  Gus squirmed in his chair, not looking best pleased at being the lucky one to start. “My name is Gustave Bellanger,” he said hesitantly. “I moved to London with my parents a few days ago. Maths is pretty much my forte. I really like manga and video games. I’ve done karate for six years and I also play the guitar.”

  “Maths is your forte, is it? That’s good to hear,” remarked Dr McGraw. “Your turn, young man.”

  Waiting for her turn as the other students spoke, Oksa studied their teacher while his attention was occupied by the introductions. A beanpole of a man, Dr McGraw was stylish and sombre in appearance, with slicked-back dark hair that showed off his finely lined face and inky black eyes to good advantage. His thin, slightly pursed lips looked as though they had been soldered together. He wore a plain black suit and a charcoal-grey shirt buttoned up to the base of his neck, where it was grazed by his prominent Adam’s apple which kept jumping up and down with every inflexion of his voice. One other detail caught Oksa’s attention: on the middle finger of his right hand the teacher wore a superb twisted silver ring with an amazing slate-grey stone which seemed to shimmer with a shifting light. It was an imposing ring which looked far too heavy for a hand so thin it was almost skeletal.

  “Your turn, young lady, we’re listening.”

  Dr McGraw stared right at her as he spoke these words in a low voice. Meeting his harsh, inquisitive gaze, Oksa felt sick, as if a pain were growing inside her and cutting off her air. She took a deep breath, the way her mum had taught her to help her relax, but she realized in astonishment that her ribcage had locked the moment she began to breathe in. For a fraction of a second her face contorted in an expression of fear.

  “My name is Oksa Pollock—”

  She again attempted to breathe, trying to draw some air into her lungs. A trickle of oxygen managed to get through.

  “My name is Oksa Pollock and I like astrono—”

  Out of air! Panicking, Oksa tried to take another breath. No! She mustn’t let her feelings get the better of her. Bravely she drew another breath, trying to act as though nothing was wrong, but it was no good. She had an enormous bubble of air trapped in her chest. A bubble too large to be dislodged. Feeling panicky, Oksa loosened her tie.

  “Yes, Miss Pollock, I think we know who you are now. We’re listening,” added Dr McGraw, clearly growing more impatient.

  Oksa could barely hear his voice, which sounded as if it was muffled by cotton wool. The girl was suffocating, unable to breathe, her heart racing like a bolting horse. Then an even more intense, unbearable wave of pain hit her, which felt like a violent punch to the stomach. After resisting it for a few seconds, her body and mind succumbed to the pain and panic. Oksa looked round in the hope that someone would come to her help. No use—everyone was looking at her, but none of the students seemed to realize how distressed she was. And if they had, what could they have done? She had no strength left to fight it—she clutched Gus’s arm and crashed to the floor.

  5

  A TERRIBLE DAY

  EVER SINCE SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL, OKSA HAD BEEN IN the habit of visiting her gran after school in the evening. Her parents were very busy with work and Dragomira was always there. Oksa could count on her. They’d chat about one thing or another—what had happened during the day and sometimes about more serious matters, such as Oksa’s worries, disappointments or triumphs. That evening had been unusual: when she’d come home after that terrible day—one of the worst she’d ever had—the house had been dead silent, much to her annoyance.

  “Mum? Dad? Are you here?” she’d called, already feeling disappointed.

  With a sigh, she’d thrown her bag at the bottom of the stairs. Of course they weren’t here; they were at the restaurant, busy getting things ready. She was in Dragomira’s apartment now, though, and it felt so welcoming, despite being messy and old-fashioned. She’d been waiting for this moment all day. As usual, Dragomira immediately bombarded her with questions: “So how did it go? Tell me everything!”

  She’d prepared a delicious afternoon snack with all Oksa’s favourites: fresh raspberries with little biscuits and spiced tea, a special home-made recipe. Now that she was here with her Baba, Oksa could relax at long last. She flopped into the small, threadbare pink armchair, the one she liked best, and curled up into a ball. Opposite, a vast wall was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves laden with jars, cans, boxes and books which it had taken Dragomira all day to arrange.

  “It went well, Baba, very well,” she said, feigning an enthusiasm she was far from feeling.

  “You look awful, Dushka! You seem worn out. Have they been working you so hard on the very first day?” Then, changing the subject completely: “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving,” replied Oksa, biting greedily into a delicious chocolate biscuit.

  “Eat up and tell me everything, even with your mouth full. I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

  “Well… inside, the school is totally amazing, it’s an incredible place, you’d love it. Our form teacher is Dr McGraw, who also takes us for maths and physical sciences. He’s very strict, you need to watch your step with him. He’s not exactly a bundle of laughs.”

  There was a tense silence. Dragomira waited for her to go on. “And?”

  “Well, apart from that, being in the same class as Gus is a dream come true! I’m over the moon, as you can imagine… Otherwise, nothing much else to report,” she added, trying her hardest not to let on that she was upset. “Gus and I met a really nice boy. His name is Merlin. He’s lived in London for five years and I think he’s probably very brai
ny. The other students seem pretty cool, except for one girl who has a face like a pit bull terrier. She looks as if she hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together.”

  “Come with me,” said Dragomira, studying her carefully, not at all convinced by Oksa’s outward cheerfulness. She took her by the hand and led her to a gorgeous red velvet sofa, which she hastily cleared of everything heaped on it.

  “Hang on a moment…”

  She went to the back of the apartment where there was a massive, cluttered set of shelves and a large work surface made of polished wood, where she indulged her passion for botany and medicinal plants—Dragomira had been a herbalist for some thirty years. With a small key hanging from one of her bracelets she unlocked a bookcase with opaque panes of glass. Instead of books, it contained hundreds of phials lined up on the shelves. Dragomira picked one and locked the door.

  “Here’s something that’ll do you good, my darling. A special oil for ‘difficult days’.”

  “But the day hasn’t been difficult, Baba.”

  “Hush… not another word.”

  Oksa obeyed and let her gran massage her temples comfortingly as she stared at the fragrant coils of incense burning in every corner of the living room, which was filled wall-to-wall with knick-knacks, consoles, pedestal tables and sofas upholstered in old gold or crimson velvet. The coils drifted gently towards the stucco ceiling roses, as unpleasant thoughts circled around Oksa’s head. Dragomira couldn’t be more wrong: the day hadn’t been difficult. No. It had been just terrible! And her memories of it, which were still very raw, continued to torment her. Unable to fight them, she was relentlessly taken back in time to the classroom, two hours earlier…

  When she’d regained consciousness, she was lying on the classroom floor, her forehead covered in sweat and her blood hammering furiously through her veins. She felt as though she’d hit herself on her chair when she fell, because her stomach was hurting badly. Several faces were leaning over her. A worried-looking Gus was crouched beside her. Merlin, his forehead furrowed and his cheeks scarlet, was murmuring, “Don’t worry, don’t worry about a thing,” and the pretty girl with a penetrating gaze he’d sat next to, Zelda, had also knelt down, but was at a loss what to do to make Oksa feel better.

  Dr McGraw, on the other hand, looked annoyed. “You’re easily upset, Miss Pollock, very easily upset,” he remarked coldly.

  To prove the teacher and his unsympathetic words wrong, she made a huge effort and struggled to her feet, seething with anger, shame and frustration.

  “Sir, sir, should we call an ambulance?” asked one boy in a frightened voice.

  Dr McGraw looked at him contemptuously then replied in a curt, mocking tone:

  “Why not the special response unit from the Department of Health while you’re at it? But perhaps we should ask Miss Pollock? Should we take you to the infirmary, Miss Pollock, or do you think you’re in a fit state to endure this exhausting morning right through to the end?”

  Amazed, Gus glared reproachfully at their teacher, but the man ignored him. With the help of her classmates, Oksa sat down again as best she could, trying to ignore the pain in her stomach and the anger darkening her heart.

  “Anyone else planning to collapse? Yes? No? Any volunteers?” asked Dr McGraw, his voice sharp as a knife. To his great surprise, someone raised their hand. “Miss Pollock?” Dr McGraw looked thrown by this sudden, and obviously unexpected, turn of events. Devoid of all sarcasm, his voice was virtually shaking. Perhaps through remorse at being so harsh…

  “I’d like to finish what I was saying, sir.”

  Just as Oksa said these words in a monotonous but clear and determined voice, a gust of wind cold enough to raise goose pimples swept through the classroom and the half-open windows banged violently shut. Everyone jumped. Except for McGraw, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Oksa.

  “My name is Oksa Pollock,” continued the girl, not permitting any interruption, “and I’ve just arrived in London. My favourite subjects are science and maths. I like astronomy and rollerblading and I’ve done karate for six years, like Gus. There, I’m done, sir.”

  All the students looked at her, some in amazement, others in admiration. But what none of them could see was the profound exhilaration she was feeling deep inside and which was acting like a bumper dose of vitamins.

  “Thank you, young lady,” drawled Dr McGraw in a flat voice. “Shall we continue now? We’ve wasted enough time.”

  When the bell rang for break, Oksa felt immediately relieved. At last she could escape from this classroom. Not a moment too soon! Any longer and she’d have begun screaming at the top of her lungs. This had never happened to her before—it wasn’t like her at all. Gus found his friend crouched against the statue of a winged angel in the school courtyard and knelt down in front of her. Seeing how sad she looked, he wanted to put his arms around her and give her a hug, but he didn’t dare.

  “What happened?” he said. “I thought you were having a heart attack! You went stiff as a poker, then you fell down. You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  “I’ve never felt so ill in my life. Everything was spinning, I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Were you in pain? Were you scared of speaking in front of the class?”

  Oksa didn’t reply. Puzzled, Gus watched her out of the corner of his eye, not knowing what to say to make her feel better. He thought for a moment then said: “Don’t worry about it! Don’t think about it any more, it’s ancient history!”

  “Yes, you’re right,” replied Oksa. “You’re right, of course…”

  In the darkness of her room, Oksa was lying on her bed, staring at the phosphorescent stars stuck to the ceiling, which were glowing with a milky light. She was trying and failing to get to sleep. Her headache had vanished—Dragomira’s massage had been very effective—and she could barely feel the pain in her stomach now. Gus had called her during the evening to check up on her. It had given them the chance to tell each other again how glad they were to be in the same class. It was such a relief! The call had done her good, she was so glad she had a friend like Gus. But what a strange day it had been, all the same… she really hoped they wouldn’t all be like that. It was almost midnight and sleep was the last thing on her mind. She turned on her beside lamp and, sitting up in bed, looked around, thoughtfully. Her desk was littered with the contents of a box that she hadn’t had time to put away: trinkets and toys she no longer used but couldn’t bear to part with. Her gaze fell on her Poupette doll with red hair, which had been one of her favourites a few years ago. The happy times of childhood were long gone now; she sighed and shrugged sadly. Her half-closed eyes lingered on the doll before closing. She thought back over the most unpleasant events of the day. The butterflies she’d felt at going back to school. The anxiety, which still churned her stomach and made her feel sick. She reopened her eyes and immediately widened them in surprise: the doll’s long hair was standing up on its little plastic head as though magnetized by some mysterious force! Oksa blinked to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming. Then she leapt out of bed, sending her duvet flying. With her hand stretched out in front of her, she just had time to see a small fireball fly from her palm, heading straight for the doll’s head.

  “What on earth is going on?” she thought frantically.

  Before her horrified eyes, the synthetic hair began to crackle with flames. Instinctively she grabbed the doll with both hands—a very bad idea which she immediately regretted as the scalding plastic burned her fingers. Stifling a cry of pain, she dropped the doll and—another bad idea—began to blow on the hair, which only made it burn more fiercely. The flames soon reached the wood-panelled wall against which the desk had been placed, emitting alarming, acrid smoke. Her heart thumping painfully in her chest, Oksa’s only option was to grab the vase of flowers put there that morning by her gran and throw it on the fire to douse the flames. Startled by what had just happened, she fell back onto her bed, panting. She felt terribly ill and her stomach
was hurting again. She writhed in pain, overcome by feelings of nausea, which soon turned to a violent dizziness. She closed her eyes and slipped into a state of unconsciousness, allowing her to blank out reality.

  “Oh no…” she groaned, covering her head with her pillow. Oksa had just woken up and the first thing she noticed was her little doll, which had been the biggest casualty of that strange night. It was missing an eye, its foam body was ripped open and, what was worse, its fire-red hair was now fire-damaged hair.

  “What have I done? What have I done?! I burned my Poupette doll!” wailed Oksa, wringing her hands, knowing full well what had actually happened.

  Because now she’d woken up, it was obvious she hadn’t dreamt it. This wasn’t a figment of her imagination or her mind playing tricks: something had really happened, something all too real. The poor balding, charred doll lay on the desk, her smile twisted by the melting plastic. Oksa gazed at her toy for ages, feeling terribly ashamed that it had met with such an unhappy end. Ashamed. Terrified. Excited. Filled with wonder. Mainly filled with wonder, if she were completely honest.

  6

  DIFFICULT DAYBREAK

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

  “Oksa, are you going to have breakfast with me?”

  Oksa jumped: her gran had just knocked three times on her bedroom door. The grand opening of the restaurant was taking place in a few days and her parents had worked very late; they must still be asleep.

  “I’m just coming, Baba.”

  She rushed over to the mirror on the door of her wardrobe—one of the few unscathed pieces of furniture in the room—and examined herself carefully, certain that she must have turned into a monster overnight. She ran her fingers over her face, checking everything. Nothing had changed—her slate-grey eyes, her cheeks with their prominent high cheekbones, her well-defined lips, her slightly uneven teeth, her dimples, which appeared when she smiled or pouted, and her bobbed hair looked the same as they had the night before. Except she felt more tired than ever. Still… She quickly pulled on her pleated skirt and blouse and popped into the bathroom to run a quick comb through her hair and splash some cold water on her face.