MARGE-TIME

Saturday, October 8, 1994 — 11:00 AM, Mill Grove, London

POV: Oliver

Oliver had been at the Mill Grove for a week now, and it was worse than he could ever have imagined. He had no free time—he had MARGE-TIME. The old bat simply refused to let him out of her sight.

""I can't do this anymore," Oliver muttered under his breath.

"Did you say something?" Margaret called from her armchair, busy knitting whatever it was she was knitting.

"Nothing!" he snapped, throwing his hands into the air. "Everything's great!" Then he went back to shaping his little Buddha statue out of modelling clay.

He spent most mornings with Margaret. Wherever she went, he went. Shopping, church, errands, whatever work needed doing around Mill Grove—Oliver came along. Hell, for the first few days, she'd even tried to follow him to the toilet!

Webnovels were full of shit. Four-year-old reincarnators were always running around unsupervised, starting businesses, making money, and carrying out elaborate secret plans without a single adult ever stopping to wonder where the hell the child had gone.

And then there were the friendships with kids their own age. Of course. Because there was nothing a thirty-five-year-old man enjoyed more than spending his afternoons with four-year-olds.

Reality was different.

The afternoons were hell. Mill Grove offered childcare for children up to the age of five, and the old bat was firmly convinced that Oliver needed to spend time with children his own age. It was unbelievably loud. Children screamed, laughed, cried, and fought over toys. Then there was drawing, crafts, puzzles, building blocks, and a frankly impressive amount of modelling clay.

Evenings were usually the only time he got a few hours to himself, at least until Margaret decided it was bedtime.

Oliver sighed and glanced at the clock. Another hour until lunch in the dining hall. He could hardly wait—not because the food was particularly good, but because yesterday he'd noticed something that might just help him escape this miserable routine.

***

POV: Sister Margaret

Margaret looked over her knitting at Oliver and couldn't help but smile. The boy genuinely thought he was fooling her.

After a week, she had long since worked out what was going on. Oliver was gifted. Just how far ahead of other children his age he was, she couldn't say yet, but far enough that the ordinary world of a four-year-old was clearly boring him to death.

It explained the strange questions, the little slips, and especially those moments when he did something without a second thought, only to suddenly stop as though he'd just remembered he wasn't supposed to know how.

Margaret had decided not to confront him about it. Not yet. For whatever reason, Oliver seemed determined to play the part of an ordinary four-year-old, and if that made things easier for him, she was happy to let him. She doubted he'd manage to keep it up for much longer anyway.

What Margaret was considerably less pleased about were the little Buddha statues.

She had ignored the first one. By the second, she'd noticed Oliver watching her out of the corner of his eye while he shaped it. And when an astonishingly well-made third statue had appeared beside the cross in the entrance hall yesterday morning, she'd finally understood what he was doing.

This tale has been pilfered from NovelPhoenix. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He was provoking her, and he knew perfectly well that it was working.

When Margaret had discovered the statue, Oliver had been standing at the other end of the corridor. Their eyes had met, and for the briefest moment, a wide, far-too-satisfied grin had spread across his face before he'd innocently looked away.

By now, he'd even managed to convince two of the other children to make Buddhas of their own. Margaret had no idea how he'd done it. All she knew was that yesterday, three of them had suddenly appeared on the windowsill, and Oliver had, of course, insisted that he had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Almost more irritating was how good his own figures were becoming. It was yet another sign of what Margaret had already come to suspect: the boy was gifted and hopelessly understimulated. Still, she wouldn't say anything. Sooner or later, Oliver would fail to keep up his little performance all on his own.

Margaret put her knitting aside and glanced at the clock. "Come along, Oliver. It's time for lunch."

Oliver's head shot up.

"I'm coming!" he replied with such enthusiasm that Margaret paused. Since when was that boy this excited about lunch?

She studied him for a moment but said nothing. Oliver was already jumping out of his chair and carefully placing his Buddha statue on the table.

Then he grinned at her.

Margaret closed her eyes for a moment.

That statue was not staying there.

***

POV: Oliver

Oliver entered the dining hall with Margaret. They had barely made it through the door before his eyes swept across the room and stopped at one of the tables.

She was there.

Without saying a word to Margaret, Oliver grabbed his tray and headed straight for the girl sitting alone at one of the tables.

"Hi, can I sit here?" he asked.

No response.

"Hello?" Oliver tried again. The girl seemed to be ignoring him.

After several awkward seconds, Oliver's eyebrows began to draw together. Only then did the girl slowly turn towards him, just as he was beginning to think she was deliberately ignoring him.

He hadn't expected her reaction.

Her eyes went wide. She let out a piercing, wordless scream and shot out of her chair so violently that it scraped across the floor. The sound was loud enough to silence every conversation in the dining hall at once.

Oliver startled just as badly and reflexively threw his arms up—along with the tray he was still holding.

"Whoa!"

The tray flew from his hands. Plate, cutlery, and a generous helping of spaghetti rose into the air together and sailed in an impressive arc somewhere behind him.

A crash followed.

Oliver stood rooted to the spot, staring at the girl. She had frozen too and was looking back at him with equally wide eyes. Then it clicked. Shit. She's deaf. She didn't hear me.

Slowly, Oliver turned around.

Margaret stood several feet behind him. Apparently, she'd been watching the entire spectacle and had somehow ended up becoming the unfortunate target of his lunch. Sauce covered the front of her dress, and several long strands of spaghetti hung from her hair.

Oliver stared at Margaret, and Margaret stared back. One strand of spaghetti came loose and slowly slid down her cheek.

Oliver bit his lip and tried desperately not to laugh, but it was hopeless. He burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry!" he managed between laughs, trying and failing to get himself back under control. "Margaret, really, I didn't mean to—"

A sob came from behind him, and his laughter died instantly.

Oliver turned back to the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, her lower lip trembling. She looked at him, then at Margaret, then back at him. For a moment, Oliver didn't understand why she was looking at him like that. Then it clicked.

Oh, shit.

"No! I'm not laughing at you!" Oliver shook his head frantically, pointing first at her and then at Margaret behind him. He waved both hands, desperately trying to make her understand that she wasn't the one he'd been laughing at.

But the girl only took a step back.

No, no, no.

Oliver pointed at Margaret again, then at the spaghetti hanging from her hair, shaking his head desperately.

Too late.

The girl shoved her chair back and ran out of the dining hall. Oliver took off after her without hesitation, Margaret and the spaghetti instantly forgotten.

By the time he reached the corridor, the girl already had a decent head start. She was noticeably taller than him, and her longer legs were making that painfully obvious. Oliver ran as fast as his damn four-year-old legs could carry him, but he barely gained on her.

The impulse to yell after her came and went in the same instant. Yeah, brilliant idea. Shout after the deaf girl. All he could do was run faster.

The girl turned a corner ahead of him, and Oliver followed, just in time to see her disappear through a door leading outside. He knew the boundary; Margaret had made it very clear—more than once—how far he was allowed to go on his own.

Oliver slowed for a moment. The girl kept running, putting even more distance between them.

Fuck it.

He sped up again, shoved the door open, and ran after her.