Ms Blit was cleaning the boys’ toilets.
‘Well, she said I could come here to do my community service this period,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Mrs Stoep’s class?’ Ms Blit asked.
I smiled back at her.
Then she smiled at me.
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
‘Shall I show you something?’ she asked.
Something odd was going on. The out-of-sync conversation and my permanent echo seemed to be happening just as badly as ever. Yet somehow we seemed to be communicating successfully.
Was it coincidence? Or could she somehow understand me? She seemed to expect me to talk in an out-of-whack way.
Ms Blit led the way to the sanitary supplies closet, a walk-in cupboard full of bottles of detergent and mops. There was a small metal locker in it. To my surprise, she opened the locker and stepped inside. It was a door—a door to a secret room.
I followed. The room looked like some sort of laboratory. She had an amazingly complicated experiment set up in a corner. It had all sorts of valves and tubes and wires and things sticking out in all directions.
‘It is?’ I replied.
‘It’s simpler than it looks,’ she told me.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I need to tell you something,’ she said.
I felt weird. Very weird. I realised, after thinking about it, that this unfamiliar feeling was a mixture of shock and happiness. Here was someone I could apparently communicate with, at school, despite my problem. This was a big deal. This was unbelievable. This was amazing. This must be a dream. I pinched the skin on the back of my hand, but I didn’t wake up.
Ms Blit was looking right into my eyes. I could tell, even though I was looking anywhere except into her eyes.
‘I’m not really a janitor,’ she said. ‘I am a Stitcher.’