Evelyn’s Corridor of Time

Chapter 1: The Humiliation of the Speech

The classroom smelled like chalk dust and nervous sweat, the kind that clings to your skin and makes you feel like you’re drowning in it. I stood at the front, my white blouse sticking to my back, the fabric pulling tight across my chest as I tried to breathe through the panic clawing up my throat. My pencil skirt hugged my hips, the hem brushing just above my knees, and I’d spent twenty minutes that morning making sure every seam was perfect. I wanted to look like I belonged up here, like I could command the room the way Maya always did. But the second I opened my mouth, I knew I’d screwed it up.

“Uh, so, the American Revolution was, um…” My voice cracked, a pathetic little squeak that echoed off the cinderblock walls. I clutched my notecards, the edges damp from my sweaty palms, and tried to focus on the words I’d memorized last night. They were gone. Vanished. Like someone had reached into my skull and yanked them out, leaving me with nothing but a blank stare and a room full of eyes boring into me.

A snicker rippled through the back row. Then another. I glanced up, and there was Liam Hayes, leaning back in his chair, his perfect jawline tilted just enough to show he was amused. His dark eyes met mine, and for a split second, I thought maybe he’d smile, maybe he’d rescue me like some knight in a black T-shirt. Instead, he smirked, and the guy next to him—some football jerk whose name I could never remember—let out a loud, “Oh, come on, Parker, spit it out!”

The laughter exploded then, a wave of it crashing over me. My cheeks burned, and I tugged at my blouse, feeling a button strain against the fabric. I should’ve worn something looser, something that didn’t make me feel like every inch of me was on display. I tried again. “The, uh, the colonists—they wanted—”

“Freedom? Taxes? A decent speech?” Maya’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and playful, and the class lost it. She was sitting three rows back, her glossy black hair spilling over her shoulders, her lips curved in that effortless smile that made everyone love her. My best friend. My savior. She winked at me, like this was all a game, and I forced a shaky laugh, trying to play along.

“Okay, okay, I’m getting there,” I said, but my hands were trembling now, the notecards slipping. One fell to the floor, and as I bent to grab it, my blouse gaped open at the collar, flashing my lockbone—and maybe a little more—to the front row. A whistle pierced the air, low and crude, and I snapped upright, clutching the fabric closed. The boys in the front grinned like wolves, and the girls behind them whispered, their giggles slicing into me like tiny knives.

I wanted to disappear. I wanted to melt into the linoleum floor and never come back. But then I remembered—I didn’t have to take this. I had the power to fix it. My fingers brushed the edge of my skirt pocket, where I’d tucked the little gold pin I’d found in the library last week. The one that hummed against my skin when I touched it, the one that let me bend time like it was clay in my hands. I could go back. I could redo this whole disaster.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let the familiar tingle race up my spine. The room went silent, the air thickening like molasses. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the start, standing in front of the class again, notecards pristine in my hands. The clock on the wall ticked back five minutes. No one else noticed. To them, it was the first time.

“Alright, Evelyn, whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Dawson said from his desk, his voice bored, like he’d already checked out for the day.

This time, I’d nail it. I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my skirt, and started. “The American Revolution began with a spark of defiance…” My voice was steady, strong even, and I felt a flicker of hope. I got through the first paragraph, then the second. The class was quiet, listening. Liam’s smirk faded into something like interest. Maya nodded, her eyes bright with encouragement. I was doing it. I was actually—

“…and then the, uh, the thing with the tea…” My brain stalled. Again. The words slipped away, and I fumbled, my tongue tripping over itself. “The tea thing, you know, in Boston…”

“Tea party?” someone called out, and the laughter erupted all over again, louder this time, like I’d handed them the punchline on a silver platter. My hands shook, the notecards fluttering to the floor in a pathetic little cascade. I bent to grab them, and that damn button popped—right off my blouse, skittering across the floor like it was mocking me. The gap widened, my bra peeking out, and the whistles came back, sharper, hungrier.

“Nice one, Parker!” a voice shouted, and I didn’t even look up to see who it was. My face was on fire, my chest heaving as I clutched the fabric closed. I stumbled back, knocking over the podium, and the crash silenced the room for a heartbeat—before the laughter roared even louder.

Maya was on her feet now, weaving through the desks toward me. “Hey, it’s okay, Ev,” she said, her voice soft, her hand on my arm. “You did great, really. They’re just idiots.” She smiled, that perfect Maya smile, and I wanted to believe her. I wanted to sink into her comfort and let her make it all okay. But then I saw it—her phone in her other hand, the screen angled just enough for me to catch a glimpse. She was recording. The red dot blinked like an accusing eye.

“Maya?” My voice was a whisper, barely audible over the chaos. She didn’t hear me—or maybe she pretended not to. She slipped the phone into her pocket and tugged me toward the door. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

I let her lead me, my legs wobbly, my mind spinning. The hallway was cooler, the air sharp with the scent of industrial cleaner and old lockers. Maya kept talking, her words a blur of reassurance, but I couldn’t focus. She’d recorded it. My best friend had caught my worst moment on camera. Why? To laugh about it later? To show someone? My stomach twisted, and I pulled away from her, backing into the wall. The cold metal of a locker pressed against my spine, grounding me.

“Ev, you okay?” Maya asked, her brows knitting together. She reached for me, but I flinched.

“I just… I need a minute,” I mumbled, turning toward the bathroom. She didn’t follow, and I was glad. I shoved the door open, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and stumbled to the sink. My reflection stared back at me—pale, wide-eyed, a mess. My blouse was still gaping, the missing button a glaring reminder of my failure. I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, and then I lost it. My fist slammed into the mirror, the glass cracking with a sharp, satisfying snap. Pain shot through my hand, and I gasped, watching a thin line of blood well up where a shard had nicked my finger. Tears blurred my vision, dripping onto the sink, mixing with the red.

I could fix this. I could go back again. My hand hovered over the pin in my pocket, the hum of it calling to me. One more try. One more chance to not be the girl who fell apart in front of everyone. I closed my eyes, ready to let the power take me, when my phone buzzed in my bag. I fumbled for it, my bloody finger smearing the screen as I unlocked it.

A t****k notification. A video tagged with my name. I clicked it, and there I was—stammering, blushing, the button popping off in slow motion, the class erupting in laughter. The caption read: “This girl dressed like a model but talks like a mute lol.” The comments were already piling up, each one a fresh stab: “What a trainwreck.” “She’s so embarrassing.” “Someone get her off the stage.”

My breath hitched, a sob catching in my throat. I dropped the phone onto the counter, the cracked screen staring up at me like a broken promise. And then I saw it—Maya’s phone, lighting up in my memory. The video she’d taken. The angle was different, but the moment was the same. She’d sent it. She’d shared it. My best friend had thrown me to the wolves.

I slid down the wall, my skirt riding up as I hit the floor, my legs splayed out in front of me. The cold tiles bit into my skin, but I didn’t care. I could go back. I could erase this whole day. But as the thought took hold, a dull ache pulsed behind my eyes, a warning I’d felt before. The pin’s power wasn’t free. Every time I used it, something slipped away—a memory, a piece of me. Last time, I’d forgotten the smell of my mom’s apple pie. What would it take this time?

The bathroom door creaked open, and I scrambled to my feet, wiping my face with the back of my hand. It was just a freshman girl, her eyes widening at the sight of me—bloody, disheveled, a total wreck. She muttered something and bolted. I didn’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to be near me either.

My phone buzzed again, and I grabbed it, expecting more comments, more humiliation. But it was a text. From Maya. “Hey, where’d you go? I’m in the hall. You okay?” The words felt hollow, fake, like she was playing a part. And then, as I stared at the screen, it lit up again—this time with a notification from her phone, still in her pocket somewhere down the hall. A preview of a message she’d just sent. To Liam. “Video’s out. She’s done for. Meet me later?”

The air left my lungs in a rush, and I gripped the sink again, my reflection a fractured mess in the shattered mirror. Maya hadn’t just recorded me. She’d planned this. She’d wanted me to crash and burn. And Liam—Liam was in on it.

I had to know. I had to see how deep this went. My hand closed around the pin, the ache in my head sharpening as I let the power surge through me. Time bent, the bathroom fading, and I was back in the hallway, watching Maya’s phone screen light up as she sent that text. I needed more. I pushed harder, rewinding further, and the world blurred—until I was standing in the shadows of the storage room, watching Maya and Liam pressed together, her lips on his neck, his hands on her waist, their laughter low and cruel as they plotted my downfall.

The pain hit then, a spike through my skull, and I dropped to my knees, the pin slipping from my fingers. My vision swam, and for a moment, I couldn’t remember why I was there. But the image of them—my best friend and the boy I’d stupidly let myself crush on—burned into my mind, sharper than any memory I’d lost.

I had to decide. Keep running back, keep fixing, keep losing pieces of myself—or face this, whatever it cost me. The pin glinted on the floor, tempting me. But as I reached for it, my phone buzzed again, and the screen lit up with a new message. Unknown number. “Check Maya’s phone. She’s not who you think.”

My heart stopped. Someone knew. Someone was watching. And suddenly, the stakes felt a whole lot higher than a botched speech.