Payback Day
Short story inspired by real life events.
Always restore your self-belief when someone knocks you down.
(Author: Liza Ayach)
I was not so fond of hanging around in coffee shops on gloomy days. However, my friend Laura and I rushed to the nearest one in Hamra street in Beirut, clinging on to the hoods of our bulky raincoats, no doubt desperate to seek refuge in the crowded coffee place out of the torrential rain.
Luckily, we didn’t wait so long for a table to clear.
As the waiter escorted us to a table with a street view, I glanced at my watch in a flash remembering an urgent errand I had to do on my day off before my children reached home from school.
“Rachel!” Laura blurted out at me, cutting through the racket manifested by the guests.
“You cannot fiddle in the streets in this weather, and the school will not dispatch the school buses until the storm subsides.”
Considering this, I summoned my patience, slouched on the comfy armchair and gazed at the window.
Raindrops beat against the intricately weaved glass in various translucent wavy colors which blended with the landscape outside.
“Oh, boy! It all looks splendid here!” I exclaimed as my eyes deviated from the window and travelled the space around me marvelled by the detailed, elegant and rustic design of the place.
A pattern of works of art mounted the walls; conifer trimmings tied to tree-shaped frames were fixed at regular intervals to the walls and intercepted by 18th century mosaic chandeliers.
Adding to the magical look of the place, the twinkling candle lights centered at each table added a seasonal impact to the warm atmosphere.
Suddenly, I became thrilled when I discovered that there was always a way to combine another interest to my full-time Mathematics teaching job.
Art had been my passion for as long as I remember, hoping this time no one would let me down.
If only teaching did not take up most of my time, I wondered, I would definitely have started a new journey to unleash the art creativity in me.
Despite the fact that I have accomplished my dream of becoming a Mathematics teacher later in life, the beginning of this aspiration did not witness a good start.
I was in grade 9 and still recall the morning I woke up with the pencil still clutched between my two fingers after countless attempts to solve a tough mathematical equation deemed futile.
That day, Mrs. Leila, the Math’s teacher, scolded me for not completing my homework.
“You are a mere failure, doomed to remain as such forever, Rachel.” She raged.
Her agonizing, depreciating words resounded in my ears for so long.
However, in my senior year and with much laborious effort, I have excelled in all the core subjects including Math. In recognition of my hard work, I was selected the best student of the year and listed on the students’ honor list.
So much that I wanted to prove Mrs. Leila’s premonition worthless, she had unfortunately moved to another school that year.
I have never seen or heard of her since, but her hideous remark resonated in my ears for so many years. Burdened with the repercussions her words inflicted on me, I feared, for quite a long time, to undertake the easiest task in life to avoid being reprimanded in case of failure.
“And would you look at that, Rachel!” Laura suddenly shrieked, interrupting my thoughts.
She burst out in laughter amid other conversations, brief explosions of throat clearing and coughs around us.
I glanced over my shoulder towards the street where Laura was staring to watch an old lady scurrying past the queue to get in the coffee shop.
It had become obvious now what made Laura hysterical about the scene. The old lady looked like a clumsy hopping bunny trying desperately to get in out of the rain but tumbled down as she miscalculated and missed the doorstep of the coffee shop.
As I engaged from my seat to provide her help, she somehow managed to regain her posture kicking with pleasure a young man whom she thought triggered her stumbling as they were both trying to queue up.
She finally made a grandiose entrance in the coffee shop muttering and swearing and sat at the table adjacent to us.
I felt like a nasty blow on the head.
To my astonishment, it was Mrs. Leila! There was no room for error, not anymore, not this time.
I examined her thoroughly as she settled haughtily near our table, causing a shrill to run down my spine.
Twisting her thighs to make herself comfortable on the chair and adjusting with a shaky hand her eyeglasses on what I used to call Mount Everest nose, she dug around in her handbag, took out a hefty bundle of paper money and coins, and woozily licked her right thumb to count them.
So much for trial and error! Losing count, she sneakily took her calculator out from her handbag to punch in a number after every count of only five money notes.
Exasperated, she sipped the hot chocolate the waiter had just laid on the table, and again miscalculated the time needed before drinking a hot beverage with a withstanding temperature.
Having scalded her tongue, she instantly burst out in anger to rebuke the poor waiter who apologized heartily for a crime he did not commit.
“And what are you both looking at?” She snarled at me and my friend with a swift movement of her hand.
Obviously, she was addressing us as she noticed we were constantly scrutinizing her embarrassing scenes.
Remembering the painful and deceptive moments she had caused me in Grade 9, and with a solid step to reassert my pride, I angled my body towards her table and declared with a sarcastic tone.
“It broke my heart to watch you struggle with a simple addition any grade one student excels at!”
“And who do you think you are to talk to me like that, old brat?” Mrs. Leila blurted out.
Calmly and resolutely grabbing a chair, I joined her at the table, then asked more with assertion than with doubt.
“You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Mrs. Leila?”
Receiving no reply but a grin on her wrinkly face that had never disposed of any smile, I continued as I eyed her.
“You may not remember me, but I certainly do remember you after 15 years. You were my teacher.”
The atmosphere had become tense and I could tell she was annoyed.
Regardless, I continued.
“And now I am a Math teacher with a university degree bearing the signature of our president as a recognition of my outstanding achievement.”
Her cheeks blushed slightly, and I was beginning to wonder if I should reveal my identity to her as a way of retaliation and to quench my thirst.
But she would certainly not remember me, I reckoned. After all, she must have rebuked and faltered the aspirations of hundreds of other students with her abominable, resentful character.
Before taking leave, I signaled Laura to pay the bill.
“And, oh!” I snapped looking defiant at Mrs. Leila. “According to my calculations, and here I did not rely on a calculator but only on my intelligence, the total amount you were desperately counting comes to $478.”
As Mrs. Leila watched me leave the coffee shop, she hopped up and grunted in acknowledgement of my name.
“It’s you! Rachel!”
Luckily, the storm subsided outside, and the kids must have reached home.
As I hastened to my car, I decided to take a last peek at the old lady in the coffee shop.
She was arguing with the waiter over the bill, the calculator in her hand.
The end
