Tim's Fourth Trade

“Grades, huh?” Justice said, her ancient face bunched up, “That would certainly solve your problem, but…”

“But what?” Tim asked.

“I’m not sure,” she wiggled her fingers toward the young woman, “I can see that her grades are better than yours. This will certainly solve your problem with the good doctor, but there's something else here. I can feel its weight, I just can't see exactly what it is."

Tim immediately felt uneasy about his choice. His life was already so different than it had been before he went to the flea market, so much traded away. If he made the wrong decision here, would he doom himself to a life that was worse than what he was already living?

"Okay, well, maybe I should try someone else," Tim looked up and down the hall, not recognizing anyone else from his class, "What about that guy?"

Tim pointed toward a lanky man with a shaved head. It was a long shot; the man didn't look familiar in the least bit, but Justice's hesitancy had made him nervous. Again the old woman wiggled her fingers.

"He would work, but he's not in this class," she said with a sad tinge in her voice, as if she really felt for the predicament Tim was in, "Your entire study schedule would change. It would be a dramatic shift," she raised her hands over her head and wiggled her fingers, "I think the first girl is the only one there in this class."

"Shit," Tim swore, "Maybe grades isn't such a good idea. What about intelligence? Could I make myself smarter?"

"I like the way you're thinking," she smiled, "very creative. Intelligence is tricky, though. I could do that, and I think it would help, but it would be really tricky to separate the intelligence you are thinking of and everything else."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, yes, you'd do better in the class," she said, "but you'd also be better at the other stuff she's smart at. It all gets jumbled up. Maybe you have an easier time on your next paper, but maybe you also become an expert at teaching pole dancing lessons. It's really tricky to sort through all the brainy stuff."

"Okay," Tim said, "no intelligence then."

"Your first idea isn't a bad one," the old woman emphasized, "it's just that it's," she paused to wiggle her fingers again, "heavier than it should be. Not a lot, just a bit."

It was a risk. His eyes looked at Doctor Morgan, his favourite teacher. Yes, he had to admit that her class was above what he could handle, but he just loved to listen to her lectures, even when he didn't understand them. She was a delight to listen to, her passion for the topic, the witty, almost teasing way she would answer her student's questions, all of it made Tim want to come back over and over to her class. If he was truly honest with himself, maybe it wasn't her class that he liked, maybe it was her.

Really, it didn't matter either way. Tim wanted to stay in this class. He wanted to be successful in school. What he needed was a better grade.

"Let's do it," he said.

"You got it," she said, then began to fan her hand in front of her, considering options for the trade, "I've got to be extra careful on the back end, especially now that daddy might pay attention." She hummed and hawed for a few minutes, then announced, "Perfect!"

She punched a fist forward, the way she had three times before, which briefly smoked, waved both hands over her head, then announced, "It is done! The trade is complete."

Tim was about to thank the old woman and ask what she had taken when she winked at him.

"That took a lot longer than I thought it would," she said, the metallic smell returning, "catcha on the flip-side!"

Then she vanished, leaving Tim standing in the classroom, wondering what had changed.