Smoke trickled up from Principal Devers' cigarette as it lay in its ashtray. The sun shone through the blinds like spotlights catching the tendrils until an oscillating fan scattered their particles into oblivion. The principal, a large man with gray buzzed cut hair, wiped his forehead dry with a handkerchief. He wore a short sleeved, white dress shirt, stained yellow at the armpits. Martha sat facing the principal with Jessica on her right and Jessica's father beyond that. An empty chair waited on Martha's left.

There was a clear resemblance between Jessica and her father. He had shaggy, orange hair under a sun-faded Dodgers hat. He wore denim overalls and a faded green, short sleeved t-shirt. His skin was a deep pink up to a severe tan line at the lip of his sleeves.

The door behind them opened.

"Mr Beckett," Principal Devers greeted flatly.

"Bout damn time," Jessica's father muttered.

"Sorry to keep you," Steven said. "I got here as soon as I could." He took the seat next to Martha, but not before flashing her a piercing glance of disappointment. Adding up her years of consciousness, she was more than twice his age. Nevertheless, the look cut deeply.

Principal Devers wasted no time. "Mr Beckett, Mr Murphy, your daughters were caught fighting at recess this morning."

"You're kidding!" Stephen said.

Principal Devers stared back at Steven blankly. He was not. "We do not tolerate fighting, Mr Beckett."

"Of course not. But there must be some..." Steven turned to Martha, desperation in his eyes.

She wanted to tell him the truth – to plead her case. Even now, she craved his approval. But she'd learned her lesson. Path of least resistance, Martha. Keep your mouth shut. Path of least resistance. She lowered her head then nodded meekly.

"But as this is your daughter's first offense, Mr Beckett, I'm willing to let her off with her one and only warning."

"Thank you," Steven said.

"This is far from your daughter's first offense, Mr Murphy. She will begin her two day suspension on Monday."

"Shit for brains," Mr Murphy muttered then smacked his daughter on the back of her head. Jessica's shoulders sprung reflexively. The corner of her eye began to glisten.

Martha caught her breath then looked at Principal Devers. His eyes were lowered to his desk and then out to the window. Her father shamefully followed suit. Martha forgot her discretion.

"Nobody's going to say anything?!"

"Martha!" her father scolded.

"He hit her!" Martha exclaimed. "Don't you think that might have something to do with her behavior on the playground?"

"Young lady," Principal Devers said as the room began to talk over itself in chaos.

"Better put a muzzle on that girl-" Mr Murphy said.

"I'll handle it, thank you-" Steven responded.

"I mean, aren't you a mandated reporter?" Martha said to the principal.

"Martha, that's enough-" Steven pleaded.

"All right! All right!!" Principal Devers bellowed then slammed his coffee mug down on his desk, breaking the handle off in the process.

At the sound, the room fell silent.

"Aw damnit," Principal Devers said, looking wistfully at the broken mug. It had a red and gray crest on its side Martha didn't recognize. After a moment, his face hardened. "Young... Lady," he snarled. "You have a serious lack of respect for authority and I will not have that in my school. I sincerely hope you find some over the course of next week. Mr Beckett, your daughter can return to school on the 30th when her suspension is complete."

"The whole week?" Steven said.

"Five days?" Martha added. "She gets two and I get five? All because I-"

"Martha Joy, that's enough!" Steven shouted down to Martha. His chest heaved as he struggled to contain a strange mix of emotion. In his eyes, Martha could see anger, fear, confusion – then, for a flash, the reflection of his absurdly articulate, impossibly righteous seven year old daughter – and she understood that he was begging her to stop. She dropped her head.

Steven swallowed then addressed the principal. "Mr Devers, I'm... truly sorry and Martha is truly sorry for the outburst. Do you really think it's necessary that-"

"I've made my decision," Principal Devers interrupted. "There's nothing more to discuss."

Chair legs screeched across the floor as Jessica's father stood. "Git," he said and she followed. As she turned to leave, her eyes locked with Martha's for a moment. Martha wasn't sure if she saw gratitude or camaraderie or nothing so poetic, but something had changed in the course of the hearing. Then Martha realized that, unlike Claudia and Mellissa, she had no idea of Jessica's fate in the previous life. After she left elementary for middle school, she just disappeared as far as Martha knew. The Murphys left the room and she wondered what Jessica's fate was for that night. And for the night after that...

Steven stared ahead as if lost in thought.

"Dad?" Martha said.

He regained his focus. "Yes. Sorry... Sorry to take up your time," he said to Mr Devers who gave no response. "Let's go, Martha."

They stood and left the office in silence.

Once in the car, Martha pulled the seatbelt across herself and fastened it. The shoulder strap covered her face so she tucked it behind her head. Steven started the car and pulled out of the school lot.

The radio was tuned to a news station. Ted Kennedy was in the middle of a press conference, railing against Robert Bork. Steven had made it a habit to switch from news to music with young Martha in the car, but here he let it play. The sound bite ended and the news anchor transitioned to update their lead story of an earthquake in Mexico City. The death toll had risen past 2,000 and was expected to continue with tens of thousands still missing. Martha watched her father stare ahead, blank and silent. Could she tell him? Could she have used James' magic headline trick and predicted the earthquake? Coming clean seemed far too risky, especially considering her father's disconcerting state. Nevertheless, it was something she'd have to at least consider for one of her other lives. Other lives...

The thought made her shiver. Steven finally noticed her watching and then the radio. He switched the latter to the oldie's station and "Mack the Knife."

They turned onto their street. Broad camphor trees lined and loomed over the block of one story bungalows. Steven pulled onto their driveway and to a stop. The radio continued to play as the engine idled. He turned to Martha, but his eyes darted around the car. "Martha, I hope-" He paused, turned off the engine then returned his attention to her. His face strained slightly, then he resumed, "Martha, I hope you have learned your lesson."

He stopped and she waited. Was that all he was going to say? Was he going to articulate to his seven year old daughter what that lesson was? Finally, he nodded his head for emphasis or punctuation or... Martha wasn't sure what...

He opened his door and left the car without another word. Martha followed.

Once inside, she found her father standing at the opening of the hallway leading to their bedrooms. Without turning back, he said, "I'm going to have to catch up on some work. You'll have to... entertain yourself until dinner." He promptly walked to his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Martha's stomach dropped at the obvious. She'd seen this before – Ruth Quinn at James' graduation party that she was supposedly hosting. Was it happening? Was her abnormality infecting his mind – chipping away at his grip on reality?

She was at a loss. On the one hand, she had the emotional wherewithal to comfort him; to tell him he's a wonderful father. She could even go so far as to offer condolences for her mother's suicide. That would be the nuclear option! But any of that – large or small – would most likely serve only to make things worse.

Or she could commit to playing the part – do her best impression of a seven year old until it was time to be eight. Lather, rinse, repeat... But had she already poisoned the well with today's outburst?

Martha stared down the hallway at his bedroom door and contemplated his words. She had to "entertain" herself. I guess I could find a deck of cards... play solitaire? No, her father hadn't taught her solitaire or even the suits in a standard deck yet. She walked to the tv and gave the power knob a clockwise quarter turn. With an electric pop the image faded up, vertically stretched and oscillating like a worm on a hook then slowly flattened to fit the square screen.

Fernando Valenzuela threw a curveball in the dirt to a San Francisco Giant she didn't recognize. She watched baseball when she was seven. But only together. Never on my own. She turned the channel knob a click to the right. Alex Trebek read the answer to a question about Albert Camus. Click. Clumsy graphics listed the week's weather forecast. Click. Mister Rogers marveled at the stars inside a planetarium. This will do.

Martha took a step back and kneeled on the carpet. She turned her head to the darkened hallway and understood. This was her life now and she was on her own until she could find James.

She returned her focus to the tv. Speckled lights winked above Mister Rogers and his host convincingly. She pinched her eyes shut, then opened them and took a deep breath. Mister Rogers' soothing drawl interpreted the constellations and young Martha did her best to see them.

Author's note:

Oof!  Poor Martha (and Steven!). 

What would you do in her shoes?  Pretend to be seven?  Tell your dad everything and try to get him on your side?  Invest in IBM?