This is getting ridiculous

She was having a bad day.

She was have a very bad day.

In fact, it felt like the universe was mocking her every move; from her overripe green apple to her goody-less, snack free limited edition Harrods lunch bag, to her I-can’t-believe-I-screwed-up-the-test math summative.

And on top of all of that, nobody, not a single person, had the decency to wish her a happy birthday.

Mashael had sauntered in through the school that clammy Tuesday morning (keeping a watchful eye for Deema’s stupid weeping angel trick, mind you) and had excitedly expected an entire crowd to rush over to her bearing gifts and just pint after pint of delicious Oreo ice cream.

And, as she had realistically expected, it hadn’t happened.

No big deal, she had thought with a mental shrug, trying to shake off the inkling of disappointment that made her shoulders slightly drop. No one even does that anymore.

Same with her locker. It was completely empty, devoid of all brightly colored cards she had at least thought her close friends would make for her. Mashael wheeled her bag to her locker and glanced at Logein, Yara and Halah, who were animatedly discussing yesterday’s episode of Top Model.

She gave them a little wave, and, mildly creeped out, they returned the wave uncertainly, turning their attention back to their previous topic of conversation.

Heart sinking, she ignored the lurch in her stomach and began the tedious process of unloading her books from her bag without much enthusiasm. After she had finished, she hung her abaya and plucked her English books, resting them securely in her hands.

She felt someone brush her shoulder and found Deema’s ponytail swinging back and forth, her head disappearing in the crowd. Mashael sped over to them, feeling very much hopeful. “Hey guys!” she said, giving them the thumbs up with her free hand.

“Oh. Hey,” said Deema distantly, and Mashael could see dark circles shadowing just below her eyes. “I’ve been having such an off day and this sucks and I just need to sleep right now.” She turned to Sarah. “Nearly done with English?” she asked, her voice strained.

Sarah nodded, rubbing her eyes. “Pretty much. I just need a conclusion and I need to point out my symbolism and shit. Which happens to be a lot, by the way. Amsterdam airports are the freaking best.”

Deema snorted and pulled the door open for herself and Sarah, leaving Mashael squirming behind.

Okay, thought Mashael, hurt. She did say she was having an off day-

-but that doesn’t give her the excuse to forget your birthday!

Don’t you mean our birthday?

Stop talking to yourself!

Mrs. P entered the class and chirped a Good Morning Class!, which Mashael had returned with unequal enthusiasm that steadily dropped by the minute.

“Well, I’ve got your papers. We’re going to be grading them today -no, not actually grading them!- and then you’ll start editing your piece, goddit?” she announced, bringing her coffee mug to her lips and taking a thoughtful sip.

Mashael shot Deema a frantic look that clearly screamed WHAT NO YOU DIDN’T TELL ME THEY WERE GOING TO BE GRADED I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS but she wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy scanning the lines on her paper while giving little satisfied nods with each ending paragraph.

Mashael coughed loudly, and Deema snapped her gaze from her essay to look curiously at her. She suddenly smiled wide, and her hand shot up in the air.

Mashael couldn’t help but beam. Finally! She remembered!

“Teacher?” she asked brightly.

“Student?”

The class tittered, and Mashael saw that Deema was struggling with an immense effort to not roll her eyes at this very redundant and overly used joke.

“I think I’m pretty much finished!” she said, and the knot formed in Mashael’s stomach tightened. Well, okay then.

***

Taw7eed was worse.

The seat Mashael sat in was wet. And it wasn’t water or juice or any acceptable form of liquid; the girl who previously sat in that chair had barfed up her breakfast on that very chair and was immediately sent back to her home.

That’s right.

Mashael was sitting in a pile of someone else’s sick.

She screeched, her hands automatically covering her buttocks, and screeched again, because she touched it.

The class erupted in unsuppressed hysterics, and the teacher, the teacher who was supposed to represent all things pure and caring, chortled like the hyena she was.

Mashael stared at her hands miserably and snuck a glance at Deema and Jawaher, who high fived over this humiliating occasion.

“Um- Abla? 3ady a’3asel maryooly fl 7amam?” she squeaked, trying to grasp what was left of her dignity.

The teacher nodded in between barks of laughter, and Mashael left the room as quickly as possible.

Unlike Deema, today was seriously not her day.

***

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of a series of unfortunate events that mainly consisted of Mashael embarrassing herself, Deema pointing at how embarrassing the whole situation was, and people laughing their asses off because it was just that embarrassing.

She grumbled as she stirred her bowl of tomato soup, fiddling with a paper Winnie the Pooh pointy hat her sisters had made her wear once she was home from school, and contemplated a way that could salvage the remains of her rather repulsive afternoon when the doorbell rang.

Mashael rolled her eyes and got up, knowing perfectly well that nobody was going to answer the door because they were lazy and she was the queen of answering-the-doors-when-no-one-would.

She dragged her legs across the room and twisted the knob and peered outside.

Nothing.

There was nobody there.

Mildly annoyed at this, she closed the door with an irritated flick of the hand.

Ding Dong!

Mashael growled under her breath, and opened it again.

No one. No one was there.

Mashael huffed. “Bader! Stop doing that! One more time and walla I won’t play with you anymore...” she nodded righteously until a follow up idea hit her. “...Forever!” she added hastily, throwing her hands in the air as hard emphasis.

“Well that’s a pity. I was very much looking forward to playing with you.”

Mashael whirled around to find a gangly suited man with a bright crimson bowtie smiling down on her, a funny looking tool with a glowing green tip in mid twirl. She glanced down at her grouchy Garfield nightdress and felt the heat creep up her cheeks.

She flung her arms on her chest and knees and whispered theatrically, “Don’t look at me! I’m- I’m not decent!”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re just a bundle of laughs, aren’t you?” Mashael was about to respond but he cut her off. “Listen. You’ve had a bad day. I know. Let’s un-bad this day and have the bloody time of our lives, right? Right. Brilliant. Off we go!”

Mashael raised a tentative hand.

The man looked at her. “Yes?”

“Um,” she started, flustered. “How’d you get into my house?”

The man stroked his chin, apparently deep in thought. “Good question. How did I get into your house, Mashael Al-Qahtani? Well, like most people, I just used the front door. I’m getting rather good at that, you know,” he whispered the last part; his ear splitting grin widening- if that were even possible.

“Enough dilly-dalling! Come with meee-”

Mashael groaned, “No.”

“And you’ll see-”

“Stop it.”

“A woooorld of pure imagination!”

“It only works because you’re British.”

“Nope. Not even human.”

“Ah. Interesting.”

The man scoffed and grabbed her hand, which Mashael had immediately shook off. He made a face. 

“What is it this time?”

Mashael gave an indignant sniff. “I don’t do with physical displays of affection.” And when she said this, the man nodded and reclaimed her hand anyway, running towards outside of the front gates. 

Mashael gasped, casting hurried glances left and right in fear of anybody catching sight of her in her nighty.

The man was sprinting towards the corner of the street where the bluest blue telephone box stood majestically, Mashael lagging slowly behind. She frowned when she took in the shape of the box. She never noticed it being there before.

The man pulled the handle casually before pushing it, sending the box a withering look as he pushed past the doors as if the box were an actual person and not, well... a box.

The door creaked open and the man pushed her inside before locking the doors with a satisfied click!

Mashael yanked her hand from his and glared at him, her nostrils flaring in the least intimidating way possible. She didn’t even know him let alone let him take her places! “I don’t even know you! Rapist! 

You’re going to rape me!”

The man stared wide-eyed at her.

Mashael cupped her hands and brought them to her mouth. “Rapist! GA3D YSRIGNEE! GA3D YISRIGNEE! GA3D YIS-“

The man hastily covered her mouth with his hand, and despite Mashael’s weak protesting arms, it remained firmly on her mouth. “Would you please be quiet!”

Mashael shook her head and whimpered. The man sighed and dropped his hand. “Listen to me. You are in completely safe hands, alright? Completely. It’s your birthday, and you’re going to love it, right?”

Mashael felt herself relax and nodded slowly.

Only then did she realize that the box was bigger on the inside.

***

Mashael and the man joined the rest of the crowd as they poured out of the concert stadium in 1964, Manchester. Thousands of teenage girls wore their hair in pretty blonde curls, and all the men had slicked back hair, brightly colored socks and suspenders donned on.

Mashael kept her hand clasped firmly within the man’s, her eyes reflecting the bright white stadium lights. “That was amazing!” she half yelled delightedly, curly hair a bouncing. The man nodded eagerly. “I know! The Beatles at their peak! It was brilliant!”

They kept shuffling with the crowd until the colossal throng thinned, and the duo collapsed on the seats of a trendy café’. “I can’t believe it’s real,” Mashael gushed happily, leaning back against her wicker chair. The man looked at her behind a laminated menu and grinned. “What is? Time traveling?”

“No! Record players! Hah! My friends are going to be so jealous. I mean, Deema...” she trailed off, her smile morphing into a frown.

The man creased his eyebrows. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Deema’s this friend of mine. Today was my birthday. Or it will be... in the future. Okay, like-“

The man held up his hands. “I get it, I get it.” He tilted his head. “What’s wrong with your friends?” he asked, and Mashael saw that he was genuinely concerned. She shrugged. “Didn’t seem like they were interested in my birthday.” She saw the man open his mouth but she silenced him with an index finger. 

“No big deal. Really.”

The man frowned again. “I’ve been told you are an immense fan of my good friend Martin Scorsese. Is this or is this not correct?” he asked with a flourish of a hand.

Mashael’s jaw dropped. “No.”

The man smiled. “Absa-pova-lutely.”

“You did not.”

The man examined his nails. “We’re going to the Oscars in a couple of decades. We’re his special 

guests.”

Mashael nearly fainted.

Nearly.

***

Mashael and the man waved goodbye as Martin closed his front door. They had spent the majority of their time with him in the party that followed the Oscars, and the after party that followed that, and the after party to that after party that happened to be in Scorsese’ very own house.

“You’re still shaking,” remarked the man as he pushed a jittering Mashael through the TARDIS doors. 

“I- I- Just.. I-“ started Mashael, taking rapid breaths to calm herself down.

“Developing a stutter, are you?”

Mashael raised an eyebrow. “Really. Haha. Very funny. That’s insulting, you know,” she said, sounding exceedingly dignified.

The man nodded slowly. “Yes... to people who have the stutter.”

Mashael brushed the comment off, and exhaled slowly. She just met her idol/husband/soon-to-be-ex-husband and she was feeling a wee bit overwhelmed.

“I mean, we- we actually discussed ideas,” she said slowly, putting a hand over her chest as her ears became acquainted with the soft hum of the TARDIS. “I mean... he didn’t think I was an idiot. He called me- he actually SAID I WAS A GENIUS OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS REAL IT’S A DREAM ISN’T IT? ISN’T IT! IS THIS EVEN REAL! IS THIS REAL LIFE?!”

The man grinned wide, taking the steps to his consol two at a time before switching flips and turning knobs and before pulling the final lever.

The TARDIS roared to life, and the pair were set in motion once again.

***

They landed.

Mashael could hardly contain her excitement. “So where to this time? The first Emmy ceremony? The filming of Monkey Business? Photo shoots with Marylyn? Tell me!”

The man straightened his bowtie and swept a hand through his hair. “Not precisely. Look outside.”

Mashael didn’t need to be told twice. She dashed to the TARDIS doors and swung them open. Her shoulders drooped. “You’re dropping me home?” she asked miserably.

The man ducked his head and made his way toward her. “Come along, Mish. Off you pop.”

Mashael sighed and followed him, completely ignoring the stares of the gardeners working just outside her house. Her dress fluttered as a gentle breeze cooled the air.

Just before the man pushed the doorbell Mashael stopped him. She tucked a loose curl neatly behind her ear and faced him, adopting a very businesswoman like manner.

“Listen. This day... this day was going to suck. If it hadn’t been for you I would have hated it and I would have resented my so-called friends for not caring. So- um, thanks for caring, I guess. You’re a really good friend,” she said, smiling, her business like demeanor momentarily shattering. The man winked at her and pushed the door open, allowing her to enter first.

And then it happened.

“SURPRISE!”

The entire reception blinked with a soft fairy light glow, and dozens (doubles... triples!) of girls circled Mashael and the man, a large Oreo ice cream cake carried by Jawaher, Anoud, Sarah and Deema. Six fiery candles dominated the cake, and the room was ablaze with the red flare emanating from them.

“Happy Birthday to you!”

“Happy Birthday to you!”

“Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday to you!”

The girls started break dancing when “Sana 7elwa Ya Gameel...” began, and Mashael was at a loss for words. She was speechless.

She felt the man’s hand give her a minute nudge to the quartet carrying the cake, and she stumbled forwards.

They laughed.

Deema gave the man a slight nod, and he saluted her in return.

Mashael turned to face the man.

“You knew.” But it wasn’t a question.

The man flicked his gaze from Deema to Mashael, bowing slightly.

“I knew!” he said triumphantly. Mashael cracked a smile and faced the group. She pointed at Deema. 

“You pretended like you didn’t know!”

Deema made a face. “Mashael. I know you’re an idiot, but you can’t be that stupid. How could we forget your birthday?”

Mashael shrugged, blushing. “The- the time travel... how?”

Deema shrugged and smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways,” she said coyly, beaming at the man. 

Mashael marched toward the group and gave every single person in the room a hug, commenting on how she was getting better at it, the hugging, that is. The group hustled toward the living room, and Mashael had consumed Oreo ice cream cake that could last her a lifetime. Most of the girls went to the kitchen to get themselves glasses of whatever they could find, and only a handful of people lingered in the living room.

Mashael glanced back to thank the man again, but... he wasn’t there.

She kneaded her eyebrows. “Where’d he go?”

Deema walked over to Mashael, fork in mouth. “He wefd,” she said.

Mashael frowned. “He left?”

Deema nodded firmly, taking the spoon from her mouth.

“But.. but I didn’t even get his name.” she stopped, wonderstruck. “I traveled with a guy whose name I didn’t even know,” she repeated, Deema giving her a blunt nod. “He can do that,” she agreed. Mashael glanced down at her clothes. She still wore the dress the man gave her when they went to the Oscars back in 84.

“I didn’t even get his name...” she repeated again, seemingly put out.

Deema smiled fondly at her.

“He’s called the Doctor.”