The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A familiarized honking noise met my ears, as an involuntarily sigh discharged from my lips. Slowly, I forced myself away from the chilled counter, and over to the area above the stairs, where I had dumped my backpack ten minutes prior. Upon seeing the fabric container I would have to heave around school for the next seven hours, I immediately wished that I had never left the warmth of my bed. If it weren’t for Monica’s threats to drench my body in ice-cold water if I didn’t get up, my bed and I would never have parted.

      “Bye, mom,” I called, lazily slinging the bluish-green sack over a shoulder.

      “Bye, Elizabeth,” she returned animatedly, having already ingested her required dose of coffee.

      Unlike me, my mother had the ability take a few sips of steaming, brown liquid, and instantly appear as though she had been up for hours. Some days I could handle mornings, like on the weekends, but when I had school, I was worse than a three-year-old having been rudely woken up in the middle of a nap. Currently, the morning and I weren’t quite on the best of terms with our relationship.

      In a haze, I managed to lethargically lug myself down the steps, until I reached the front door. I twisted the knob, exiting the house, not even the frigid air being able to snap me to full consciousness this particular morning. It was my first day back after two weeks of less than blissful vacation, all of which, excluding Christmas, were spent in Italy. We had gotten back less than twelve hours ago, and the fact that I had to go straight to school, no transition time to adjust to the time differences, was absolutely crazy.

      My eyes scanned over a dark SUV parked in the center of my driveway, as it usually was in the mornings, but something about today was different. My stomach clenched as I continued to advance towards it, wondering why I couldn’t have just decided at the beginning of the year to take the bus. What was so bad about the lengthened car that was painted a puke-worthy shade of yellow, anyways? Nothing, that’s what. There was no shame in taking the bus, and it was probably a hell of a lot more logical than my mode of transportation to school.

      In the afternoons, it differed from person to person. Sometimes, I walked home. The school wasn’t that far in distance away from my house, and I needed the exercise, so occasionally opted for that form of physical punishment on my legs. Most days, though, one of the girls would offer to drive me home— usually Alice or Tara. And then, there were the days that I was stuck seeing a boy by the name of Eric Wilson at both dawn and dusk. Those were the interesting days…

      As I apprehensively reached the polished vehicle, I pulled open the door of the passenger’s seat, sliding in, as was routine. Immediately following my entrance, I habitually reached for my seatbelt, and secured it across my chest. My bag had made its way beside my feet as it always somehow did, and I resisted the urge to go completely anti-social by whipping out my phone and headphones.

      “Good morning,” Eric greeted, less cheery than usual, as he started the car, backing out of my driveway.

      “Morning,” I mumbled, focusing my gaze outside my window, as if the leafless trees and thin layer of snow on the suburban landscape was the most interesting thing I had ever encountered. I decided against debating how the morning couldn’t possibly fall under the criteria of being “good”, but sought against it.

      “How was Italy?” he questioned lightly, after a tense few seconds of silence.

      “Bad,” I answered, oppose to the typical “fine” I was sure he was expecting.

      “Oh? I’m, uh, sorry,” he fumbled, his eyes not daring to connect with mine. He quickly jostled with the notches of the dashboard, until an upbeat pop song I recognized to be one of Taylor Swift’s blared into my ears.