Song: Masterpiece by NONONO
***
"Mom, where did you put my chemistry book?" I ask, whispering as I pop my head into her bedroom. The early morning sun comes through her curtains in streams, but I can't make out her face in the dark.
I hear her shuffle under her covers and roll over. "It's on the counter. I laid out a few snacks for you too," she mutters, her voice muffled by her lone, tattered pillow.
"Okay," I say, latching my fingers around the doorknob. "Thank you. See you later. I love you."
"Love you too, hun. Have a good day at school," my mom mumbles.
I hurry back into the kitchen, where I find my chemistry book resting just where my mom had said it to be. As soon as I scoop it and the snacks up, I shove it into my backpack with the multitudes of other books, pencil cases, and old gum wrappers.
I race to the door, fumbling to tie my shoes. My jacket rests on the coat rack, and I only give it a fleeting glance before hurrying out the door. It may be mid-November, but it's still seventy degrees out.
The fresh dew on the grass soaks through my shoes as I bolt across the front lawn and into the garage. We only have one car, so even if I could drive I wouldn't be allowed to take it to school. But I refuse to ride the bus - which leaves walking or biking. So, ever since my first day of high school, I have been biking to the school.
The breeze whips my hair all around and into my face as I head down the road, and multiple times I have to reach up and pry it from my eyelashes or mouth. The weight of my backpack between my shoulders has always made the trip harder, but after the first few months it's not so bad. I just keep reminding myself that by June this trip will be a piece of cake.
I go uphill. And downhill. And uphill again. I try to focus on breathing, forcing myself to take a breath every other time my left foot pumps downward on the left pedal.
By the time I arrive at school, my lungs feel as though they've collapsed. Taking deeps breaths doesn't seem to even be doing much at the moment. So, I decide to rest a moment before I lock my bike onto the bike rack. I seat myself on the grass beside the bike rack and pull the water bottle out from the side pocket of my backpack.
"Ally!" Nadia, one of my few friends, calls. Her curly, brown hair flows free over her shoulders and back. But it's not quite long enough to cover the Ralph Lauren logo on her shirt, or thick enough to hide the scent of her Chanel perfume.
I brush the flyaways away from my face and stand up. "Hi, Nadia. So what's up?" I ask, my breathing finally returning to normal as I walk with her towards the school building.
"Oh, nothing much. Are you auditioning for the musical this week?" she inquires, and a lump starts to form in my throat.
I attempt to swallow it down. "Oh, probably not." Reaching up for the straps of my backpack, I tug the grey bag closer to me.
"How come?" Nadia asks innocently.
"I don't have time," I say nonchalantly, and she nods in understanding.
Truth be told, I just have no interest in the musical. I can't sing, hate performing, I can't play instruments, and I am so clumsy moving sets is even out of the question. But I've never told Nadia any of that. Every year I just come up with some new excuse. For instance, last year I decided to be "sick" the day of auditions. I'm more of a writer, a reader. I'd rather be writing the script than performing it.
Nadia on the other hand lives for performing. She has the voice of an angel and is a natural when it comes to acting. Last year she even landed a lead role, and she was phenomenal. Everyone loved her for it, and she got so much attention.
