Say When

T W O

His face was distinct, strong jawline and full lips under a thin mustache. His eyes though were childlike. A doe-like enthusiasm. Almost naive. How did he manage to keep that look?

"OK, get out." Mr. Doyle blew his whistle again and the class was over.

"Can't you slack off just once and join the cult?" Rita Sampson jogged up next me. It was the only running I witnessed her do all day.

Rita and I met freshman year when we collided in the lunchroom. Both distracted and confused by this huge place. I apologized profusely, my lips going a mile a minute but she just laughed and shrugged it off. We helped one another blot the milk out of our t-shirts and we've stayed connected ever since.

"I intend for my senior year to be my last year. Feel free to do a victory lap if you'd like," I warned her.

"I'll get out of here one way or another. Believe that."

I wouldn't put it past her. She'd made it this far. She was super smart, especially in math but completely lazy.

We neared the locker room and waited for the line of girls to stream in. I glanced back around the gym. I spotted him. He'd hung back wrapped in a conversation with Mr. Doyle.

"Easy on the eyes right." Rita winked and inched forward in the line.

"Has he been around all year?" I squinted and craned my neck a bit to get a look at his eyes again.

"Nope, he's a newbie. He's actually pretty nice. Have a few classes with him." He moved freely. So comfortable in his own skin. More comfortable than I'd seen anyone at our age.

He somehow avoided the shifty, nervous jerks that accompanied every conversation around here. I wanted to inch closer. He glanced my way without breaking his conservation with Coach Doyle. I turned quickly and slammed into Rita.

"Nice to see you again!" She said sarcastically. My head dropped.

"Let's go." I placed a hand on her shoulder and marched her forward into the locker room.

"Good. That was getting awkward." Rita whispered into my ear before trailing off into the locker room.

"That's my life."

>>

A laugh reel blared from the TV as it cast a glow across the dark room. I pulled myself from the deep fog sleep. One of those slumbers when you don't remember falling asleep but here you are. Waking.

I pulled myself up in bed and heard papers rustle at my feet. Ah, yes. I remember now. Being poor put me to sleep. The sleep of the poor is like no other. It holds hope that when you wake you'll miraculously be able to afford something.

Papers spread all over. A calculator dangling precariously off the side of the bed. Held in place only by some gathered blanket.

My acceptance letters from the colleges I'd applied to came in today. I'd applied early. Beyond eager to know if I'd be able to get the hell out of this house in the Fall or not.

Well, I'd gotten in and now I was knee-deep in financial aid hell. Adding and subtracting. Hoping and cursing. None of it made money magically appear.

My shirt clung to my breasts with sweat. The energy it took to swing my legs over the side of the bed caused more beads of salty perspiration to pop up on my forehead.

It was early January and though it was cold outside it did not warrant the eighty-degree mandatory thermostat setting our house was on. It wouldn't be long before one of us passed out in this living hell but we dealt with it.