“I am convinced that life is 10% of what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.” – C. Swindall
My mom woke me up early the next morning for school. I hadn’t been up this early since freshman year. I always skipped first hour and second hour. I was not a morning person I did all I could to avoid from getting up in the morning hours.
It took my mom twenty-minutes to get me out of bed. She banged pots, yelled in my ear, tried bribery, everything. Finally when she threatened to take away my iPhone and delete my game of Fruit Ninja. I hopped out of bed. I had gotten really high in that game and I could not chance losing that hard work.
Smiling, proud with herself, my mom threw a denim jacket and a navy blue V-neck T-shirt onto my bed. She bought me new clothes. Did she honestly think getting me new clothes would give me a new personality?
“What are those for?” I asked my voice hoarse from sleep.
“School. I thought it’d be nicer than the old stuff you’ve been wearing since you were fourteen,” she called over her shoulder.
“I like that old shit,” I mumbled to myself, rolling out of bed and onto the floor. I fell flat on my face, and stayed there clearing my head. Maybe if I had fallen hard enough I would have died and not have had to go to school. No such luck.
“You better be up Elodey!” my mom called from down stairs. I groaned, rolled over, and stared at the stars on the ceiling. It was impossible to see the pattern of the constellations with my blinds pulled open and the sun streaming through.
My mom knew opening the blinds would get me up. Once light hit my eyes I was pretty much up until darkness came once again. My sleeping pattern was like a chickens, I guess.
Sitting up and stretching I grabbed the clothes and held them in front of me. They weren’t as bad as I thought. I guess I could wear them. It wouldn’t ruin my image all much.
Once dressed I moved to brushing my short hair. I had a pixie cut. I cringed when I looked in the mirror. One side of my hair was standing up while the other was matted.
Deciding that brushing would do nothing I did the best I could by matting it down with my hands. Did I mention brushing my hair was something I hated to do? The messier it was the better. More proof of how little I cared about what people thought of me.
Make-up was something I completely ignored, except for a little bit of foundation and cover up. As much as I hate to admit it, I had far from perfect skin. I had acne scars from early puberty and I still had a little bit of acne now.
Smearing the foundation on my face, I glared in the mirror at a big red zit on my forehead. Great in just the right spot where I couldn’t cover it with my side-bangs. This was definitely not going to be my day.
After my makeup was done I walked downstairs dragging, my backpack behind. Thump, thump, thump. My bad mood got worse with every step.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs the smell of pancakes and bacon hit me. My mom always a made big breakfast if I got up early enough; which I usually didn’t.
“You look good this morning,” my mom commented, putting a plate heaped with pancakes and bacon at my spot on the table.
“Don’t I know it,” I grumbled dropping my bag on the ground as I slumped into my chair. I picked up a piece of bacon and let the greasy flavor fill my mouth.
“So are you going to attend any of your classes today?” she asked, sitting down and pouring syrup on her stack of pancakes.
I swallowed slowly. I had only agreed to take the tests and do my homework, not actually attend class. Did she misunderstand what I’d said to her? Or had I just missed a vital loophole in her deal?
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. Was she trying to trick me into going to class? That was not going to happen.
I wasn’t one to get tricked; I did the tricking. My mom was the only one who could actually trick me into something. Maybe it was the way she said things or her reasoning. Today was not going to be a day I got tricked, even if I wasn’t fully awake and my brain was only working half the pace it usually does.
“I know, but you’re up and going there so anyways, why not at least try going to class?” she asked, taking a bite of pancake.
“If I’m up now, I won’t be for much longer,” I said, pushing the plate of pancakes and bacon away reluctantly. I couldn’t eat and concentrate on the conversation with her this early in the morning. Food was way too much of a distraction.
“You’re not taking a nap at school,” she said firmly. “Just try one day of going to your classes. Please.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled my plate back to me and began eating. The conversation was over. She was trying to make this sound like I had an option of going but, I really didn’t. In between the lines of “You’re not going to be taking a nap at school” she was really saying “If you take a nap at school I’ll tell your father about not really applying to State.” And in between the lines of “just try one day of going to your classes. Please.” She was really saying “Go to your classes if you want to be let off the hook from a future scolding from your dad.”
“Fine, I’ll go,” I grumbled, finishing my breakfast. I took my plate to the sink, and felt the gaze of my mom following me.
“You sure you don’t want to brush your hair before you go?” she asked.
I groaned, and picked up my insanely heavy backpack throwing it over my shoulder almost knocking a chair. I wasn’t going to bother acknowledging her comment about my hair.
Whipping open the front door, I slammed the door behind me, and walked over to my shitty truck. Let’s see if it was going to start up fine this morning like it had yesterday afternoon. Or maybe it wouldn’t since my day was already going so terribly. If it didn’t start that meant my mom would have to drive me there and that would be worse than death.
Tossing my backpack into the bed of my pickup truck, I walked around to the driver’s side. Pulling the door hard, it made the same creaking noise it did the day before. Sliding in, I slammed the door shut, rattling the whole truck. Taking my anger out on my pickup wouldn’t help, but I felt better.
Turning the key it sputtered. This wasn’t a good sign. I tried again and got the same result. Finally, on the third try it started. The loud grumble of the engine coming to life made me feel a little better. I backed out of the driveway, barely missing the mailbox and barreled down the street.
I turned on the radio and the blare of Sam the Man’s voice filled the car. I switched the stations until I found a station playing a song I liked-- “People Are Crazy” by Billy Currington. I know I don’t really fit the profile, but I love country music. It’s the only thing that fills my playlist. I can’t tolerate the meaningless pop stuff, or the depressing rock songs. Country is raw and true in some way, although it does have its own cliché and unreal meaning songs.
Ten minutes later I pulled into the school parking-lot. Well more like I was in line to enter the parking lot. There was a steady line of cars trying to get the best parking spot. I had never been to school this early and was not used to having to wait.
I usually got to school around ten-thirty, when everyone was already in class and I could easily pull into an open spot. I didn’t mind the walk from a far out parking spot, even though I was lazier than a Koala bear.
Horns were blaring ahead of me, so I settled back in my seat. Some idiot was probably taking up two parking spots and now the line was at a dead stop. These were the types of idiots I went to school with.
Soon enough horns behind me were being leaned on, telling the people up front to move. I was tempted to turn my car off because it didn’t seem like we would be moving anytime soon. I watched as people got out of their cars to see what the commotion was.
I was in no hurry to move. The longer I sat in my car the less time I’d have to spend in hell today. Maybe, if I was really lucky, I’d even miss first. I checked the clock on the dash and saw I still had fifteen minutes until first hour. It didn’t look like the – Gods were going to be much help here, but I could still hope.
Finally the cars stopped honking and we were moving again. Pulling into the parking lot I looked for signs of what had caused the backup but there was. Whatever happened had cleared up as quickly as it had started.
Pulling into a parking spot, I took a minute to build up the motivation to get out of the car. It was four hours until lunch and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it that long. I wasn’t used to that many hours between meals or snacks. I could die, and for what? So I could sit in a classroom listening to some fat ass talk about things nobody cared about?
Any other day I would have skipped, but the silent warning my mom had given haunted me. If I didn’t go to class I’d be in trouble with my dad. Sighing I got out of the car and dragged myself toward the hell waiting beyond the front doors.
The moment I walked in, it took everything inside me not to turn around and walk out. There were people everywhere, pushing and shoving trying to get to their lockers. I couldn’t remember which locker was mine, so I didn’t bother trying to fight the crowd. Instead I found an empty corner and stood there -- watching.
When the bell rang everyone became frantic and started running. It was just like when the gun goes off at the dog races—and they’re off! The star running back was in the lead, but the girls track team captain was right behind. Uh oh, a fatal collision between an emo kid and a math club geek. This is gonna be a close one, folks. Not two minutes later the halls were empty.
Whistling, I walked leisurely down the hall, running my hand across the white painted bricks. I was trying hard to remember what my first hour class was. Sadly, it wasn’t lunch… maybe it was English. That sounded about right.
I remembered vaguely the first time I showed up-- ten minutes late-- for that class and Ms. Grey gave me detention. Yep, it was all coming back to me. I was in a bad mood so I swore at her and got another detention.
I heard classroom shutting and teachers’ bellowing to their class. I cringed at how annoying the voices sounded. They sounded bored just like everyone forced to listen. Isn’t it sad that even the one teaching something finds it just as boring?
I walked the halls for some time before I realized I couldn’t remember where my English class was. I should have gone to the office and ask for a schedule or something, but thought better of it. I was already in trouble for being late. Forgetting my schedule would mean spending first period in the office.
Racking my brain for some type of hint I decided to wing it and go to the first room that looked familiar. No harm in that. So what if I show up a bit early for one of my classes? The teacher should just be happy that I showed up at all.
As luck would have it the first room I entered was my English class. I opened the door and heard Ms. Grey, aka Dick’s lover, talking about how everyone should have read two more chapters of the required reading. This was the class that I got the stupid book “The Great Gassy” or something like that, to read.
When I walked Ms. Grey, stopped talking and looked at me. Her mouth was set in a straight line and her eyes were emotionless and cold. Oh good, already starting on good terms with her… NOT.
“Nice to see you, El-o-dey,” she said, pronouncing each syllable in my name.
I gave a small wave, and shrugged. “Aye, you know me, can’t leave the class hanging too long.”
She looked like she was about to say something, but thought better of it. She motioned for me to take a seat, and I took the only empty one left, which happened to be next to some beanpole guy with a weird black and white mohawk. And I didn’t think this place could get any weirder.
Meeting each of the stares that directed at me I took my seat, while nodding to them. They looked away quickly, as though they felt guilty for acknowledging my existence. They probably did. I was the trouble maker and if you happened to be within six feet of me you could be pegged a trouble maker too.
The kid with the mohawk didn’t look away when I nodded to him. Instead he nodded back and a gave a closed mouth smile. This was odd. I wasn’t used to a friendly acknowledgment. Glares and insults sure, but not a nod and smile.
“Okay as I was saying… I hope you all will finish this book soon. And remember, your report should be no shorter than three-thousand words.” The class groaned. I smirked. Did she seriously think everyone was going to write this paper? Maybe the ones who wanted a scholarship, but definitely not the ones who were just here to get by.
“Now open your text books to chapter twelve…” I looked around for my bag, and remembered I left it in the back of my truck. Oh well, it looked like I’d be buddying up with someone. But just to get under Ms. Grey’s skin I decided to tell her I didn’t have my book with me.
“Um excuse me… Ms…” I began, pretending not to know her name.
“Grey,” she answered annoyed that I didn’t remember her name.
“Right, Ms. Grey. I don’t have my book with me right now…”
“Then you’ll have to partner up. Who will be Elodey’s partner?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and raising a much need of a pluck eyebrow.
No one raised their hand or even seemed to be aware that she had asked the question. Instead they kept flipped through their textbook not making eye contact with Ms. Grey.
“I’ll be Elodey’s partner.”
Everyone turned to stare at the kid with the mohawk. I stared at him. Here I thought someone would be forced into being my partner, but instead there was a volunteer. I was rarely surprised, and this was one of those rare times.
I kind of felt like I was in “The Hunger Games”. I was the game and everyone else was the potential tribute. Except there was no Primrose to be saved here, just a Katniss volunteering for no reason. Still the shock was more surprising here than it had been in “The Hunger Games”.
“Thank you Ziggy,” the teacher said, coolly then turned back to the board and began writing fast and loudly with chalk.
I scooted my desk a little closer to his so I could look in his book. Ziggy had his nails painted black and wore a dog collar around his neck. He looked like your stereotypical goth. This was interesting. I’d never seen him around, and trust me he would stand out in this school. Unless you wore flannel and jeans you were labeled the black sheep of the herd.
“So what’s with the getup?” I whispered, looking at the book.
“Oh,” he said bashfully. This guy was a real dweeb, but since he’s the only one who wanted to be my partner, I shouldn’t complain. “It’s a wig.” He lifted up the side of his hair, revealing a tiny portion of his wig-cap.
He was definitely a weirdo. What kind of guy wears a wig to school? He obviously wasn’t bald. Maybe he had a creepy fetish? Or he was part of the drama club? A gay guy?
“Why are you wearing a wig?” I asked bluntly, ignoring Ms. Grey’s lecture on “the action of a sentence”. What the hell did that mean anyways, “the action of a sentence”. My brain hurt.
“Because I like to,” he replied, raising his hand. I rolled my eyes and leaned back. Great, he was going to request I get moved. I’d been in class for only fifteen minutes and already it was going downhill.
“Yes Ziggy?” Ms. Stone asked, casting me a cold glare.
“You used the wrong ‘there’ on the board,” he replied. Ms. Grey studied what she had written on the board then slowly turned back to Ziggy. If her grip was any tighter on the chalk it would have broken.
I bit my bottom lip trying not to laugh. This was just too funny. An English teacher making such a naïve grammar mistake. This was something that happened in movies, not in real life.
“Thank you, Ziggy,” she said, through gritted teeth. Her voice broke at her lame attempt to control her frustration. I glanced at Ziggy out the corner of my eye. He nodded to her and gave a small thumbs up. Okay, this guy was too funny.
Ms. Grey turned back to the board, fixed the ‘there’, and went on with her lecture. Ziggy and I returned to hunching over the book, and I tried to pay attention to the words on the page but ended up getting bored and turned my gaze back to Ziggy. This kid was really weird.
“So is this some sort of hobby of yours or something to wear wigs?” I persisted. It was really bothering me as to why he was wearing a wig.
“I guess you could say that,” he replied slyly while writing something down in his notebook.
“Can I copy your notes?” I asked, and then realized I didn’t have a pen or paper with me. “And maybe borrow some paper and a pencil.”
“You can copy them at lunch,” he replied writing more stuff down. “But this stuff won’t be on the test.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I’m not taking notes, he replied, not looking up from his paper. He then looked up at the board again and then looked back down at his not notes and write.
What the hell was he writing? It sure looked like he was taking notes. I looked around the room. The other students were writing furiously too, trying to keep up with Ms. Grey.
“What are you writing then?” I snapped. I was annoyed. I hated being curious. It was one of the many parts of human nature that I hated.
Whenever I became curious about something and wanted to know the answer it felt like I was begging for information; like I was slave to the holder of theinformation. It was not how I rolled.
My brother liked to make me beg for information when I was younger and I had paid dearly for it. He made me do stupid things like get him a cookie or make him a sandwich. Then as we got older he wanted me to pay him or do embarrassing crap. And every time it ended up being something stupid thing he’d made up to make me curious.
“I’m drawing,” he said, not looking at me.
I craned my neck to see what he was drawing. Sadly, I couldn’t see though, the textbook got in the way and his arm was blocking my view.
“Come on let me see,” I grumbled, reaching over and trying to grab the notebook. He quickly picked it up and held it out of my reach, nearly hitting the girl next to him. She squealed which got Ms. Grey’s attention.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, puffing out her cheeks.
“Ziggy almost hit me in the face!” the girl whined.
“I did not. It was your shoulder,” Ziggy said, rolling his eyes and putting his notebook back on the desk.
“Elodey was trying to steal his notebook from him,” a girl from the back offered. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I knew this high-pitch and nasally whine and there was no one I hated in this hell hole more than her.
“Is this true, Elodey?” Ms. Grey asked, turning to me. I was tempted to run up and poke her puffy cheeks to see if they deflated, but stayed in my seat.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it stealing,” I said, nonchalantly. “It was more like I was just wanted to see it for a second.”
“Yeah, and keep it forever,” the girl called. God, would she just shut up? No one wanted to listen to her try and be a hero here. This was a freaking notebook not the president’s watch.It took everything inside me not to whip around and tell her to get her head out of her ass.
Needing and out, I turned to Ziggy. He could explain what happened. He seemed like a good guy, right?
“She was just trying to see my notes,” Ziggy replied calmly, tearing at a piece of paper.
“Yeah right. Elodey Sawyer wanting to take notes? I don’t think so.” This girl was just not going to shut up. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. By ten if I was still tempted to tell her what I thought of her, then I would.
Eight… nine… ten. Yep, still there. I turned around slowly and smile. If I could have bitch slap anyone in this school it would have been her. She thought she was doing the world a favor by trying to make everyone follow the rules, but that only made her unpopular and everyone hate her. I guess that was one thing I shared with everyone in this school… the hate for Gina Brunksworth.
“Gina, go fuck yourself,” I said sweetly. “I know no one else will, so just go.”
Gina’s jaw dropped. I turned around and smiled smugly. The class murmured excitedly. Ziggy stared at me; his eyes saucers, then burst out laughing.
“Elodey Sawyer!… Ziggy Goldman! Both of you now have lunch and after school detention,” Ms. Grey said, her face a lovely shade of scarlet. I swear I could see steam coming out of her ears.
“Damn. Here I was hoping to make it home in time for Ellen,” I retorted, leaning casually back in my chair.