An alarm is blaring in your ear and you jolt awake at your desk. The weight of the year is already making your eyes heavy. Math homework you were finishing last night is crumpled beneath you with tear stains from your many failed attempts. You’re running late and your laptop in front of you is dead. It’s a Tuesday morning, and you already know today is going to be a nightmare.
It’s 7:35 a.m, and last night’s storm decided to follow you into the morning. You race out to your car, chucking your bag next to your two-day-old Taco Bell remains, trying to escape the rain. Everything is fine until you look out the front window of your car and you can barely see through the leaves and twigs that have collected on your windshield.
Of course, today is the day that your tree covered car’s Bluetooth decided to give out. When you finally pull into the Essex parking lot, you realize there are zero places left to park. Accompanied by the horrid sounds of “Anxiety” by Doechii on the radio, you speed out of the lot, pull into one of the neighborhoods and wedge your car into a spot that may or may not be illegal. It’s 7:55 a.m and you sprint to the Essex doors, which, of course, are locked. You begin the long trek to Dougherty Ferry through the rain-soaked path that leaves mud all over your shoes.
Finally, you enter your Precalculus class with a trail of muck following you down the hall. A tardy blares red in your mind as 20 kids side-eye you while you make your way to your desk. Your teacher slides up next to you with a small smile on their face and a packet in their hands. They set down the paper in front of you, and your eyes almost launch out of your head. The math test you were preparing for all week is lying in front of you, and there’s 35 minutes left in class.
With your hair sticking up in 50 different directions, nails bitten down to the cuticles and a failed test behind you, you walk out of your class with your head held low. The hallways are packed in a backpack-to-backpack shuffle, and you know you’re going to be late to your next class. You waste five out of the six-minute passing period in the Social Studies hall because the math hallway is under construction, again. You see the great oasis of your next class in the distance. Just before you reach the entrance, a door crashes into you.
It’s 2:55 p.m. and you can already feel a nasty bruise developing on your forehead. The school air seems to have followed you outside in a cloud of damp classrooms and B.O. as you make your way to the neighborhood where you parked. It takes a few tries to start up your car and once it does, the radio switches back to the same station as the morning. What was once a calm street of idle cars shortly became a traffic nightmare of teens who don’t know how to drive. To top off your nightmare day, the drive home is soundtracked by the mystical, magical sounds of Benson Boone.
