It’s hard to get out of bed for school. I’m not used to a night of blissful slumber, and I just don’t want it to end.
Dad doesn’t get up to wake me up any more. I’d guess he doesn’t even get out of bed until elevenish. This is what happens to people who stay up until three in the morning watching exotic monkeys on television.
I wait until the very last possible minute, and at 7:15 I finally get up and get moving. I have to rush around, but that extra ten minutes of stillness makes it worthwhile.
The bad thing about not arriving to school at a decent time is you wind up with a sucky parking space. Waaay out in the back. I weave in and out of the rows of cars, hoping for a miracle. Just when I think I’ve won the lottery—an empty space—I realize a champagne colored Mercedes SUV is double parked. I’m irritated that people are driving such high-end cars to school, and that they think they deserve two spaces instead of one. Without a choice, I drive to the second-to-last row and park. I grab my bag, my to do list off my console, and do a brisk mall-walkers walk to the building.
When I walk through the doors I check the digital clock to find I have two minutes before the tardy bell rings. I don’t need anything from my locker so I continue the fast walk to first hour. It’s Rayna, a cheerleader, who stops me in the hall first.
“Well that was fast!” She says as she looks down toward my foot. Her eyebrows are raised. I’m confused. She elaborates, “Must have been a miracle doctor to heal your foot so fast.”
I forgot to put on the damn boot!
I shift my weight and lift my foot off the ground, remembering it was the left one that’s injured. “I . . . He . . . I . . . My doctor said that I need to take off the boot some while it heals.”
She’s hateful.
“Why?!”
I give it my best.
“Because, well . . . because if I wear the boot constantly it may damage the muscles in the arch of my foot.”
She laughs sarcastically.
“Huh. Well I’ve never heard of that before.”
A few stragglers left in the hallway begin to pick up speed and run. Beeeeeeep.
I’m tardy.
Another cheerleader, Leslee, joins us. “Where’s your boot?” She asks point-blank.
I roll my eyes and start hobbling toward the door. I hobble all the way back out to my stupid second-to-the-last-row car, open the stupid trunk, and grab my stupid boot. I put it on and Velcro the straps, then grab my STUPID crutches. This is so damn stupid.
I hobble through my morning wondering how I’m going to deal with this for four more weeks.
When the lunchtime bell rings, I go all the way back out to my car. There are a million people squeezing into shiny cars together. Groups of kids are laughing, talking, and gathering around being social. For most of them, their biggest concern in the world is what combo they will order at lunch. I, on the other hand, will skip eating to retrieve a gun and, if time allows, swing by and pay the electric bill. This makes me crave a burrito.
But, like always, I take care of business. Gun—check. Electric bill—check.
When I pull back in at school I have plenty of time to get a good parking spot and wobble down the walkway. When I reach the door I look back and notice the police are here with their K9’s. Just a normal day of high school . . . something they do a few times a month.
All the blood rushes to my head when I think about there being a gun in my trunk.
I know they’re here for drugs, but can they sniff out weapons?!
It all plays out in my head.
Expelled.
Handcuffed.
Sent to jail.
Nate sees my mug shot on the news.
I look out the window and watch my car for a few minutes as they start unloading the dogs.
Should I leave? I’d look guilty of something if I left.
I should leave.
No.
Surely they can’t sniff out weapons.
Or can they?
My story if I get detained: It was a family heirloom that I inherited and forgot to take out of my trunk.
No . . . My dad went hunting this weekend and must’ve forgotten to take it out.
I can see the media circus now: “Police Find Shooter Just in Time.” With my picture.
God help me.
I turn around and walk to class hoping, PRAYING, that a dog can’t sniff out a rifle.
I get to fifth hour feeling like I’ve somehow escaped death row until my teacher, Mr. Daggs, calls me to his desk.
He looks over his glasses to read his computer monitor then looks back at me. “Chelsea, they need to see you in the office.”
My knees go weak. I can’t breathe. “Okay.”
I walk slowly out the door. I can’t help but start crying when I get to the hallway. I stop in the bathroom to collect myself, and the thoughts won’t go away. Mug shot, police car, my dad trying to convince the officers that it’s all a big mistake—his girl wouldn’t do anything like this.
I blow my nose then wet a paper towel and place it on the back of my neck. I sit on the floor for a minute until I think it’s safe to stand without passing out.
I go to the office and look through the glass windows as I open the door.
It’s relatively quiet, and I walk to the front desk. Mrs. Messerli, the attendance secretary greets me with a smile.
“Hi. Whatcha need?”
“I’m Chelsea.” I look around for uniforms and badges.
She looks around at all her sticky notes scattered across her desk calendar.
“Chelsea. Chelsea. Let me see . . . oh, yes. Your first-hour teacher recommended we give you a special parking pass due to your injury. She said you were tardy today.”
I look at her. For a second, I can’t find words. “Oh, yes.” Tears stream down my face. “That would be great.”