An American Tuesday

How am I so lazy that I dread a fun, exciting day just because I’ll have to wake up early? I mean, come on Morgan. Really?

I’ve been writing out the game plan for today for weeks, but as soon as my alarm goes off at 5:15 in the morning, I seriously consider rescheduling the rest of my say for a few more hours of sleep.

I grab my phone to text Joshua and tell him that I can’t make it tonight, but as I type in my passcode, I get a call from Steph. The thought of clicking ignore makes me laugh out loud, but I answer it anyway. An early morning pep talk would be better than her coming over here and beating me black and blue.

“You’re freaking kidding me, Mo,” are the first words out of her mouth and I laugh again. “Get your lazy butt out of your gosh darn bed or else I’ll go on this date for you.”

Stephanie Baker has many, many talents. Like cooking, and doing splits. But perhaps her most impressive quality is her ability to make me regret making her my best friend. She always makes me do what’s best for me. Can you believe that? The nerve of some people.

“Steph, he’ll understand if I tell him my situation.”

“I swear to God, Mo, if you keep whining I’m going to drive over there just to hit you.” She talks right through my groaning. “And what is your situation? Too lazy to put in effort? Get up!” And on that note, she hangs up, leaving me with nothing to do but drag myself out of bed. The only thought in my sleepy mind is that I’m never going to tell Stephanie any of my plans ever again.

After soaking in the hot water for longer than I probably should have, I glance at the clock and begin to panic. 45 minutes gives me enough time to do my hair or my makeup. I debate with myself for a few minutes, but then I realize that I’m just wasting more time. I decide to just brush through my hair and throw on my favorite jeans and new sweater instead of curling my hair and pulling myself into the matching skirt/crop top outfit that Steph picked out when we were planning this day. My makeup is where I want to spend most of my time, anyway,

It’s not that I think I’m ugly, per se. In fact, I actually like to think that I’m kind of cute. But there’s something entirely too vulnerable about meeting up with someone being completely yourself. A lot of people seem to think that makeup is about vanity, but it’s not. It’s about protecting yourself and feeling secure. It’s about giving yourself a mask to hide behind.

After I carefully apply a smokey eye paired with red lips and rosy cheeks, I call Steph to tell her that I’m ready to go. Even though she’s a year younger than me, Steph drives me to school everyday. I’ve been working any job I could find since I turned 15 so I can save up enough money to buy my own car, and I’m so close I can taste it; I think this is the summer. While I’ve been working my butt off to earn my vehicular freedom, Steph has had it easy. Her parents bought her a cute little Völkswagen Beetle for her 16th birthday, and she’s been driving around ever since.

Steph tells me she’s on her way, and my nerves finally start acting up. This will be my first date ever, and I’ve been crushing on Joshua Fitz since our teams raced each other my freshman year. I’d been swimming competitively for a little over 8 year, and I considered myself to be pretty good until I got completely destroyed by his sister in the 100 butterfly, my best race.

A whopping 5 seconds after she claimed first, I touched the wall. I remember glancing up at the stop-clock on the wall and seeing my 1:01:56 underneath her 0:57:02.

Ouch.

I had glanced away, ashamed, and pulled myself out of the pool to find the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. I swear he would’ve taken my breath away if I hadn’t already been gasping from the race. My nerves got even worse as he complimented my form, and before I could reply, I was bombarded by my teammates and coaches. Three years later, I finally gathered the courage to ask him for his phone number, and after weeks of non stop texting, we agreed to meet up for dinner tonight.

I once again consider texting Joshua and telling him that I couldn’t make it, but for an entirely different reason this time. Senior year is a bad time to start dating, especially since I’ve been recruited by a university halfway across the country with a full ride for swimming. There’s no way a relationship could survive that.

The beeping car in my driveway pulls me out of the funk I was diving into. I shake the thoughts out of my head, grab my bag, and run out to meet Steph. I don’t bother telling my parents goodbye; I rarely do in the mornings. The both work late shifts in their jobs, and usually sleep way past when I leave. I’ll see them after my date anyway, as well as texting throughout the day.

I hop in the passenger seat of Steph’s car, already preparing to turn down the pop music blasting out of her speakers, as I do every single morning. This morning it’s Taylor Swift belting about how in love she is. I give Steph a look and she bursts out laughing.

“Hey, what else were you expecting me to play on the morning of your first date?” When I don’t answer, she stops backing down my driveway and looks at me. “You are still going on this date, right?” My heart explodes at how well she knows me.

“Yeah, I’m still going.” She nods and starts backing up again. “I just don’t really see the point in starting a new relationship my senior year.”

With a sigh, Steph turns off T Swizzle and somehow manages to give me an exasperated look while keeping her eyes on the road. “Mo, this is your senior year. And, more so, the very beginning of your senior year. You have so much time before you go anywhere. Spend it with a boy you like.”

They’re moments like this that remind me why I love Steph so much. She helps to balance out my negativity with her own terribly incessant optimism and good advice.

To show her my appreciation, I turn the music back on and smile over at her. She smiles back and we both sing along all the way to the school.

When we pull into her assigned parking spot at good ol’ Douglas High School, Steph turns her car off and locks the doors before I can leave. Annoyed, I look over at her and, surprisingly, see a worried look on her face.

“Morgan, I’m not going to see you until lunch, and then not until after school. I’m not going to be there to talk you out of ruining this. Please promise me that you won’t cancel on him.” I take to deep breath to explain my nerves to her, but she cuts me off before I can argue with her. “I’m serious, Mo. This is a good thing. A cute boy likes you, and, for once, you like him back. Plus, I’m doing this all vicariously through you. If you cancel on him, you’re cancelling on me.” She looks at me with hopeful eyes, and I feel my resolve break.

“Fine. I promise I won’t cancel on Joshua.” Before I even finish speaking, Steph pulls me into a hug and unlocks the doors.

“You’re going to have such a good time tonight. I’m so proud of you! Text me with any updates, questions, comments, or concerns!” And just like that, she’s back to her usual peppy self. She kisses my cheek and is out of the car in a heartbeat.

I take a moment to regain my composure, then step out of the car, ready to face the day.

I step out of the car with my backpack pulled over my shoulders, and am immediately swallowed by a swarm of busy students. I blend in easily, with my feet dragging slightly and my face looking down into my phone. Seeing I have a text from Joshua makes me blush and look around for some unexplainably paranoid reason before I open it.

Can’t wait to see you tonight :) -J

That’s it. I swear I stop breathing. I stop everything. I swoon so hard I fall down and die right on the spot. I stare straight up at my classmates as they step over me on their way to homeroom, paralyzed from happiness.

“Oh. My. Gosh. Mo, did you remember that we have a test today in AP English? I haven’t read any of As I Lay Dying! How am I supposed to take a test on it?” Courtney Lay runs into me- quite literally. She knocks my phone right out of my hand, and the noise that comes out of my mouth can only be described as a growl.

I’m prepared to yell at her for being careless, but then I realize that I’d been standing still in the middle of the crowded hallway, staring at my phone, causing people to dodge me on their race to homeroom. I really need to stop being sucked into my own mind.

“Oh, gosh Courtney- I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize I was in the way. I’m sure you’ll crush this test; you always do.” Apparently flattered by my compliment, Courtney bends over to grab my phone, then latches her arm with mine as we walk the rest of the way to our English classroom together.

“No, but I’m super nervous about this one. When we had class time last week to read it, I was doing my Calc homework. Oh geez, do we have a test in there, too?”

We step in the classroom, and I see everyone else frantically flipping through Faulkner’s work. I have to stop myself from laughing; literature has always come easy to me. Plays, books, poems- all of it. I think it would come easily to anyone, actually, if they would just sit down and allow themselves to be taken into the story, but people have a problem with that, apparently. Whoever decided that it isn’t cool to read was obviously a moron.

I pull out my chair and put my bag on it to pull out for my book, but for a completely different reason than everyone else.

The beautiful rawness of the story draws me in, and I’m quickly approaching the end. The aftermath of Emma’s tragic demise is heartbreaking, and it has been making me ponder philosophical dilemmas that 17 year old girls have no right pondering.

Right as I’m being swept into Emma’s words, Mrs. Pomper flitters into the room, dragging me out of the story with her noisy papers and cheery, “Good morning, kids!”

I drop my book back into my bag and pull out a pencil instead as Mrs. Pomper situates herself and starts to describe the test to us. I listen even though this test is going to be just like every other test I’ve taken in this class. Don’t get me wrong- I love AP English, and I love Mrs. Pomper even more. It’s just always the same thing over and over again. Read, discussion, test. Read, discussion, test. Over and over again until we die. Okay, that may be a tad dramatic.

Until graduation, maybe.

The only thing that changes is which heart-wrenching story we’re reading: Catcher In the Rye or The Crucible or Waiting for Godot. And I love every single one of them. Mrs. Pomper always manages to chose stories that touch my soul.

She passes out the quizzes, and I take about 10 minutes to answer all 20 questions. It’s a really easy test; Courtney must be pleased.

For the rest of the class period, I look over my AP Calc and AP Psych homework instead of finishing the novel. I have a feeling the ending is going to make me cry, and I’d rather not do it in front of everyone. Anyway, I’ll have plenty of time to finish it later today while I’m waiting for my date.

Oh gosh, I have a date today.

The bell pulls me out of my mind before I have enough time to panic, so I start to make my way through the halls towards the AP Calc room. I spend the short walk looking for Steph, but she must not have taken her usual path. I don’t see her in the hallways and I start to feel the panic return to my stomach and the tightness return to my chest. I have to talk myself out of freaking out completely: I’ll see her after 3 more classes. Just 3 more classes. Just 3 more classes. Just 3 more-

“Graded Bellringer!”

I’m not the only one who groans,

I consider walking back out of the room, but decide against it. I’d rather not get a 0 on this quiz.

Mrs. Kisiami loves surprising us with these unplanned short quizzes way too much. I know I bragged a little bit about my English skills, but trust me, it’s compensated for by my math abilities. I don’t know why, and I guess I’m not terrible at Calc, but for some reason, the formulas get mixed around in my head and my integrations are always wrong.

I’m still working on the very first question when the overhead speaker system turns on. We all look up from our papers, ready for the office to make an announcement, but we’re only met with static. After a few more moments of waiting, Mrs. Kisiami tells us to get back to work.

We begrudgingly comply.

Well, we comply for about 30 seconds, until the static suddenly stops. Mrs. Kisiami begins addressing us again when the announcements come back on.

“He’s in A-wing. With a gun. Please, Lord, help-”

The secretary is cut off by a sharp noise. The announcements stop. The static stops. My heart stops. Everything stops. It’s Mrs. Kisiami who starts it all up again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, we are in A-wing. The door is locked. We are going to barricade the it, and then try to kick out the windows.” The longer we stare at her without moving, the more desperate she looks. “Guys, I need your help on this. We need to do this. Please.”

Something about how she’s looking at us manages to pull me out of my daze, and I suddenly stand. My chair squeaks from being violently thrown back, and I start pushing my desk towards the door. I think the screeches of the metal against metal coarse the others out of their stillness because suddenly the world is filled with motion. Furniture being pushed against the door. People who aren’t even friends comforting each other. Noises and actions and emotions that I haven’t seen in a while.

“That’s great! So wonderful! Start working on the windows!” Mrs. Kisiami does a good job of ushering us away from the barricaded door, but she doesn’t get far. She falls down, and we turn around to see blood leaking out from underneath her. The window is shot out. It’s funny- I didn’t even hear it.

My classmates tear their way to the windows scratching and pushing and crying, but I can’t do any of it. Instead, I walk to the back of the classroom and lean against the wall. I keep my burning eyes closed as I sink to the ground and rest my head back. Focus on taking deep breaths.

Nobody even notices me.

It’s doesn’t take him long to get into the classroom. I don’t think that they even break the window in time. I don’t hear it break, anyway. To be fair, I haven’t really been hearing a lot for a while now.

I thought the barricade would’ve done more.

He just shoots out the doorknob and pushes his way through the desks like they’re nothing.

I hear my friends beg for their lives.

He’s wearing a mask; it makes me think about my makeup and how dumb it all it. People are going to find out who you are whether you hide yourself or not.

None of it matters.

I watch as he kills my classmates.

He shoots the kids banging on the windows first. Then he shoots the kids that were behind them. Then he kills the rest.

I think he won’t notice me at first. He turns back to the door, but then freezes as I begin to weep.

I can’t help it.

In this moment, the only thing running through my mind is my elementary school graduation. Six years ago. I stood so tall and so proud right besides my classmates. My friends. The bodies laying across from me.

He turns towards me as I’m grasping for breath.

My friends will never graduate high school. We will never get to stand so proud and so tall next to each other again. They will never go to college. Never get married, never have kids, never grow old. Never become who they’re supposed to be.

He raises his gun.

I hope Stephanie is okay. I hope Mrs. Pomper is okay. I hope Courtney is okay. I try to focus on every who I know will be okay, Joshua. His sister.

Oh my God.

He looks down his sights.

I didn’t say goodbye to Mom and Dad.

I see his hand twitch and t