Page 38 of Something Rad
I should have asked Ferris Bueller whether or not I should have gone to school.
Because it’s just after first period and I’m already praying for Marty McFly to appear out of nowhere so he can take me back in time to slap Sara from earlier this morning for even considering leaving the house today.
First, I got stuck with the worst seat in the back of my bus, known for its painfully torn up vinyl seats and permanent odor that no one can seem to identify, much less remove. I made the mistake of not looking before throwing my backpack down on the seat and, once I grabbed it to leave, found that I had sat it in some sort of suspicious yellow-green sticky residue.
How did I notice, you ask?
Because when I went to take my backpack off and put it into my locker, it was stuck completely to me. I had to have Daniel physically detach it from my back, several threads of my sweater snagging in the process.
Why did Daniel help you and not Alice, you ask?
Well, Daniel was only at my locker to inform me that Alice was sick with a stomach bug and wouldn’t be at school today, or probably the next few days for that matter.
One of the few times in a year that I am ready to welcome her eternal morning-person energy and unflinching optimism before 10 a.m. with open arms, and Alice Quinn is MIA.
Things continued on the downhill as I went to physics first period and definitely bombed the quiz I had spent hours studying for.
How could you have done so badly if you studied, you ask?
Well, I saybombed. By that I think I barely scraped by with a highB-, maybe aB+ if I’m lucky. I swear I knew the information, but it was like my brain was in a fog. The answers were right there, but I just wasn’t able to see them.
And that’s not an acceptable excuse. Especially not for me.
I shook my head as I left the classroom, telling myself I would make up for it and thanking my lucky stars it was only a quiz. My focus was quickly drawn away from my subpar test grade, however, as my hand flew reflexively to cover my loudly rumbling stomach.
Why are you so hungry at barely 9:30 a.m., you ask?
Well, it seems I was too busy arguing with myself (and a poster) on whether or not I was going to go to school this morning to leave time for breakfast.
I sped up my walking pace so that I’d have time to hit the vending machine on the way to my second period, remembering there’s one right by the door leading out to Ms. Cage’s class.
I made it to the machine with plenty of time to spare, a tear nearly coming to my eye when I spotted the Carnation Breakfast Bars front and center on the top row. My stomach continued to growl painfully as I shoved my coins in the slot as fast as I could. I felt my mouth slowly start to water as the bar inched slowly forward.
And that has brought us here.
Where the bar has stopped moving forward.
I feel my face drop. “No, this isn’t happening right now,” I mutter to myself.
I smack my hand against the machine once, but the bar doesn’t budge, the corner staying jammed firmly in the row slot.
I frantically dig in my jean pockets, looking for more coins. When I realize I am only one nickel short of being able to pay for another bar, I lose it.
“Come on!” I shout, slamming a shoulder into the machine. “What did I do to deserve this?”
I’m sure I’ll be thankful later that this is a low traffic hallway, but right now, I don’t have it in me to care about anything other than the peanut butter and chocolate of that Breakfast Bar that is rightfully mine making its way to my stomach in the next minute.
I continue to shove against the machine, adding in kicks when I remain unsuccessful. This goes on for a full thirty seconds until I am sweating like a pig and breathing like someone that just ran a marathon.
I rest my forehead against the machine. “Please,” I beg through strangled breaths.
“Sara?”
I startle, gripping the sides of the machine as I turn to find Mr. Hughes standing next to me. “Mr. Hughes,” I say, not having the energy to peel myself away from the machine. “Hi.”
He glances between me and the metal box from hell, a gray brow raising.
“Please, don’t ask,” I mumble, defeated.
