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Ididn’t realize how much I relied on Dad to wake me up in the morning until he moved out.
Well, really, I relied on his relic of a coffee maker, which, in tandem with the rising sun, stirred the house with a scream. As ear-piercing as the bean grinder had been, it’d been a steady thing to expect every morning, more effective than any alarm clock.
Mom, a late-riser, had given him more than one ultimatum about the thing—either he threw it out or she’d do it for him.
That ultimatum might’ve been why three weeks after Dad took the coffee maker and moved into an apartment downtown, I woke up late for the third time in the past week.
First period at Brentwood High started in eight minutes, and I could already envision Mrs. Winston’s wrinkled scowl. At this point, I didn’t have many excuses left to give her. Since it was only the second week of my senior year, and last week—due to Labor Day—we’d only had class for four days, she had to see right through the excuses, anyway.
The first time it happened, I told her I overslept. The second time, I told her I had to talk to Mrs. Diego about a math problem—which was risky, since Mrs. Winston easily could’ve called to fact-check me. Today, I was fresh out of excuses.
All that was left was the “my parents are getting a divorce and I can’t sleep” card, and with the attentionthatwould bring me—attention that probably would involve a trip to the guidance counselor’s office—I couldn’t imagine playing it.
Snatching my phone up from my nightstand, I hurried to dial a number I knew by heart, turning on speaker.
“Hey,” Rachel said on the second ring. “Why are you calling me? Aren’t you—”
“Are you at school already?” I asked, barely looking at the T-shirt I picked out of my dresser before throwing it on. Backwards. The tag tickled my throat, a littlehello, I’m not supposed to be here, and I tucked my arms back in with a growl. “Please, please,pleasetell me you haven’t left your house yet.”
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m already in homeroom.” She paused. “Wait, are you running lateagain?”
“I keep snoozing my alarm in my sleep.” I shrugged on a random pair of shorts too short for dress code, but at that point, I was picking the lesser of two evils. Short shorts over being even later, risking the dragon breath of my ancient teacher. “Stop by the English room and spin me a sob story for Mrs. Winston, would ya? I’m not sure my puppy dog eyes will cut it this time.”
“Ooh, I’m on it. I’m sure Maisie and I can make something up. I’m in drama for a reason, you know.”
If there was anyone who could sell a convincing lie, it was Rachel.
I dashed across the hall to the bathroom, giving my teeth a rushed, painful scrub—my gums would hate me later—and then giving the rat’s nest on my head a painful grimace.
My hair was knotted from a night’s worth of tossing and turning, and there was no salvaging it in the two minutes I had before I needed to be out the door. That was the problem with the cheap store-bought pink hair dye mixing with my restless sleeping habits—the color was pretty, but my bleached hair wassonot a fan. Smoothing down the bumps as best as possible, I wound my hair into a bun at the top of my head.
Whatever. Not like I had anyone to impress.
As I snatched up my backpack, my phone let out a chirp in my pocket, a text message blinking. I stuffed my feet into a pair of sneakers as I read it.
Dad
Hey, kiddo, I hate to start your morning off with bad news, especially on a Monday, but I have some.
The dean is sending me to a guest lecture Saturday morning at a college in Westview, so can we push your weekend with me until next weekend? Your mom will be ok with it, right?
With now six minutes left until classes started, I had no time to waste on the disappointment, nor a text back. It would come later, in full force, on the fact that once again, he’d put off my weekend to come visit. In the three weeks he’d been out of the house, I hadn’t seen his new apartment once.
When I picked up my house keys from the side table near the door, I couldn’t help but notice how empty it looked. Dad’s car keys were gone, but he’d left the keychain picture from our last family vacation on one of the hooks. We were all smiling wide, unaware that in a year’s time, the happy expressions would disappear. I was surprised Mom hadn’t taken it down yet.
Before I turned toward the door, my gaze caught on the mail on the table, catching on the red, bold letters stamped across the envelope that sat on top.
Overdue Payment—Final Notice
Five minutes until class started. I didn’t have time.
Fumbling out into the heat—was it seriously over seventy degrees before eight o’clock?—I picked up my bike where I’d left it leaning against the front porch railing. Mom’s beat-up sedan was in the short driveway, but I wasn’t surprised—no doubt she was still asleep. She never put anything on her schedule until after nine.
Though it was against Brentwood’s city ordinance, I biked on the sidewalk. It saved me time of stopping for road traffic. I barely slowed as I turned off Walnut Street, standing up to pedal like mad onto Main. For the third time in the school year, I thanked my lucky stars for living two roads down from the school—luck had been on my side when Mom and Dad had chosen that cute, three-bedroom house.
And then luck said “psych” when it allowed Dad to leave with the coffee maker.
The pedestrian crossing light for the sidewalk began blinking its countdown as I neared it, and instead of squeezing my handbrake, I cut the curb to swerve back onto the roadway. My bag slammed against my spine, and the front tire threatened to give way beneath the rickety suspension. The quaky landing stuck, and I blew past theDo Not Crosssign and turned onto College Avenue. I could see the school’s spires from here. I was going to make it.
