Chapter #5The Girl Who Was Late to Class by: Seuzz   Note: This story is in some sense a fan-fic. It is based on characters and situations from Milda Harris's Doppelganger  YA novels. That was supposed to be a 3-book series, but the third book still hasn't appeared. This was my attempt to give it closure while also inserting the characters and situations into my own BoM/TWS mythos.
Sometimes the universe gives you plenty of notice that it's decided to screw with you. In my case the announcement came first thing one morning, when I woke just as my first period class was starting. I looked at my phone and said a bad word when I saw what time it was.
"Citrus Leahy, it's time to wake up," my alarm said.
"You were supposed to tell me that two hours ago!" I yelled as I hurled the sheets back and tore my pajama bottoms off. "Where were you then?"
"Citrus Leahy, it's time to wake up."
"That doesn't answer my question, you stupid ... cellular cow!"
"Citrus Leahy, it's time to wake up." It was probably my imagination, but the alarm's tone turned reproachful, like it was offended by my insults but was bravely carrying on.
I left it to keep rousing the bed and dashed into the bathroom, where I slapped cold water across my face and tied my hair back into a loose ponytail. I'll say this for my grandmother—and it's about the only good thing I can say of the old bat—she gave me good hair. Sure, I have to beat it with a hundred strokes before it will go limp and silky. But it's got body to spare, and even when I don't brush it back, it still looks good.
But there was no time for makeup, and I did no more than snatch up my toothbrush and toothpaste so I could at least brush my teeth during a break between periods.
Real classy, Citrus. Someone's bound to ask if you were out drinking all night.
If only. Sometimes it's a real drag being a "good girl."
And sometimes it's just a drag, period. Like when you're late to your first period class, you haven't got a car, the school bus has long gone, and you have a test in second-period World History.
"Citrus Leahy, it's time to wake up," my alarm said three more times as I pulled on some sloppy, easy-to-get-into clothes.
I shoved my phone and books into my bag and vaulted down the stairs. From the pantry I snatched a packet of Pop Tarts like it was the baton in a relay race, and was into the garage before my phone—still babbling, but now muffled—could tell me again that it was time to get up. I punched the garage-door opener, hurled my second-hand bike into the driveway, punched the opener again, and slid out under the door while it was still trying to figure out whether it was coming (up) or going (down).
One of these days I'm going to get a car. My mom—who works a late night/early morning shift at her job, which is why she wasn't on hand to wake me; don't ask about my dad or I'll punch you in the throat—says she'll help me out, but I've been saving up for a year now, and my plan is to get something so cheap I can pay for it myself. The longer I put it off, the nicer the car will be. I'd been planning to save until next August so I could have it in time for my senior year.
But this morning I would have traded every worn penny for a moped. It was October, but the weather was still warm enough that sweat was dribbling down my nose when I slid to a stop in front of Westside High.
Stupid administration. If they wanted kids to get exercise and fresh air, why didn't they put the bike rack by the student parking lot, instead of out front where anyone in the office could see the tardy cases arrive? This way they were practically forcing the kids to buy a car and drive.
And sure enough, as I shoved my bike into the rack, the paunchy security guard stepped out the main entrance and beckoned to me. I didn't exactly dawdle across the quad in answer to his summons, but I didn't break any speed records either.
"Get along and get your tardy slip," he said as he held the door open for me.
"And can I get you a donut to go with your coffee?" I muttered.
"What's that?"
"I said I could really use some coffee."
In reply, he sipped from his Styrofoam cup without offering me any.
Westside High has a giant office, to go with the giant number of "administrative assistants," most of which are pretty giant in their own right, circumference-wise. I had no idea which one to talk to about a tardy slip, because I'm a good girl and am never tardy—particularly on days when I have a test—so I picked one at random. "Excuse me—"
She just pointed to a woman three feet down and kept scribbling on a piece of paper. I slid down a space. "Excuse me, I need a tardy slip."
This one at least flashed me a smile before pointing me down to a third assistant, who with hands folded on the counter was beaming at me. I slid down a few more feet. Door number three only smiled more widely, even though she must have heard what I said. "Excuse me, I need a tardy slip," I repeated.
"You just now came in?"
"Yes, that's why I need a tardy slip."
She looked over her shoulder at the clock. "You missed first period."
"Yes, I know. And I have a test this period. So I need a tardy slip to get in." Actually I didn't. Mr. Santiago never asked latecomers for tardy slips. I was in here only because the security guard had caught me. "So if I can get a tardy slip—"
"Carrie!" she called over her shoulder. A blonde head shot up. "Can you help this young lady with a tardy slip?"
I groaned inwardly as the blonde head and the body it was attached to bounded up.
"Lemony Fresh!" squealed Carrie Carmichael, cheerleader and (though I hadn't known until now) student administrative aide. "Why are you tardy?"
"I overslept."
"Oh, that's too bad." She sniffed the air delicately. "And did you ... jog to school?"
"I biked."
"Oh my God!" She covered her mouth with her hand. "And you live on the other side of town, too!"
I don't, actually, I just live down in Acheson, which is the largish village that Saratoga Falls has been slowly engulfing over the last few decades, like a large amoeba swallowing a smaller one. But thanks for noticing anyway, Carrie, how hot and sweaty and stinky I got trying to get to school in time for a test. "I need a pass so I can get into my history class."
Carrie smiled tightly. "I think you need to clean up, is what I think you need to do. Your teacher probably won't want you—"
"I have a test! Okay? Right now!"
Carrie gasped. "Jeez, keep a lid on it." She pulled a thick white pad from under the counter. "I'm just trying to be helpful, you know," she continued as she slowly wrote on the pad in big, looping letters. "I mean, when your nickname is 'Lemony Fresh' ..."
But it's not my nickname. I didn't say it aloud, but I thought it really hard at her, and gritted my teeth. It's a stupid nickname that only you ever use, but which you've used ever since the third grade when you thought you were so clever at coming up with it, because—
"Citrus Leahy, it's time to wake up."
I tried to ignore the announcement, which had been sounding from my backpack all the way from S Farm Road to NW Borman, and which was now audible—though muffled—in a sudden silence that had fallen over the school office. Carrie looked up at the sound. "What was that?"
"I didn't hear anything."
"I thought I heard—"
"Just keep working on the tardy slip please."
"Shh! There it is again."
"The tardy slip." I jabbed at the pad while slipping my backpack to the floor, where my phone wouldn't sound quite so loud. Carrie listened intently for a moment, but some phones started ringing behind her, so with a shrug she returned to filling out the form.
"Well, I don't know, Lemony," she said as she wrote, because Carrie Carmichael can't stand silence. "Did your alarm not go off?"
"I don't know what happened. I only know I have a history test that started ten minutes ago, and I need to get to class while I still have time to finish it."
Carrie smiled sweetly as she took a stamp from a drawer and punched the tardy slip with it. "Oh, Lemony Fresh," she said. "You never flunked a test back in elementary school."
"I was never late before, either."
"I guess there's a first time for everything. Oh, speaking of first times!" She tore the paper from the pad. "Why don't you eat lunch with me and my friends today?"
Well, that's following a train of thought, said I to myself, even if it means jumping over a couple of tracks to follow it. And the offer so discombobulated me—for Carrie was a cheerleader and a "popular" girl, and I was neither—that I could only mumble a "Well, maybe, uh, thanks," as I took the pass from her.
"Meet you out front of the cafeteria!" she called as I grabbed up my pack and ran out the door.
So I was still thinking of Carrie—not my favorite pastime, but what are you gonna do?—as I swung into A wing. Thinking of her comments on my appearance and smell, I paused right outside the door to Mr. Santiago's classroom to air out the front of my shirt and pat my hair down.
That's how I came to look in through the glass window in the door, and saw that I was already sitting at my desk. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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