Metsa #Wattys2016

Second Encounter

You know those days when you immediately wake up and you feel like rolling back onto your stomach and plunging your face into your pillow again to entangle some more z's, because z's are the perfect weapon against a terrible world that makes you hate it before you can decide whether or not you want to put milk in your coffee?

Well, the next morning I was unable to have the privilege of hating the world, which is a real shame because last I recalled, milk became an expensive commodity for my fridge.

Due to either a failure in technology, an error in the fabric of space and time, or my own incompetence of not setting it (I doubt it), the alarm on my phone didn't go off. Translation, I was screwed when I realized that it was 6:37.

For my morning mental exercises, I quickly tried to calculate how fast I would have to run and what would be the best route to take to get to class on time. In the middle of my apartment, I hectically paced all over the place, mumbling to myself as I tried to figure out the equation in my head. Finally, I mumbled, "screw it" and quickly grabbed the nearest pair of jeans.

I sprinted out the building's door, giving my neighbor, Rochelle, a cold wave and a bolted "hey" and down the sidewalk not realizing that I forgot to pick up my book bag.

Not picking up my book bag pretty much left my pursuit for class rendered useless. For without it, in Braxton's eyes, the history paper (that I spent all weekend on) didn't have a single sentence typed, let alone a thesis statement supported by five some paragraphs. He had a strict policy on papers being turned on time; a millisecond after the due date, it's an automatic zero. So in reality, it would have been better to simply fake a cold and stay at home where I could turn it in next class for only ten points marked off. Kind of contradicted itself but whatever.

I reached the campus when it was very much in the downswing; very few people would bother rolling out at bed at seven to play video games let alone trying to cram random bits of information in their heads. However, the few people who were there, namely a small group of girls sitting upon a bench under a statue of our school's mascot--an iguana with anime-esque spiked hair and retro sunglasses--biology textbooks strung out on their laps, open, yet eyes mainly fixated upon their mobile devices, quickly tossed their eyes aside if they caught sight of me, bewildered creases tugging at their faces.

Is it because I'm an alien with scaly, purple skin from the most distant galaxy that is the greatest exporter of tropical fruits? Or is it because I was standing on the courtyard's walkway, raving and panting in heavy breaths, sweat jumping out every pore like mini-catapults? Perhaps if I were wearing sweatpants or athletic shorts then I would have looked completely normal, yet fitted with faded jeans, a heavy black coat and tennis shoes, I might as well have been the reincarnation of Jeffrey Dahmer.

I overheard a small squeal of laughter translating into, "Look at that weird guy over there!"

Yes, I know I'm a freak. Now stop looking! Haven't you ever overslept before? I thought, defending my sanity as I checked the time on my piece-of-crap-phone. 6:55. Okay, I should make it to the classroom in time. Even if I don't, and I'm a few minutes late, I doubt even he would default my paper to a zero...wait, my paper!

My back felt light as if someone pinned a feather to it.

"Shit!" I exclaimed aloud, not overly loud, yet loud enough to broaden the attention already placed onto me. I felt like saying "shit" again as more faces peered up at me. Okay, maybe I am a freak.

Welp, zero for me I suppose! Even with my heavy-top B, my grade will plummet to be an F; struggling D if I'm lucky. Really, the only unseen benefit to this tragedy was that because I was living on my own, hours away from home, my mom would never find out. Then again, if I wasn't living on my own, she would have done a mad sprint to the college to bring me my bag. She would do such a thing numerous times before. First grade all the way up to the end of high school. And, other than the embarrassment such a gesture would sometimes bring, I missed it.

Damn they do a good job of brainwashing you, don't they? The most advanced version of Stockholm Syndrome I have ever seen!

I carried that ramble with me in lieu of my silly history paper on, "The Use of Poetry to Depict Historical Events". Such a title that's pretentious just by the second word. What doesn't have a use? No longer worried about receiving a zero, that much was guaranteed, I walked casually like a florist in a forest.

After ascending some outdated stairs, their design that would make me feel like I ascended into a magical realm specifically built for my nine-year-old-self if the steps didn't put so much strain on my knees and back, I reached my classroom but saw that the whole class was waiting outside the door. Despite the hallway being lit up like a pocketed sun, the inside of the classroom was darker than a handful of soil. Right, I forgot...Mr. Braxton was frequently late. His policy of "a second late equates into an equal zero" a way to fight his own tardiness without truly fighting it.

I rested against the wall, refueling my lungs with unstrained breath and peered down at my phone. 7:07. Not that the time mattered or anything...

"Did you do this, um, stupid paper?"

A voice said, close to me. Was he talking to me? I assumed he was, yet I was looking down into my phone, so I couldn't truly know until I looked up, but I didn't want to look up. I was content in my own world; the mobile screen displaying a majestic mountain prepackaged with the phone probably much more breathtaking than the face of another human being. Okay, universe...I'll meet you halfway! "Yeah, but I left it at home." I responded, eyes still glued to my cellphone.

"That sucks man." He patted me on my back, roughly, as if we were in the locker-room after the big game. The upper half of my body was thrust forward, cellphone shaking enough to force the slide screen to come unlock. "Don't feel bad though," I do, my back's in pain jackass! "I didn't do it either."

I looked up at him--a tall, bulky Hawaiian figure looming over me, short hair with a field of short spikes, crudely dyed in orange like anemic sunbeams. He wore the school's football jersey, sleeves rolled up, covered by a black leather jacket, sleeves also rolled up.

Douchebag. Was my initial thought from his appearance; the slap on my back didn't help much either. I simply nodded my head then peered down again at my phone hoping my disinterest wouldn't provoke any further conversation.

"You wanna ditch?"

I looked back up at him, casting him a look saying, "Seriously." Not because I have some golden rule against ditching class, (though I never ditched even once) but it felt somewhat childish to ditch college classes. High school, sure. But college? Why would anyone want to pay for class only to ditch it? Due, however, to not having my paper, going into class right now would be like going to an auction with only a belt buckle and a pocket of change. So I reluctantly accepted his offer. Who knows, maybe I'll find out that he's not such a bad guy after all!