American

Chapter 1: Under the Weather

BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP. BEEEEEE-

I slammed my bony hand down on my alarm clock. Monday, the day I and all my fellow New Yorkers hate even as adults, was already finished. Now it was an amazing, hopeful, Tuesday morning.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

I was thirteen years old, just starting my last year of middle school. Classes officially started at 7:50 AM. Personally, I argue that this is way too early to force a growing teenager into a building to stuff their brain. Although they need the information for school, they won't remember it when taught so early in the morning. At 7:50, a person as young as thirteen should be eating breakfast and preparing to leave for the bus, not sitting in a math classroom figuring out quadratics.

Grudgingly, I forced my brown eyes open and sat up in my bed. My New Jersey Devils comforter wrinkled as I bent my knees. The Twin Towers proudly stood tall outside my window, about a mile away. They glistened at me arrogantly as if nothing would happen, as if a plane wouldn't be ripping through both of their sister hearts in just under three hours.

I stepped out of the bed and stared out, pressing my fingers to the glass pane. The black-and-white antenna at the very top of One WTC glimmered in the rising sun. Her sister-tower, 2 World Trade Center, did not have an antenna. Still, she stood proud and tall next to her twin sister, representing America's strength and freedom. The two also served as a finance hub for the entire world. This, I later learned, was one of the major reasons why al-Qaeda targeted the towers. They were an important symbol in a functioning America.

What about when the twins and 7 World Trade Center fell? Would anything represent freedom without them in their usual place at the very south tip of the island of Manhattan? America would be seen as weak by other countries fighting in favor of al-Qaeda. Instead of two landmark towers and five more in their complex, there'd be smoke. Charred bodies, but more unrecognizable remains than the former. Ashes. Paper. Dust.

6:50. Time to start preparing for school.

Except I didn't feel well enough.

I bent over and coughed violently into my arm. Snatching a thermometer from my shelf, I silently hoped that I had an illness so that I could skip school. Even if I didn't, I would skip classes anyway. I knew it was wrong, but I simply felt too fatigued and sick to attend classes for seven hours straight.

"Mom!" I called out when the thermometer flashed 38.3 Celsius/101 Fahrenheit.

"What is it, Monica, my dear?" My mother, a tall, slim woman with black hair, responded from the kitchen. I have always looked more like my father than her, with my tan skin, deep brown eyes, small amount of excess weight, and very curly chocolate hair. Even now when I look in the mirror, I am reminded of my dear father, Paul Nowland, who I was forced to spend the remaining five years of my childhood without after that tragic Tuesday morning.

"I am running a temperature," I confessed, walking to the kitchen and holding up the thermometer for her to see. "I think I will skip school today because of this fever. I am very tired and ill. Is that alright?"

"It is completely fine with me. Oh, my poor Monica," my mother was preparing to leave for her work as a high school teacher, but she took the time to wrap me into a hug. "Today is your day to stay home, my girl. Why don't you go ahead and sleep in for a few more hours? Go and get a very much needed rest for your young body."

"Thanks, mom!" I celebrated the present of sleep in my feverish state, striding back towards my small bedchamber. The only thing I wanted to do was sleep for just a few more hours.

Then I stopped suddenly. My curly, dark brown hair stopped with me. I was short and a bit overweight. The genetics had obviously favored my dear father, Paul, as I stated earlier. Although I resembled him slightly when I was young, it is much more visible now, possibly because I am a full grown adult instead of a teenager.

"Mama?" I called. "I changed my mind about sleep."

"What will you do instead, my dear?"

"Where's Pops?"

"Your father left an hour ago," my mother stood up from the little brown couch. "He is preparing for work in the North Tower."

I squealed like a toddler. "One World Trade Center is so gorgeous in its blandness! My favorite building in Manhattan. "What floor is AT&T Corporation usually on?"

"Floor 51," my mother answered, "They start the meeting at 9:00. Paul—Dad—left early to prepare some of the books for the presentation. Your father is probably eating breakfast now."

"Can I visit him?" I question. "I promise I will be quick."

"Of course," Mother placed her hand on my shoulder, "But be careful. New York City is a terrible place sometimes. And hurry. Pops has to be in the AT&T meeting room by 9, so get your bottom ready and hop on the metro! Make sure you don't forget your subway card!"

I giggled, just a tad, as I strutted back to my room in Dad's way of walking to retrieve an outfit for the day. I couldn't wait to visit 1 WTC. How was I supposed to know that that visits was about to turn into the worst day of my life? I had no idea that as my father lost his life as the Tower fell on him above me, I would almost lose mine just trying to escape the building.

I visited to see my father. That's all I wanted was to see my own father.

Little did I'd never see him again, even at his own funeral.