Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

04 | Broken Ignition

MARTES
7:11 AM

Dahlia Gray

My alarm didn't go off.

I don't know what happened. I was in bed, just sleeping, and instead of hearing the casual scorn of the alarm that would alert me awake—with it's annoying ringtone—I was greeted with my mother.

She was dressed in her nightgown, a hand on her head as she tries to scrub the drowsiness from her eyes. She mumbled something incoherently, but I heard her asking if I had school today—which I knew I did.

Everything else scrambles by with a blur. I check the time and read that I had fifteen minutes to the clock. I dash into the bathroom, brush my teeth and tame my wild hair to whatever extent it could be messed with, and I changed into some formal clothes.

A beige sweater and skinny jeans.

I shove everything into my backpack; my MacBook, my notebooks and my homework packets that I successfully finished.

I head downstairs, my mother greeting me in the kitchen as I rush into the fridge and pulled out any travel-size breakfast that could accommodate me on the bus. The most I found was a cachito, which I turned to my mother with an appreciative smile.

She does nothing more than wave her hand.

I stuff it into my mouth as I pull the straps onto my shoulders, tapping my pockets for my inhaler and pulling my sneakers onto my feet. The hand on the doorknob, and with it twisted, I could see in view of the bus pulling up to the designated stop.

I have one minute.

"Mija," my mother calls for me, a second from stepping out. I turn back around, seeing her approaching figure as her hand flies out, caressing my cheek.

"Mamí, llego tarde—" Mom, I'm late—

"Te amo," I love you, she proclaims, leaning forward as she kisses my forehead. "Estudia mucho. Aprende mucho. Estoy orgullosa de ti." Study hard. Learn a lot. I'm proud of you.

I cup the base of my mother's hand, bringing it to my lips as I peck a kiss on her skin. I smile at her, a warm one that tells without speaking: I love you so much. You're the most important person to me. I don't think I could live a day without you.

She understood.

She takes her hand away, ushering me out the door as I'm reminded of reality. The bus waits as a couple kids begin to fill onto the yellow vehicle, and I'm suddenly pushed to the porch and rushing down the street as I'm met with the closing doors of the bus.

The bus driver—Amaris—sees me, and with a sigh, she creaks open the door once more. I hop on, thanking her with a stumble of words and head to the next available seat, hopefully somewhere isolated.

The bus swings the door closed and I settle into a singular seat, waiting for the arrival of school. We took a couple more stops, loading on a couple more kids, but in the end, I always sat alone.

I took myself back to my mother's calling in the morning, which was a rare sight herself to be awake before eight. I soak in each of her words, appreciating them from skin to bone.

She never specifically told me, but I knew the baseline of what she meant. She wanted me to seek an education higher than she was never given, to accomplish something she was never presented an opportunity for. My mother yearned to learn more than what she could afford, and time was never kind to her. Yet, I was living in America, and I was receiving the education she merely dreams of. It was always her.