Tardy

Miss Tardy for the Party

People are on average, 2 minutes late to class. Sprinkle in the couple of 5-minuters and the occasional 10, and they would all be considered your normal "tardy" student. Of course, they'll come up with some sort of excuse to justify why they have arrived right after the roll for attendance has been called. Some will say traffics to blame, while others will blame their parents. There will be the few brave souls that will be honest and say, "I was just running late". And then, there's me.

I just don't care enough to take the time to come up with an excuse. Honestly, I just don't care at all. I purposely go out of my way to show up a whopping 20-minutes late to class (anything later than that and your considered absent for the day). My day begins just as my alarm clock and the bell signaling the beginning of first period goes off; at 9:00am. I'll do my "Good Morning" stretch, just as Mrs. Brady stretches her arm to close her class door. She'll pick up her attendance as I pick up my tooth brush, and begin reading names off the list. She'll call the name Josephine Fitz and get no answer, nor will she expect one. Because she'll know, I, Josephine, preferably Jo, will have just finished brushing my teeth.

Mrs. Brady and I have been doing this dance for over a semester, and she has accepted the fact that I will show up when I show up. It wasn't as if the school was some great 50-minute bus ride away, it was a 5-minute walk. I just had no desire to get there on time. Miss perfect attendance was long gone and miss tardy for the party was here for the long haul. I walked over to my closet and pulled out whatever gave off the best "What is lifeeeeee?" look. I guess for today it was an oversized grey Army sweatshirt from the thrift shop, a pair of black denim jeans that were fading at the knees and some over-worn red converse. I put my hair in the messiest bun known to man and finished the look with a swipe of Chapstick. I was out the door at 9:15.

I opened the entrance to Mrs. Brady's class at precisely 9:20. Tardy pass in hand, I stepped in the room and gave my classic head bop greeting. "Always a pleasure to have you Ms. Fitz," says Mrs. Brady. But is it really a pleasure? Ever since August 25th, I've interrupted every lesson, discussion, or homework assessment you have ever had and now it's February 26th and I've shown no desire to change that. She's probably said it so much it's been mechanically wired into her brain to come out as soon as she lays her eyes on me.

She takes the slip, signs it, and sends me on my way so that she can start her class, again. As I begin walking, I can feel the eyes of every person in the classroom following me. They're all staring at the pink slip in between my middle and index finger. It's as damning as the scarlet A of Hester. Though at this point, I've grown used to it. So, I ignore their stares and head to the back of the class.

The back of the class, affectionately known as "The Secret Society of the Delinquents", which I have become a permanent member of, was the area sanctioned off for the disruptive and tardy students. Every now and then, we get the occasional guest. Today, it's Oscar Stevens. Poor little Oscar. It's his first time back here, and today he left his glasses at home.

I make my way to the chair next to the window, place my bag next to the desk, lean back and stare outside. I stopped paying attention in class too, though not to be mistaken for not doing my work. I snap a picture at the end of every class of whatever is written on the board and study it. Suffice it to say, I maintain an "A" at all times. That's probably why Mrs. Brady doesn't hound me about it; that and the incident.

Just as I reach for my headphones the bell goes off. First period was over and now for the next hellhole of a class. "Jo, wait," Mrs. Brady urges as I saunter towards the door. From the look in her eyes, I already knew what was coming. She wanted to know how I was doing. How I was feeling these days. Did I need someone to talk too? People always wanted to know if I was ok, especially Mrs. Brady.

About a year ago, I was never late; the opposite in fact. If there was ever someone who was too early, it was me. Mrs. Brady admired that; always quoting the phrase "to be early is to be on time and to be on time is to be late" to me in approval of my appreciation of time. But things happen and people change. I changed. So instead of listening to another unwarranted lecture, I put my headphones in my ear and walked out of the room.

She was just going to try to fix me. I was tired of people trying to fix me. Let me deal with my problems as I see fit. If that meant being late, then so be it. I'm managing it and getting by. I'm coping. At least I think I'm coping.

The next day began like every other has for the past 7 months. Today's outfit of choice, a black fitted crew neck under a black drawstring hoodie, with black distressed skinny jeans and finished with black combat boots. An all black attire is fitting of my mood for the day; a tad darker than usual. I didn't even bother with my hair, because honestly, what's the point anymore.

Taking my usual route to school, something seems off. Maybe it was something in the air or the way the flowers slumped over. Something just seemed different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

As I stepped inside the walls of Septima Clark High School, I could hear the murmurs of the security guards lower as they notice my presence. They are all well aware of what happened and they watch me and admire my strength. But seriously, what strength are you referring too?

I trod over to the front desk and ask Ms. James-Hewitt for my daily pass to class. She fills out the spaces on the sheet, turns it over, writes something on the back, and hands it to me with an empathetic look on her face. I give her a smile out of respect and head towards Mrs. Brady's class. I turn the note over to find the words "It will be ok" with a colon and right-sided parenthesis beside it. I scoff at it and fold it up in my hand. Why can't anyone just let me be?

I walk into class and Mrs. Brady stops on the fourth question of her homework assignment. I hand her my tardy slip, she signs it, hands me the quiz and sends me to the back of the class. "Always a pleasure to have you Ms. Fitz," she says before she starts to read the beginning of question five. The eyes begin to follow me again as I head to my seat. It's a little harder to ignore today because for some reason, they aren't looking away as quickly as they used too. I want to assume it's the outfit, but there's nothing that special about all black. I take my seat and I place my bag next to the desk. Today, I'm the only member of the club. I guess everyone wanted to be on time for the quiz, but clearly, it wasn't one of my priorities.

"She should be ashamed of herself," says Jamie Butler from the left middle section of the room. Snickers begin to erupt around the room. I hate people! They always feel the need to give they're opinion about every aspect of my life. I made this choice. It was my decision. I don't wan't to be on time; I'd actually prefer not to be here. But nonetheless, I show up everyday. Why is it your problem? No one is forcing you show up with me. I am the "late" girl and proud to be. So just let me be.

I place my head on the desktop, reveling in the fact that I was the solo member of the society today. Just as I was about to drift into sleep, the door opens. All the snickering in the room halts and the class is left in a dead silence. Mrs. Brady stops her lesson, turns and stares at the peculiar kid standing in the doorway.

"Uh, sorry I'm late. Is this Mrs. Brady's class?" the lanky figure timidly asks.

"It is. And you are?" inquires Mrs. Brady.

"Dylan. Dylan Mathers," he answers as he stretches his arm out to shake her hand. She dismisses his offer and says, "You can take a seat next to Ms. Fitz in the back," as she points in my direction. All I could do was stare at him.

For at almost a year now, I have strived to be the latest person to arrive in the history of this school. No one, and I mean no one, has ever arrived after me. This kid just thinks he can waltz in here with that innocent, dumbfounded look on his face trying to ruin my record in one day. Who the hell does he think he is?