Oh, the thirteenth.
“Bye, Henna,” she called out as the train doors opened. Over the gap. Back to reality. While she walked the graffiti bridge, she noticed a man who was behind her. Clean cut work suit, patented leather briefcase, newspaper between his arms. A stellar example of what she saw every day. Quickening her steps, she and her vans got all the way to the curb. With so much on her mind, she flinched when a big gray Sudan flew by her. After backtracking a few steps, she noticed a white CR-V over the asphalt horizon. I can sprint it, no problem. With her 4-feet steps, she made it, with a few seconds to spare. Like her grandpa, she had a problem with sliding her feet on concrete when she was anxious or “tight.” Reviewing the course of the day, she realized how bad she was doing in biology, and how she covered up her mishaps with foolish actions that would get her into more deep trouble. Reminds me of my social studies teacher. Mr. Weintraub was the deficit of her middle school. Jewish, fat, lazy, didn’t do anything except boast about his greatness. He was a pain who would never get the job done. On top of that, he’d panelized kids to take up class time. Her biology teacher looked similar, but taught much differently. He was cold-hearted, caring only about his 80-all-time-low Regents class grade. He taught efficiently, but like Mr. Fat-lazy, he panelized kids, which not to mention took up class time as well. All the tension would be focused on that kid, with a jolt of adrenaline rushing up as they heard their names. Their faces would flush red, with total embarrassment, although the rest of the class would not give tis’ a s***. That day, the victim was her. “*, are you listening?” She nods her head.” I don’t think you are. You’re too busy drawing.” She puts down her head. “I don’t know about you, but in this class we learn biology.”
After noticing a Ho Ho Ho lawn flag, she skid over an tree root that overrid the concrete. Even since dormancy, the plant grows against gravity. More biology. Something then came out of the bushes. A bee was thrown to the floor, wobbled in order to get right-side-up, and flew up as if it just woke up from a hangover. The only thing separating her from the house, was the drive will. A small hill with cracks caked with white plaster, faded over time. Walking up, she felt the sandy panels that lined my house, until they touched the black bars of my porch. Her dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Strange. Usually, it was the first thing she noticed. The purple magnolias lined side of her driveway, complimented by monocotic plants with while-bells as flowers. She noticed one had been facing away from the sun these past couple of days, and now has shriveled, like a Raisin in the Sun. Feeling exhausted, she rang her doorbell, which could be heard even outside the house. You could hear her sister running down the stairs. After peeking through the shades, the door unlocks and she prances in. Sliding off her shoes, she stops and goes to the basement. She then goes back up, with a new found idea of watching Scott Pilgrim versus the World. She turned on the shower, and took off her watch while waiting for the water to get warm. After scratching bra marks and examining her recently contracted eye zit, she walked to her room, which the windows would stain yellow. After thinking long and hard about her next move, she collapsed onto her bed. If I could, I’d lay here forever.