Alarm wails. 6:20. This could be the start of a murder mystery, or maybe a reality drama. Fumble for glasses, click on the dusty lamp, become aware of the tornado that has devastated my room, slide into pants, slouch into a wrinkled T-shirt, tiptoe into the bathroom down the hall, not looking at myself in the mirror, hurdle icicles at my face, tuuuug a brush through my mane, mash the toothbrush over my teeth, stomp down the stairs into light.

I wonder if I have died. Nope. Just my kitchen. Too bright. Pour eggs and orange juice into my gaping mouth, teleport to school. I probably drove. Just can’t remember. First period chases me ruthlessly until I am seated in the trailer, confined under fluorescent lights, and forces me to consider the color of the rosebush in The Scarlet Letter. Red? Or white?

Second period drags me into Spanish, scolds me until I understand the jumble of foreign language. Which, for the record, never happens. Third period is okay. We could maybe be friends. We sit down together and play Tchaikovsky.

Fourth period and I have been besties for years. Lunch is my saving grace. A little loud for my liking, though. She talks incessantly and sounds like a thousand miserable high schoolers. Don’t get me started on fifth period. Calculus pushes me into my seat and mashes out my brains. Every day. It doesn’t have to chase me to

Sixth period.

Meh. We learn about something called Stono’s Rebellion. Useful for “Jeopardy,” maybe? Ahh. They don’t hesitate to save the worst for last. The others seem like angels compared to seventh period. Physics is like Spanish, except I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be understanding.

Then, suddenly, the bell sounds, opening the doors, allowing us to fly home, to … homework. I die at 12. Alarm wails. 6:20. It could be the start of the next best show on Netflix, or maybe the new Marvel movie. Once again, I am wrong.