What? I blink. No, I’m not staring at you. The smoky haze reverses in time, returning from sprawled, diffuse chaos back into tangible, solid objects. Huh? I don’t know why I’m sitting in the middle of the Pronto Room. I just am. I grab my face and rub the corners of my eyes with my middle and ring fingers, flattening and deforming my cheeks as my cold hands run harshly down my face. With contorted yawns I thrust my arms behind me, stretching my back, and stand up to greet the amused girl in front of me, my classmate once 4B starts in five minutes. What’s up? Nothing? That was enlightening and worthwhile, but I had expected no more. Well, then.
I don’t know where my backpack is. The same thing happens every day. I spin around looking for blue lining on black, and notice it sitting within five feet of me. Brilliant. Don’t judge me. I walk methodically. I climb the stairs two steps at a time, accelerating to a jog over the short stretch of stairs to ascend a half story, and stroll into the Writing Center, sweeping my attention over each sunlit face and each empty chair along the long table at the center of the room. I sit at its foot since Mr. Harris always claims the head, even though he hasn’t arrived yet. If it weren’t for arbitrary social customs, my side would be the head of the table, and I’d be in charge. Damn.
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