Stirring the trees, the wind blows and slightly brushes my cheeks as I stand in the midst of my backyard. The weather has changed from yesterday’s sweat-drenched and heat-stroked air to today’s cool and crisp leaves. It’s too subtle a variation for a non-resident to notice, but to any Miamian, it is a welcomed transformation that stands for a new beginning.

The beginning of Fall to any student means a number of things—holiday vacations, report cards, end-of-the-semester exams, etc. Today I woke up as usual and got ready for another Monday at school. It’s October now and so school’s been in session for about seven weeks or so. Although my schedule is simple, for I dropped a few advanced classes to take ridiculously fun electives, I still dread school, as every teenager, or any student for that matter, does. I was especially aggravated about having to attend today because almost every other school has Columbus Day off—not my private all-girl school.

“You can stay home if you want,” my liberal mom offered as she stuck her head around my bedroom door. She was still in her nightgown, as she always is now that she’s taken a hiatus from doctoral school.

I heard my younger brother go pounding down the hall and I pictured his “Buzz Lightyear” pajamas swirling around him, for he had no school either. Sighing as I struggled with my protesting socks, I shook my head and replied, “It’s not worth it. I have a test and a quiz today; plus I’m gonna be missing the same classes on Wednesday when I go for my driving test.”

My mom silently shrugged and, ducking out of my room, shut my door behind her. I finally defeated my socks’ rebellion and somehow completed my task of putting on my shoes. Standing up, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my door and saw nothing but my blue uniform. Tidying up my room, I grabbed my book bag and art box and began my journey to the kitchen. Once there, I ate a few muffins and waited for my father to be ready to leave.

We were really late today because no one woke up on time. Well, actually no one had to wake up except me and I of course hit the “sleep” button on my alarm clock until my mom finally came in at 6:30—half an hour later than when I should be up. I suppose I was silently hoping that somehow I would sleep past the school day and wouldn’t have to sit in a desk all day. As I lay in my bed, I couldn’t even sleep, instead I rationalized with myself—the curse of an over-achiever attempting to “let things go a bit.” I had gotten up earlier at five and reread my Theology chapter, for I had a test that day and hadn’t studied the night before—procrastination is another one of my mantras. After that I took a quick shower, changed back into my nightshirt, and jumped back in bed. I should’ve studied for my Pre-Calculus quiz, especially since my grades are faltering in the class, but I didn’t—instead I thought of ways to get out of school. However, when my opportunity came, the perfectionist in me took over and I folded without even anteing up.

I dwelled on this failure as I perused my Math notes while still waiting for my father to emerge from the darkness of the hallway, sparkling and clean and ready to go. Finally Dad did show up and I proceeded to put my things away—stuffing my book bag full of my scourges and zipping it up tightly before any could escape to menace me more. Dad had to go find something in his bedroom before he could leave, so Mom sent me to the car to wait for him.

As I sat in the passenger’s seat, I began to think of how I really did not want to go to school today and how I was really not prepared for either the exam or the quiz I had today. I was nearly ready to jump out of the car when my father appeared. We drove basically in silence until we reached my school. I hesitated prior to closing the door—it felt like a final choice—freedom or mounds of paper and ink and the pain of thought. The pseudo-magnitude of this decision didn’t hit me until I had closed the door and was on my way and walking into school.

Sitting down on the floor by the bench, “our bench” where all of my friends sit, I heard the tail-end of the conversation that my comrades were heatedly discussing—the topic of course being college. I, being one of the “normal” teenagers, happen to have no idea where or what I want to do when I’m older and absolutely despise discussing the future, yet my friends adore it—rather they thrive on depressing themselves with statements like “I’ll never get in there because I’m not Hispanic” or “My grades aren’t good enough for that one.” My all-time favorite is when one of my closest friends reminds me that the “cake” classes I’m taking this year “will look really bad to colleges” and I “shouldn’t expect to get in anywhere.” Oh well, considering I don’t know what I want to occupy my time with later, I suppose that’s a great way to save my parents money. Well, trying to ignore their annoying discussion, I attempted to get comfortable on the floor, for all the seats on the bench were taken because I was so late, and pulled out my dreaded Math notebook again.

I had barely began pretending to study when one of my friends asked, “What are you reading?”

“Math. I have that quiz today that you took last Friday,” I retorted rather irked. Somehow I figured it was obvious to everyone that I was having a bad day and I was totally unprepared for the dumb quiz.

Oh, that,” she replied with a shrug. “That’s cake.” She might’ve had a disgusted look on her face and had said, “That sucks,” but I’m not sure which, for she was on the bench while I was below and our differences in height made it hard to hear. I simply sighed and went back to my notes, yet she didn’t get the message and continued pestering me. “You look like you had a bad day. I bet you my weekend was worse than yours. Why don’t you tell me about your day.”

By then it had finally hit me that I totally did not understand my math and was most likely going to fail my quiz and I let out all my anger on my friend, “Look, I don’t want to tell you about my day. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk to you. I want to simply sit here and study. That’s it—just sit and study, okay?”

I knew I had gone too far when I looked at her. She had backed away from me and was looking sad and angry simultaneously. “Okay,” she muttered.

I felt like crying. I had just snapped at one of my best friends, had missed my chance at staying home, and knew I was going to fail my math quiz. Closing my spiral, I searched through my backpack for my wallet and then proceeded to look for thirty-five cents. In the midst of my doing this, another of my friends offered, “Do you need money?” I shook a “no,” found my dime and quarter, grabbed my things, and walked off, leaving my friends wondering in the distance.

Battling the annoying swarms of girls dawdling in the hallway, I finally reached my destination—the pay phones. I put in my money and dialed my home number. My mother answered on the second ring, but it was extremely hard to understand her, for girls make a whole lot of noise when gathered together in groups no less than five.

“Hey, mom?”

“Yeah, sweetie, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I shook my head as I held the receiver tighter to my ear. “Do you ever just feel like you don’t belong?”

I’m not sure if my mom heard me right or if I misunderstood her reply, but either way her response didn’t really go with my question. “So you want to come home?”

“Can I? I don’t know if—”

“You may not like yourself if you did. You’d have all that work to make up.”

“Yeah I know. I—”

Mom cut me off again with, “Where are you? The nurse’s office?”

“No,” I whispered, close to tears for no apparent reason, “I’m at the pay phones.”

“Okay, sweetie, then just try to stick it out. I love you.” She waited on the phone for a few seconds for me to reply, but I couldn’t. That dull ache had taken over my throat and I could feel the tears stinging the bottom ridges of my eyes. I heard the slight hum of the dial tone and hung up. Gulping, I gathered my things and went in the direction of homeroom—I couldn’t face my friends again—not yet anyway.

However, I never made it to homeroom. Instead, half-way there, I turned around and headed straight for the main office and, once there, entered the nurse’s office.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking up from her computer work.

“Um, I’m really not feeling well. I was feeling kinda bad earlier, but now—” I let my sentence drag off so that she could interrupt me.

“Do you want to call home?”

“Okay.”

I called my mom, who, although sounding a bit annoyed, agreed to pick me up. Sitting on the vinyl couch, resting my head in my hands, and closing my eyes, I began to question my motives. I knew from the start that I wasn’t really sick, but what was I avoiding? Was it my Theology test? My math quiz? School in general? I knew I wasn’t completely pretending, for my head did feel very heavy and my stomach was a bit upset—both symptoms probably more of emotional turmoil than anything else. Either way, my mom showed up soon enough and I was on my way home.

On our journey to safety, I got my mother’s famous, “I think you’re being a bit of a baby about all of this, but you’re old enough to make your own decisions now. Besides in doesn’t matter now, it’s over, and you’ll have to face the consequences tomorrow.” She wasn’t really lecturing me, but instead telling me her point of view. It bugged me all the while we were in the car and I hesitated before leaving it once we had arrived. Once again I realized that the car was my safety, for both school and home held responsibilities and unforeseen difficulties for me. Slamming the door, I got out of the car.

Once in my room for the second time that morning, I grabbed my history books and prepared myself to write the essay that is due tomorrow. Instead, I found myself writing an apologetic note to my friend that even now sits in my binder waiting to be delivered tomorrow. I hope it will begin to patch things over between us. After the note, I wrote my essay and then studied my math until I understood it—at least until I thought I understood it. I’ll know by tomorrow when I take a make-up in the afternoon. I even finished my art journal pages that aren’t due until the end of next week. Plus I rescheduled my driving appointment to Thursday afternoon so I won’t be missing as much class. So basically I’ve found myself in a paradox—I’ve accomplished a lot, yet have set myself back at the same time.

Subsequently I walk outside and feel the breeze on my face and admire the dry air. Spreading my arms out, I hold my head back and close my eyes. Smiling, I shake my head. “No,” I say aloud and think, “Today was too good a day to spend indoors.”

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