This story, if slightly pointless, was fun to write and based off a true story.
The day started when I woke up.
Perhaps you think that is redundant. The day starts when you wake up...isn't that always the case? But this question leads to a conversation completely unrelated to the story I'm about to relate, so I'll ignore it and simply repeat emphatically if redundantly, that the day started when I woke up.
I realize that a lot of stories start with people waking up. Usually it's their name being called, or a bucket of water getting thrown over their heads, or perhaps getting dumped out of a moving train.
So I know it sounds cliche when I begin this story in such a manner. But hang in there. It will soon get more exciting.
"Zack! Zack, wake up," my mother's voice came from the doorway. I peered over the top of my covers, blinking at her.
"I'm up," I mumbled, then burrowed deeper into my lumpy mattress.
"Zack, you have the choir trip today, remember? Get up right now or you'll miss the bus."
"Oh, joy," I said. I sat up abruptly and glared at my mother, who was smiling brightly in the doorway. "It's a constant source of amazement to me how you can be so wide awake at four-thirty in the morning."
My mother didn't actually know this, but I was a really light sleeper. I had been awake ever since she had, but I didn't have the same drive to get up as she did. Knowing her, she'd been exercising, doing dishes and working on her novel all before four o'clock.
"All right, all right, get out of here, mom," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. She disappeared quickly and seconds later I heard her quick footsteps going down the stairs to the basement. She would be down there for hours now, typing away on the new novel. There's something to be said for having a writing mother. You can get away with all sorts of stuff while they're totally oblivious, stuck in their make-believe planet of words.
It took me about two minutes to get up, throw on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and brush my teeth. I'm a very economical dresser, and if I can avoid brushing my hair by throwing up the hood of my jacket, then so be it.
I belonged to the college choir, and this weekend was their 'tour' across the west coast. Exciting, eh? You might think so, but you'd be wrong. We would sing at two middle schools, three high schools, and tour the Capitol Building in Olympia, Washington. Then we'd spend the night in some cheap hotel and go home. Not exciting, in my opinion.
Grabbing my bag that held my black performance clothing, I headed out the front door, locking it carefully behind me. Going out to my little beat-up car (I still wasn't sure what kind it was) I threw my bag in the very small trunk.
Breakfast. I had forgotten breakfast. Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had fifteen minutes - long enough for cold cereal. I ran to the door, thrust my key in the lock and...
It broke. My key broke in the lock. Snapped off right at the base, leaving me with a fat little piece of useless metal.
Think, think, I commanded myself. Not being well-versed in the arts of lock-picking, that option was ruled out for me. Mom would never hear me knocking, and Dad was gone on a business trip. Sighing, I turned and headed back out to the car. A wonderful beginning to a wonderful day, I thought. And I meant that sarcastically.
Turning to the trusty vending machine outside a close-by fabric store for my sustenance, I mentally decided on a bag of licorice and some potato chips for breakfast. I slid my money into the little slot and...
It ate my money. The vending machine ate my money. Disappeared into the mysterious, gurgling belly of the machine.
Grinding my teeth in frustration, I finally gave up altogether on the idea of breakfast, deciding instead to not be late to the bus for once. A glance at my watch told me that this idea was folly, after all, and not only was I going to skip breakfast, but I was going to be facing an irate professor.
I sped through the gray streets, marveling at how the people of Yakima seemed to be awake at the most unusual hours. Seeing long lines of cars at four forty-five A.M merely confirmed my opinion of the Yakima population's sanity.
I pulled into the parking lot a good five minutes ahead of those who were drastically late. Meaning I was there about ten minutes after the appointed time. I passed by my jolly, roly-poly professor who only gave me a mild glare and allowed me to sit down. I sank with relief into one of the nearest seats, my head already aching from exhaustion, hunger and frustration at the human race.
"Hey, there, Zack!"
I groaned and opened my eyes. There staring down at me was a slightly overweight guy with brown, wavy hair and a bright grin.
"Hey, Adam. Sit?"
He sat down next to me, eyes wide open and grin still plastered on. "You were up all night, weren't you?" I asked, grinning.
His smile disappeared and his eyes sagged shut. "Yeah. Again."
Adam had a reputation for staying up all night, doing homework or messing around on the computer. He wasn't an insomniac, he just felt that sleeping was wasted time that could be used better elsewhere.
Walking down the isle was a girl I'd seen before, but never actually talked to. She had cropped, wavy brown hair and looked reasonably awake. She was already dressed in her concert clothes. She wasn't especially pretty, but her eyes looked sharp and intelligent. Peering around the bus, she found a seat that was vacant...the one right behind Adam and I. Sitting down, she slung her large khaki bag onto the seat beside her, folded her arms and glared at all the late-comers, daring them to ask to sit next to her. No one did.
Adam twisted around in his seat and smiled at the girl. "Hey, what's up?"
She smiled back at him, scowl disappearing like smoke in the wind. "Nothing much. You were up again all night, weren't you?"
He sighed, rolling his eyes, and turned back around. "How did you ever guess?"
"Woman's intuition," replied the girl. She pulled the hood of her black sweatshirt up over her hair and laid her head against the window, idly tracing lines on it with her finger.
I tried to follow her example and relax, but was unable to. The noise of all the 'popular' kids in the back was too much to be ignored, so I sat up straight and turned to Adam. "So let me tell you about the terrible things that have happened to me this morning," I said, eager to share my pain. He didn't answer, so I continued. I told him about the key in the lock and the vending machine. He grinned and nodded sympathetically, but I heard a snort of muffled laughter behind me.
I twisted abruptly and caught the brown-haired girl covering her face with her hand. Her brown eyes twinkled up at me and she shook her head. "Really? All that really happened to you?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, surprised. She hadn't seemed like the giggly type before.
"Would you mind awfully if I took notes? I'd like to turn this entire trip into an article. A comedy."
I turned around again and made faces at the front of the seat. Who is this dumb girl? I thought. Taking notes about my life? Whatever.
"Whatever," I said, shrugging. I decided to ignore the sound of her scratching pencil and her occasional chuckles, concentrating instead on the sounds coming from the back seat. There was Richard's voice, Monica, Sam...all the popular and beautiful people. It was college so there were no real 'cliques' but if there had been, they would be one.
"EEEEEW! There's a pepperoni stick in my window!" a high-pitched voice shrieked from the back of the bus. Leslie was here. She was known for shouting extremely random sentences at the top of her voice. Her laugh was also notorious, a high, horse-like whinny...except no horse ever attained such a piercing tone.
The girl behind me was still taking notes, and I would have bet anything that she was writing down what Leslie had said.
*gotta go, but what do you think so far? Based off a true story. I'm the girl behind Zack, and I was really taking notes...where this story cam from. It was fun.*
