The sound of birds chirping cheerfully shook me out of my dreamless sleep. No, it wasn't birds—though that would have been pretty darn awesome—it was my pesky cell phone alarm clock. The vibrating on my nightstand could annoy me worse then anything else in the world. I grunted harshly and yanked the charger cord from the top of the plastic soon-to-be-water-logged device. I let the smooth, slim cord fall from my hands onto my green-carpeted floor and slammed the cell phone down roughly on the black, wooden nightstand. I reached down to pull my gray comforter with black and silver leaves sprawled over it up to cover my face. The light was shielded from my view for a few seconds before the unthinkable happened. The "birds" chirped again. I pulled the covers off of my face and squinted across the room to catch the time on my Verizon FiOS cable box. Bright orange numbers were contrasted greatly against the pitch-black background and with my 20/20 vision; I could see the time perfectly. 7:43. Crap, crap, crap. I jumped up and yanked the sheets off of me. They fell in a messy pile atop my futon, but at this point in the morning, that was definitely not in my book of important things to do. I pulled the door handle—not twisted because it had mysteriously broken a few years back leaving me with no lock on my door—and pushed the door of the bathroom open that was located on my left side.
I did all of my late-getting-up morning rituals: Plugged in my flat iron—though I knew I would probably not even touch it and just go with a hair band to pull back my wavy, light brown bangs from my eyes—, brushed my teeth with the blue Aim toothpaste I hated with all of my heart because of the feeling of my mouth on fire every time I used it, and brushed my hair out thoroughly so I wouldn't have to waste time when I came back again after I was dressed. As I rushed out of the bathroom door to get back into my room I said good-bye to my father as he left early for work and in the back of my mind wished that he would pack my lunch for me. Even if he was my adopted father, he could still pack my lunch for me on a busy day, right? I didn't ask though, because he would probably say no anyway because he-himself was probably running late too and then that would be a waste of my breath and twenty seconds of my late morning rush to the bus stop and his late-leave for work.
My father was a generous man who always looked for the best in people. He was always honest with everyone and I think that's why my adopted mother fell in love with him in the first place. It's hard to find a man nowadays with compassion, sympathy, and pretty much all of the qualities of a 1800s gentleman. Straight down to the British accent. He had grown up in a small, quaint town just outside of London and that's where he met Mom. They where high school sweethearts and had been together since they first met at the homecoming game for their freshman year. I always though she might have fallen for his bright blue eyes or his sparkling, white smile with teeth as perfect as pearls. But, now that I actually appreciated these traits in guys—seeing as I didn't see it quite too often—I realized it was because of how he treated others. Everyone was equal and whoever he was speaking to was on the top of his agenda. He was also a romantic fool. Roses, poems, and songs about his lover complete with guitar and more passion then the eighth grade boys in my year could muster in more then a decade. Combined. He moved to America with Mom after they were married and had been living here in Florida since before I was brought into their lives. But, we'll touch on that story later, shall we?
I pulled on a one of my three pairs of blue jeans—not including the pairs that were so ridiculously colored I could only wear them with certain shirts—and threw on my purple "So Think You Can Skate" T-shirt. I threw out all of my clothes that were clean and still sitting in the laundry basket—unfolded I should admit—and found two different colored socks. No one would see them hidden inside of my black converse anyways, so who needs to match? I laced up the shoes and raced to the bathroom again. I applied my usual Bare Minerals, black eyeliner, and mascara and slid on my two friendship bracelets—I had always wanted to learn how to make them but was to lazy to learn—and slid on a plastic hair band with little teeth on the bottom so my unruly side bangs wouldn't come out by accident. I seriously owed the person who made these things with my life. I grabbed my blue messenger bag and shoved the light blue straps of my tulip bag—which was called a tulip bag because if you hung a green string from the bottom it would seriously look like a freakishly blue flower—up on my shoulder and ran for the door. It was now 8:01 and even if I made my lunch in record time, I still would not have made it to the bus stop in time. My mind raced back to remember if I had any money in my little peace-sign change purse. Thinking back to the Dear John movie last Friday with a few of my friends, I remembered I had about ten dollars left of the twenty my father had given me for tickets. Thank God he always forgot to ask for the change back.
I rushed out the door and closed it with a slam—which was probably the result of the air pressure in the house with all of the windows being open and all—and searched through my purse for the silver key I would need to complete my quest out of the door and to the bus stop in time to catch the yellow death-trap full of screaming sixth graders. My hands locked onto something cold and sharp and I yanked it from my bag. I shoved the key in the lock and turned it hard, knocking the door with my knee to push it shut. After pushing down on the handle to make sure I wouldn't come home with masked burglars robbing my house and shoving my three cats in plastic bags, I ran like the wind to the bus stop at the end of the street. A few houses later and my thighs on fire, I stepped through the grass and onto the side walk where the bus was supposed to pick up the passengers in this location at.
I threw my bags to the hard, cement ground and let my shoulder relax for a few seconds before the bus would take me on a noisy journey to the school that was located way to far away for the kids living at this side of town to be going too. I didn't understand how it was so hard to zone a school close to the kids that actually went there. My bus ride was a freaking hour long there and back and all I had to entertain me was my iPod, cell phone, and whatever book I had brought with me that day—which changed very often because I have no life and read all of the time. Okay, well, I have a life, and I only read if the book is fantastically amazing. Which explains why I'm almost done with the paper-back I am currently clutching in my hand after pulling it from my purse to read while I wait.
The wind around me whistled and I clutched my arms close to my chest to try and keep in the warmth I knew would escape anyways. The sun was right in front of me hanging high in the sky to indicate it was late morning, but not so late I should be eating my school lunch as of now. I saw a yellow figure coming into view on my left so I shoved the book back in my purse and swung the bags onto my shoulder. I looked down, grabbing for my knitted bag I knew held my ice skates. It wasn't there. I must have left it at home when I was rushing to get ready. How could I be so stupid? Rage filled me and I was completely angry with myself. Today was our last practice until the big show on Saturday and my last chance to get on the ice before I have to twirl around and possibly make a full out of myself as I try to remember the moves I would have remembered if I brought my freaking ice skates! I could see them with their cow-patterned blade covers and their untied laces wrapped feebly around the tops and looped carelessly into a messy bow-tie. I could even hear their calls as they sang out for me to rush home and grab them so I could win first place at the regional competition that was only a day away. The bus pulled up to were I was standing alone on the sidewalk. I sighed and turned my head to look back at were my hopes and dreams for my future lied. In that stupid wool bag with my stupid white skates and their stupid cow-print blade covers lying on the floor of my stupid bedroom. Maybe I was being over-dramatic. Maybe they would have an extra pair I could use for practice, maybe I could make it through coach's stern, twenty minute lecture on how important it is to bring my skates with me everyday to school so I would have them at the rink when the bell rang at 4:15 and I could rush across the busy highway over to my safe-haven and lace them up. And skate my heart out.
I climbed on the bus and looked for an empty seat. The one thing I hate about buses is the thought of someone sitting so close in proximity to me that with one false move of their elbow and I could be clutching my stomach in an attempt to breathe in the air that was forced out. Not my idea of fun if you tell me. Ah-ha! I rushed into a seat in the middle of the bus before the careless driver took off down the road while I was still standing. Wouldn't want to repeat of last year's little incident of being thrown backward into the window and being quite a sight for the driver waiting behind us. No, I think I would skip that mishap for today and try and make my bad day into a good one. Though it was already raining I could still turn my frown upside down, right? Well, I kept onto that hope as the bus turned a few more corners and we were on the main road again headed towards the school with only a few stops left.
Point-Brook Middle School is one of those schools that have a lot of useless history no cares about. But they still bother telling us at school assemblies anyways. It's got the architecture of an old church building with the stained glass windows and high vaulted ceilings. The teachers are… bearable. Okay, no, they are strict little monsters that should have probably retired two-hundred years ago because they were at least five-hundred. Yet, even through their old age, they still manage to torture us relentlessly. And by that I mean give long lectures about things no one gives a carrot stick about and they practically give us a whole college year of work to do in one night. Let me just tell you something, it sucks.
I pulled my book from my bag—seeing that it would be at least thirty minutes until we reached school—and started to read. It was the "Lovely Bones" by Alice Sebold. I admired her writing style and how she could go from talking about one thing and completely take you off course but bring you right back to the story without any trouble at all. The way she skips through the life of Susie Salmon—and the life after—is so beautiful it's like reading a book of poems. Along with being an Olympic figure skater, I hoped to also become a successful author who could keep a reader captivated long enough to get my point across and for the readers of my books to walk around wearing shirts with my characters on them. Though, the extent of people wearing plastic vampire teeth isn't really on my agenda of what I would like to accomplish.
I read through the chapters and the words swirled around in my head. Not in the I-can't-read-this way, but the wow-this-book-is-so-freaking-amazing-I'm-trying-to-take-it-all-in way. Before I knew it, the bus had come to a complete stop at the bus ramp at the front of the school. From the grimy window laced with gum and flies, I could see the normal cliques you would see at a middle school. Not so advanced as the high school cliques but they were still noticeable. To the left were the preps; the cheerleaders weirdly wearing their uniforms of short red skirts and shirts that said "Eagles" across the chest. Even without the usual pom-poms it still made me sick even to look at the sugar-coated gum-drops of Candy Land.
To the right were the Darks which consisted of all the black-wearing groups; the Goths, the Emos, and the rest of that wannabe crowd. They all fell into that category. In and among those groups were the skaters, the musicians, the athletes—jocks included with an occasional cheerleader here and there—and the environmental leaf-heads. I'm not the one who places these people in these categories so don't start pointing fingers at me, I just live here! Anyways, I hoped off the bus and went to the usual meeting spot of my friends: under the big oak tree in the side yard. I walked in-between the random bystanders that just had the mindset of keeping me from walking by not moving an inch when I would say polite things like "Excuse me." or "Please move." No, they had to have it the hard way, and so they were going to get it.
"Move it!" I yelled fed up with being polite and this cruddy day. People moved when I used my loud voice. I took pride in that.
I felt the soft crunch of the grass as I walked over to a large tree at the edge of a far yard located at the side of the school. My two best friends were sitting there cross-legged with notebooks spread out on the grass and pencils in their hands and tucked behind their ears. When they heard me coming they looked up smiling and then went back to their probably forgotten homework.
"Hey guys!" I said taking a seat beside Navy on the grass underneath the oak.
Navy was my best friend since we first met in Beginning Ice School at the age of six. She had really red hair that looked like the color you'd find in a crayon box marked as "Carrot Red" and freckles were splattered across her face. Hey eyes were really green which I attributed to her "green" obsession. She could have been a total hippie. She always held rallies for saving whales and taught classes at the local library about how to recycle your trash and save water by turning off the sink when you are brushing your teeth or by taking five-minute showers. Yeah, I have picked up quite a lot of information from her, actually. She always wears tie-dye shirts or recycled bamboo fabric tees with quotes like "Pandas like the trees too!" or "Save some water for the whales!" written on them in colorful writing and bright pictures of the animal she is supporting.
"Hey there Jess…" she said sounding distracted, which she probably was.
"Did you guys, like, forget to do your homework or something?" I laughed taking in the sight of my friends doing homework under our big, oak tree.
"Don't laugh!" said my other best friend Capri.
Capri was, well, beautiful. She had long blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Her flawless complexion and tan skin would definitely make a super-model jealous. Capri was really into fashion, which I guess definitely fit her name. Stella McCartney, Calvin Klein, and Armani were the people she worshiped. She would rather buy a pair of two-hundred dollar sunglasses than eat for a week; which I've seen her do. But don't get me wrong, I love Capri like a sister but she is a little conceited at times.
Without the whole figure skating thing, however, none of us would have ever met. That's what conjoined us all at the hip like triplets and that's what we all had in a common; a passion that we all can understand because we all have the same one.
Navy looked up from her work and eyed me suspiciously likeI was hiding something. "Where are your skates?" she asked quizzically.
I sighed and looked down at my feet which were in butterfly position so I could get my stretches in for the morning to calm myself down. "Want to hear my mid-morning nightmare story?"
This seemed to catch Capri's attention because she quickly looked up and her eyes were full of eagerness. "Spill."