Chapter II.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
"Ughh"
I quickly rolled over and swung my hand onto the snooze button.
I looked at the digital clock's display face: 6:00am
I could feel the bags under my eyes. On school days, no matter how much sleep I got, I never felt rested. My body always screamed at me to lie back down onto the mattress. Nothing felt better than to just lower yourself back under the covers, cradle your pillow, close your eyes, and tell yourself, "just for two more minutes…"
I fell asleep again.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Slap.
BEEP BEEP-
Slap.
BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP
Slap.
"6:28am"
"Fuck."
I hopped out of the covers and into the jeans lying on the floor, grabbed the brown hoodie off my desk chair and swung it around my upper body until I was wearing it. I rushed into the bathroom across the hall and messily, aggressively, brushed my teeth. I scrambled to the front door, realized I had forgotten my backpack, rushed back into my room to fetch it, and ran, breaking multiple times to catch my breath, to the bus stop at the end of the street. I stopped and panted upon reaching it, while, simultaneously, hearing the low roar of the engine approaching. I had, again, caught the bus by a thread. This was an almost daily routine for me and I never regretted it, because nothing felt as sweet as lying in bed. I did, however, look a mess. My medium length, curly black hair had the usual bed-head frizz, which made it look poof-ier than normal; I had also worn these slightly baggy jeans for two days in a row already.
"Is this worth the extra sleep?" Yes. The answer is yes.
The elongated, bulky, yellow vehicle halted next to the curb, flung its doors open, and I, doggedly, stepped inside, along with the other students.
…
"Why did this class have to be the first period of the day?" Newspaper: The only class that actually required brain-effort from me, and the only class that I genuinely wanted to give brain-effort to, but consistently caught me at the worst possible time of the day.
The desks were arranged in a rectangular fashion in this room, which I always found peculiar. There was a large, unused space enclosed by our desks in the center of the room. We all sat faced towards the empty space. Mrs. Richards was at the front of the classroom jotting down ideas for the upcoming paper on the white-board while trying to elicit suggestions from the students. The students seated at the desks closest to the front wall had to twist their upper bodies around in order to look at the teacher.
For the last fifteen minutes of class, I had been distractedly drawing a continuous zig-zagged line in my notebook while in a half-asleep daze. Detached from the happenings of the class, I, sleepily, mulled over unrelated thoughts in my mind: that song I heard in the car a couple days ago ("what was it called?"), that flyer I was handed by some kid in the hallway before class, my dream last night… my mind paused here...
I could picture the image of the girl so vividly: Blue eyes, narrow nose, brown, tied-back hair. Her face seemed so familiar. "I know her. What was her name? Where have I seen her?" I was certain it was somewhere on campus, but I couldn't place it. I sifted through portions of my memory attempting to find her. "In the hallway? No. Algebra? No."
I began to place this face into every conceivable area of Greensboro High within my mind in an effort to draw a recollection of this girl from my memory.
"Ben!"
I was abruptly broken from my thoughts; Mrs. Richards forcefully took my attention.
"What are your thoughts for next week's paper? What should we write about?" she asked intently.
I could feel faces of my classmates turn towards me.
"Uh.." I looked down at my notebook and the huge zig-zagged line I had drawn in it (I hadn't realized I had covered so much of the paper). I, then, looked at the small black and white flyer lying on my desk next to it.
Should polygamous marriage be legal?
Watch Greensboro High and Sommerville Prep debate for the semi-finals
Friday, March 24th at 7:00pm in the Greensboro Auditorium
"We could cover the semi-final debate versus Sommerville" I responded, trying to appease Mrs. Richards.
"Perfect, perfect" she said, twirling and uncapping the dry erase marker to jot the idea on the board.
"We can interview the team captain and coach before and afterwards to get some good quotes while also covering the outcome of the debate," she said as she scribbled the proposition on the board.
"Do you know who the debate coach is, Ben?"
"No, I don't" I said, admittedly
"Her name is Mrs. Ayers, she has the team meet after school twice a week in the auditorium for debate prep. You're not busy after school today, are you Ben?"
"No, I'm no-"
"Perfect! They're meeting today, I'll email Mrs. Ayers after this to let her know you'll be coming by to interview her and the team captain"
Nervousness hit me. I hated doing interviews. I always felt put on the spot, in constant suspense, waiting for myself to fumble. This was ironic for someone who loved writing news articles. Even more ironic considering I was the one asking questions.
I nodded and let the teacher move on to the next student to pry suggestions out of.
"Time to start drafting questions." This would now be my worry for the rest of the day.
…
I stood, leaning the right side of my body onto the wall beside the auditorium entrance. I had taken my time walking here after the final bell of the day had rung, and, was further delaying the imminent interviews by scrupulously examining my drafted questions. I was looking for any reason to postpone opening the door and entering the room that held expectant Mrs. Ayers and the debate captain, so I had convinced myself that I needed to stay, standing here, staring at these questions, longer.
They included the usual, "What is your name, how do you spell it, what grade are you in" line-up, working slowly into more specific and thought provoking questions, which is where I usually got the most usable quotes.
I obsessively read and reread the question list, and asked myself, "Am I covering everything I need? Am I being specific enough with this question? Should I ask more about their emotions?"
I dreaded pulling the handle of that door, but I knew there was nothing more to be done with this paper. It was time to go.
"Let's get this over with."
I felt myself being torn away from that nice, safe space on the wall I had been leaning on, as I mechanically swung the auditorium door open. A small crowd- the debate team- turned within their seats and glanced at me upon my entrance into the back of the room. I knew I had that "deer-in-headlights" look across my face. I spotted a larger, gray-haired woman within the crowd smiling warmly at me, whom I assumed was Mrs. Ayers. I gave a half-hearted smile to the group and approached the woman, while she, simultaneously, rose from her seat to greet me.
She said, with a knowing look in her eye, said, "You must be Ben Heasley from 'The Dam'" (that was the name of our newspaper, inspired by our mascot: the beaver).
"Yes, thank you for lending me your time" I replied, leaning forward and extending my hand to meet, and shake, hers. I felt, uncomfortably, out of place, like I always do when conducting interviews.
"I've been keeping up with your stories, you're quite the writer," she said, giving me a sincere smile.
"Oh," I said sheepishly, "I appreciate that."
"I'll introduce you to the team captain, Virginia. She can answer any questions you have. Virginia!" she motioned to someone on my left. I turned to meet her, and-
Blue eyes, brown tied-up hair, narrow nose, slightly puffy cheeks.
"Oh my god."
"This is Virginia, our debate captain. Virginia, this is Ben."
She smiled, extended her hand towards me, and said, matter-of-factly, "Hi, nice to meet you, Ben."