Snoozercise in Jazz Land
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! screamed my watch alarm.
NO. I thought emphatically.
I like this dream. I will not let go of it this easily. Plus, I’m liking this whole “sleep” thing. I should do it more often. No, I’m not getting up right now, and you stupid loud noises from my watch can’t make me do it.I smacked my watch, hitting the right button on the side with the ease of practice. Yet again I was forever grateful to it for shutting up forever once I hit that button. It was so much nicer than a “Snooze” button.
BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP! shrieked my second watch’s alarm.
I whacked the button on my other watch fiercely.
Why do I have to know myself so well? Setting a second alarm for fifteen minutes later? Only my insane Night-Fraction of me would even think of torturing poor ol’ sloth-esq Morning-Fraction. It is only quarter to seven; I am not waking up!“Ben!” A slap on the head jarred me awake. “You have Jazz Choir this morning, ‘member?”
My elder sister Carmen stood next to me, the picture of irritation. “Get your butt out of bed, now! It’s already seven!”
I snapped into You-Only-Have-One-Minute-to-Get-Ready Mode and threw on my clothes from their pile on the floor. My little sister Clarisse had threatened all number of things if I woke her up getting ready.
I was quite practiced at the whole getting-ready-in-thirty-seconds thing. Much as I loved my non-snooze button watches, that meant that I was presented no reason to wake up after I turned it off once.
“How does a person sleep in a half hour late and through two alarms?” Clarisse, who had been woken up both times, sneered.
“The same way a person can take over a month to read a 100 page book,” I snapped back, grabbing my watch, hair-tie, and glasses from my dresser, snatching up my bookbag and whirling out of the bedroom I shared with her.
“What, you have that thing again this morning?” My stepfather, Henry, growled, as I appeared before him in the living room. Cigarette smoke puffed from his mouth, causing me to take a step back.
You better not bring that in the car, I warned him silently, though I still was sure he would. Just because he didn’t care about his health didn’t mean I had to feel the same way.
“And just when you have to be there, exactly?”
I glanced at the watch I had slapped on my wrist on the way down the hall. “Ten minutes,” I replied nonchalantly, knowing that it would take seven just to get to the school, plus he had to change into actual clothes, not just his longjohns and old white t-shirt filled with holes. Quickly I amended, “But no one ever gets there on time, not even the teacher.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, stalking out to the car. I turned towards his bright yellow station wagon, but he opened the door to Carmen’s new Ford Focus, instead.
“We’ll just be gone a minute. She won’t miss it,” he assured me, though I knew Carmen would have a silent fit when she found out he took it.
Arriving at school, I noted that the halls were as deserted as I’d expected them to be, what with it being 7:15 in the morning on a Thursday. Most of the kids wouldn’t show up for another fifteen minutes. However, four of the eight girls that made up the Jazz Choir were there, already entering the gymnasium.
Perhaps I should deviate and mention a few things about my school. A., we are small. I’m talking miniscule. Grades 7-12 we only have 74 students. Our gym is our auditorium, and has a small stage attached. The gym itself once was a potato barn. What else would you expect from a town in Northern Maine? Oh, and we only have one hallway and no cafeteria. We walk to the Elementary School for lunch. That’s right. Walk. Rain or sun; sleet, snow, or hail. I’ve walked in all of them once or twice.
So, anyway, back to what you actually care about. Or lack thereof.
“Have a donut, Ben,” said Ashley the minute I walked up the steps to the stage. As this was more of an order than a request, I obeyed, glad to see they were plain with sugar, my favorite.
“We’re going to start with
Vamps, girls, then move on to
Nightgale in Berkley Square, our a cappela piece. Remember, this is for competition in April,” Mrs. Makkadoodle informed us.
I breathed a sigh of relief, glad we weren’t doing
Salsa Picante. As the only one who could hit the high high C, and therefore the only Soprano 1, I was consequently forced into solos, as there was no one else who could do the part, despite the fact that I was only a freshman; the only one to ever be on Jazz Choir, as it was only open to tenth through twelve grades. The other girls were all juniors and seniors. The only reason I was here was my high voice.
Listening to Lola sing, on the other hand, was a treat I would take any day. As she sang (and we all laughed at this part)
Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets I felt as fit I were sitting next to a professional. Not that Lola, a senior, paid much attention to me. None of the others did, though Leanne gave me rides sometime.
The bell rang, startling me. I hadn’t even had time to meet up with Philycia! I hurried to my locker to grab my winter coat, and ran to the front door. Thursdays meant Gifted and Talented Classes at the Nordic Heritage Center in the next town. The science class lasted until fifth period, just before lunch, which meant I missed my morning classes but French I, something I was glad of, as I was sure I’d fail if I missed one class.
Joseph met me at the door, and we climbed on the bus. Joey was another senior, my neighbor, in fact, and though he would have talked me, I had brought my book, and was absorbed in it. Thus, the 20 minute ride was silent.
As I trudged up the long ramp to the ski lodge that served as a classroom, I resigned myself to another day stuck in a room for two and a half hours with five senior guys, all of whom were a foot taller than me, learning a subject all but Joey and Jimmy (of course, we all knew Jimmy was a trifle odd) were not very interested in learning.
At least here none of the people ignored me, even if I
was the only girl, the only freshman, and the only short person (though at 5’2” I wasn’t
that bad off).
And as this was a select group of kids that actually had an intelligence level beyond
The O.C. ("How
hot are those guys") and
Electronic Gaming Monthly ("Guess how many people I blew up this weekend on my XBox!"), I knew that my morning was looking up.
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