A blaring horn and skidding tires disband my morose brooding. The motorists, a man and a woman, lunge from their respective vehicles. Arms flap frantically as they yell obscenities, each accusing the other of almost causing the fender bender.
I continue on my way, veering around the next corner. Across the street, to my left, I spot the side view of an imposing brick building. The beige structure is the tallest in the general vicinity. A parking lot is directly below, with a long flight of stairs leading to what I assume is the main entrance. There aren’t many people milling about, since the bell for homeroom rings in roughly fifteen minutes. I quicken my strides, not wanting to be late on my first day.
I enter the double glass-and-chrome doors, breathless and a bit sweaty. I burrow my fingers into my hair, and, sure enough, the roots are beginning to frizz.
I release a frustrated sigh and roll my eyes skyward. “Give me a freaking break.”
This is one epic bad streak.My hair will be a puffy mess in a few hours.
“Chop, chop, young lady,” a man clutching a walkie-talkie in his hand rushes me. “The bell for homeroom rings in ten minutes.”
“I’m new here,” I say in response. “Can you tell me where the main office is?”
He aims the walkie-talkie straight ahead. “Down this hall, on the right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. My name is Zilp—”
“Hurry along now.” He dismisses me and dashes down the hall. “Hey! You kids better get moving. Detention for anyone caught in the hallway without a pass after the bell rings.”
What a total douche.
I continue on my way and enter the door with “MAIN OFFICE” in bold, black print across the front.
“Good morning.” I fold my arms across the reception desk and read the gold nameplate at my elbow. “Ms. Leacock.”
“Hello, dear.” She beams, peering at me over the rim of her glasses. “What can I do for you?”
“I need my locker number and a printout of my class schedule, please,” I answer her. “It’s my first day.”
Not that I have anything to put in said locker.Fucking Deja.
“First and last name?”
“Zilphia Kensley.”
“Spell it for me, dear.” Her deft fingers fly over the keyboard, typing out each letter. “Your locker number is 183.” A few right clicks on the mouse, then she pushes away from the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
She walks over to the printer, grabs two papers from the tray, and hands both to me. “Here you are, dear. Your class schedule and instructions on how to set your lock.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. Have a great first day.”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me to seek nourishment ASAP. “Can you point me to the cafeteria?”
Please don’t let it be too late for breakfast. Hunger headaches are a super bitch.
“It’s closed until first lunch block, which starts at eleven ten,” she responds, regarding me sympathetically. “If you want to catch breakfast in the mornings, get here by eight twenty at the latest. The building opens at eight if you want to come earlier.”
I glance at my schedule and inwardly groan. Fuck my whole entire existence. My lunch block isn’t until twelve twenty. It’s thethird and last lunch block of the day. That’s a million hours away. Not really, but three and a half hours is a long damn time when you’re hungry.
Ugh!I’m going to keel over and die from starvation before then. Maybe the cafeteria workers will have pity on me and toss me a stale muffin or something. No, I better get to homeroom. I don’t want to risk the Hallway Scrooge giving me detention.
“You need a school ID to get breakfast and lunch. It’s used the same way as a debit card. Stop by the library sometime this morning to have one made. It’ll take about five minutes.” Ms. Leacock plucks a colorful flyer from a plastic holder and slides it across the wooden surface for my perusal. “Create an account on this website. Enter the six-digit number on the back of the card and follow the prompts. You’ll need to add a payment method if you don’t qualify for free meals.”
I knew all this beforehand, but the last twenty-four hours and hunger pangs have my brain in warp mode. The process here is similar to the one at my last school. I more than meet the criteria to receive free meals, but Momma refuses to apply for the program, and she didn’t offer me a single red cent.
“Okay.” I add the flyer to my other papers. “I appreciate all your help.”
