“It’s what I’m here for, dear.”
I step into the hall and study my schedule.
“All right. Let’s see what we have here,” I mumble to myself. “Homeroom is on the second floor with Mr. Larkin.”
My eyes dart to the analog clock hanging above the office door.Two minutes.I spot the stairwell ahead and take off running. My precariously high wedges pound against the ivory-and-turquoise vinyl flooring as I race to my destination.
I launch myself into the classroom a split second before the bell rings. A few stragglers rush in behind me. I drag my feet to a vacant desk and limply drop into the chair, unsuccessfully trying to control my erratic breathing.
Having an asthma attack right now would be so sucky. It’sbeen a year since my last attack, but I always keep my inhaler in my purse just in case. I straighten my posture and begin the breathing exercises my primary care physician taught me. Several long, deep breaths later, I’m back in tip-top shape, but my stomach isn’t. It’s snarling at me.
The girl sitting next to me giggles. “That’s some growl.”
Mirth-filled eyes regard me through thick lenses. She has vitiligo or some other skin condition, though my initial assumption is likely correct. Pale patches of skin dominate her face, neck, and hands. An oversized long-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting jeans cover the rest of her. She’s not dressed for the weather. I wonder if her choice in clothing has anything to do with her skin condition.
“Sorry about that. My stomach usually has manners.”
“No sweat.” She giggles again, displaying lime-green braces. “I have a granola bar if you want it. It’s vegan, though.”
“Yes please.” Saliva pools into my mouth. “I’m dying over here.”
She rummages through her backpack purse and pulls out a mixed-berry granola bar. I want to shout for joy, but I doubt the teacher would appreciate my antics.
“Oh my God,” I say instead, ripping the wrapper open. “You deserve the Presidential Citizens Medal. Seriously, I was seconds away from croaking over.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she readily agrees, nodding her head once. “I’ll write the president a letter, detailing my outstanding contributions toward eliminating teenage hunger.”
We both laugh.
“Name’s Zilphia, by the way.”
“Neat name,” she responds. “Leah, short for Sesalee.”
“Neat name,” I repeat her compliment to me.
I admire my guardian angel’s gorgeous fuchsia-tipped micro locs while scarfing down my continental breakfast. The tiny locks hang over her seat. She must have started them when she was very young.
“Want another one?” she asks.
I cock an eyebrow at her. “Is the sky blue? Bring on the granola.”
She brandishes a peanut butter granola bar this time.
“You truly are a lifesaver.” I eagerly accept the sweet honey oat treat. “My stomach owes you a debt.”
“No debt,” Leah replies. “Helping a fellow peer is reward enough.”
I smile. Maybe the day won’t be a total bust after all.
“I noticed you’re empty-handed,” she mentions. “No school supplies?”
“Oh… umm.” Leah’s cool, but I’m not comfortable airing my family’s drama to a stranger. “I couldn’t find my backpack this morning. Everything’s been hectic since the move.”
“I have a tote bag and extra supplies in my locker. You’re welcome to anything you need.”
“Do you have a best friend? If not, I would like to apply for the position.”
She grins. “You’re in luck. I have several best friend positions available, actually.”
