A Terrible Day of Nothing Going Right

2006-03-29T19:31:00.000-08:00

A story by Amanda Z

Today, officially, is the worst day of my life. I know what you’re thinking, and your wrong. I am not some pitiful “complainer.” In fact, I am pretty easy going once you get to know me. But that is beside the point. It really is the worst day of my life. And after you read this, it will be the worst day of your life also.
It all starts off with the early alarm song of “Toxic,” by the young and talented Britney Spears, ringing in my ear at 5:43 a.m. No, that is not a typo; it is Five Forty-Three in the morning. Five Hundred and Forty-Three hours if you prefer. Now, I like Britney Spears as much as the next chick, but after waking up to the same song the fourth day in a row, it starts to get old. Not to mention the sun has not yet risen, and my eyes still have that “best sleep of my life” crust in them.
After hitting the snooze button four times and finally dragging myself out of bed an hour and a half later, I am running late to school. “Zack! Freaking, get out of the BATH ROOOM!! I only have FOUR MINUTES!” Zack is my 15-year-old brother who has not learned the concept of time quite yet. Ten minutes later, he exits the bathroom and I huff past him and slam the door shut.
I arrive 20 minutes after the tardy bell rings to a silent class that stares as I walk through the door, eternally denting my sparkling clean permanent record. “Do you have a pass Amanda?” Ms. Casey, the oldest person alive, prissily asks. “I believe the Egyptians are still trying to locate your body that mysteriously disappeared from the pyramids, Ms. Casey,” I wished to retort. But instead I replied with a simple, “No ma’am.” Way to stand up to the man!
Other than the whole “20 minutes late” thing, first period went okay. But when I arrived to second it was a whole other story. Now second period is Art 1. I am a senior in high school and taking Art 1. The only person over the age of 16 is me; and I am 17. But, I’m not complaining. In fact, I am rejoicing. Want to know why? Well, because the whole class looks up to my work. It’s like I have this mind control thing going on. When I begin to draw a piece, everyone stops what they are doing and gathers around me. Behind me I hear “wow” and “oooo” and “how does she do that?” but they think I don’t hear. Instead I intensely stair at the object and vigorously draw, unit Vua La! Se magnifique. Everyone golf claps and I sheepishly smile and wave them off and say things like “oh, stop it” when really I want them to keep going. But not today. No one crowds around. No one claps. No one praises my work. Nothing. I just draw and keep to myself. Ms. Maggard, our brilliant art teacher, passes back the paintings. I receive mine and the grade marked on it is a 95. I think to myself “Pretty good,” and smile like I heard something funny. But then I see it; everyone is crowded around Todd Goldbloom. All whispering and pointing like they used to do to me. And then I hear it; it’s like it’s in slow motion: “Taawd goohhht uhhhh hunderrrred ooohhhn hiiiiis paiiinting.” NOOOO! No one makes a better grade in Art 1 then me. Todd will be 16 next Tuesday.
The end of second period (more like painful, ego-blowing torture class) bell rings. I walk down the hallway, dodging people left and right. It is like I am on a highway I wish I were not on. “Use a turn signal you CRACK WHORE!”
I arrive at my locker. I share it with eight other people. Four of which, I have never seen, ever. I throw my stuff in there carelessly and shut the locker. Then I see her. Satan herself is staring at me. Staring at me with her hellish, fire-starting eyes. She is wearing my shirt. SHE IS WEARING MY SHIRT!! The same exact shirt that I am wearing, she is wearing. How could this be? I would never purchase anything that an egocentric antagonist such as she would buy, but how?
She would be Mallory O’Neal; the best friend of my childhood. Notice I said childhood. Gahh, thinking about it makes me want to gag! Ok, I swear if this is a disease, she has it: CCD (Competitive Compulsive Disease.) This means that everything I do, she must do, only twenty thousand times better. Donkey Kong: we would sit in my room for hours and hours playing that game. She would win every stinking time. Until one day; it was our last friendly day together. I was winning. She was angry. She threw the controller at my T.V. It broke. I yelled. She screamed. I pushed. She left. The door slammed. The end.
Anyways, back on topic. Same shirt. Alright. I notice that she is holding a red Power-ade. My favorite! I then see her whisper something into Manny’s ear. Manny is her new best friend. I do not have one yet. Simultaneously, Manny bumps her arm and “Whoops” she says apathetically as red Power-ade flies all over my shirt and into my hair. I can only guess that she planned this. I am petrified.
One-minute countdown until the tardy bell rings. What should I do first? Run to the bathroom? Run to the nurse? Think. THINK! Okay, this is what I will do. Run to my third period class, grab the teacher, tell her in the hallway (so I don’t get embarrassed) that I need to call my mom to bring me a new shirt. Alright. That is what I shall do.
I am running, and people are laughing. By this point I don’t care, even though a stream of tears are running down my face. I finally make it to the door of my third period class. I pause to open it, in fear of what may happen. Then it happens. Milo Tucker, late to class as usual, walks past me and opens the door. He sees my shirt and hair, all glistening with red death.
Milo Tucker is the love of my life. He is the coolest person I have ever seen. He smells like rain. He always has his headphones on, giving a big middle finger to the school’s no electronic device policy. He writes poetry and everyone always talks about it afterwards; whether criticism or praise, he enjoys it. I have been waiting for the perfect time to say something to him, but so far, no moment seems perfect enough.
“Dude, are you okay?” He spoke to me. What should I do? Open your mouth, stupid! Say something!!! “Umm, not really.” That’s all you got. You have been waiting for three months now to say something to Milo Tucker and you choose “Umm, not really.” He shrugs and walks into the room. God, what a failure.
I poke my head into the room. “Mrs. Kelly, can you come here for a second?” I try to say quietly. Smooth, she doesn’t hear. “MRS. KELLY!” I yell. That was stupid. Everyone stops what they are doing, and I feel the sharp hint of people’s stares all over my sticky face. “Yes dear, what do you need? Class is about to begin,” she says kindly. I always liked Mrs. Kelly. She reminds me of one of those moms that draw a bath for her child, even though they are thirteen and fully capable of doing so. “Can you come here please?”
She steps into the hallway and I explain my situation. “Well, after you do your warm-up, you can go to the office and call your mother. Today’s warm-up is very important. It will get you prepared for the test.” “What are you crazy?! I look like I’ve just been a victim of the aftermath of the tragic explosion of the Kool-Aid man. You can’t expect me to go in there. You just can’t!” Of coarse I don’t say that. Instead I say, “Thanks Ms. Kelly.” She’s just gone down on my nice scale. In fact, I hate her.
I walk in the room with my head buried in my shoulders, as far as it can go. I try and make the least eye contact that I can, but it’s very difficult when the whole class is staring at me. I sit down in my seat in the back and open my book. I jot down the warm-up as fast as I can. I make my painful way back up to the front, shooting Ms. Kelly an evil glare, and walk out the door.
I walk down the hallway, thankfully empty, and go to the office. I call my mother. No answer. Great, now what do I do? I call my dad. No answer. That figures; nothing else good has happened to me so far, why start now? I call my house and hang up by the second ring realizing that the only person in my house is my dog, and she doesn’t have thumbs. “Mrs. Cole, do you have an extra t-shirt I can wear?”
Mrs. Cole is known as the dress code Nazi and if you do not follow it, she will find you. And she will make you where an XXL Freshmen t-shirt, so you will feel degraded enough to never break Her cherished code again. Gag me.
I change into the very fashionable “Freshmen aren’t Fish, their Fresh!” t-shirt and grab my books. I slowly walk back to Mrs. Kelly’s class, stalling for time. I look like the peach from “James and the Giant Peach.”
I walk back in the room only to find that someone is sitting in my seat in the back. That is the greatest seat in the history of great seats. It’s perfectly angled to where you could see the overhead projector or sleep without getting caught. Whichever you prefer. “Amanda, while you were gone,” (angry glance), “we got new seats. You sit in the third row next to Milo.” Have I died? Is this hell? Why God, why? Any other day I would be praising the Lord for this, but now, when I look like a giant peach and my hair is sticking unnaturally to my face, this is dreadful! Just enormously dreadful!
I sit down and sink deeply into my chair. “You don’t look so good,” Milo says. “Thanks,” I think to myself.
Today Mrs. Kelly loads us up with physics and I am not the physics type. I decide to just sleep. Mrs. Kelly does not wake me because she knows I am having a very bad day.
The bell rings. School is finally over for me. I have fourth period off, and I get to go to a fun and exciting day of work! Yeah right, I wish. “I am a file clerk at Brand FX,” I reply to everyone who is curious of what my occupation is. “And what do you do?” What do you think I do?! “I file. And occasionally, I fax. That is it. That is all I do for four hours of my day. File and Fax. Yes, it is very interesting. No, I do not wish I had another job. Yes, I care very much about my job.”

I arrive at work. Luckily no head-on collisions or fender-benders on my way, but lets not jinx it for the ride back. I sit in my corner desk, open for all to pass through and gaze. I whip out my pile of papers to file. When I say pile, I mean hill. Mountain. A sierra of papers in which I must file in a tiny filing cabinet built only to hold about a fourth of as many papers. So I grab a good amount of the papers and walk over to the cabinet. I begin to file. Wishing, hoping that this day would just be over ASAP. “Can you fax this for me, por favor?” Leann is my boss and my mother’s best friend. She is very witty and kind. I love her as my own…aunt. “Of coarse.” She knows something is wrong. I changed before I arrived at work, so she knows that it’s not my shirt. “Is everything alright, sweety?” I sigh and then answer. “Yeah, I have just had a long day, that’s all.” “I know what you mean. I will just have to make sure you have enough work to do so you don’t get bored!” Great.
I hate the fax machine. The fax machine hates me. This time I go to fax the paper and see it as a cowboy standoff. “So you want to fax something, ehh?” (western whistle suspense music plays) “Yes, in fact, I do.” “I don’t think you can handle this.” “We’ll see about that. Ready…DRAW!” I dial as fast as possible and hit the fax button. Beep beep BEEEEEP. “Go to electronic Hell, fax machine.” The fax machine starts to smoke. “Hah, I win.” BEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEEEP!!! Oh crap, I should probably get help. “LEANN, HELP!” Not the most charming way to ask for help, but whatever, I guess.
Leann runs over to my aid. She hears the piercing beeping sound and covers her ear with one hand, and wafts the smoke with another. “What happened?!” she says with intense curiosity. “I just dialed and hit the fax button! I am so sorry!” I really am sorry. I didn’t tell her about the cowboy standoff. I didn’t feel like sounding stupid. After the fax machine stops smoking, Leann goes into her office and makes a phone call. I sit back down in the most uncomfortable chair in the world and return to my filing. The beeping has not yet ceased.
One hour later, the Printer/Fax Repair and Maintenance guy shows up. “How can you work with that retched sound in your ear?!” “Oh, it’s still beeping. I haven’t noticed.” I guess that was kind of rude. He stepped up to the devil’s fax machine and pressed a single button. The fax machine stopped beeping. By this time I’m too tired to freak out.
The last hour goes by the slowest, but it is finally over. I get in my car and begin to drive off. I am careful not to speed because the last thing I need right now is a speeding ticket.
I get home to a silent and empty house. It’s five o’clock and no one is home. Not even my brother, and he is never gone. Okay, well I guess I’ll just watch T.V. for an hour until they get home. They shouldn’t be later then that.
My stomach starts to grumble. I realize that I forgot to eat lunch today. I was in the office during our lunch in third period. Dang it. Maybe I’ll call my Dad to see where he is. “Oh my God. I am so sorry,” he says as I ask where he is. “We went out to dinner and we completely for— We didn’t know where you were, so we went to dinner without you. Where were you by the way?” “Dad, I was at work. Like everyday. I get off at five. Like everyday.” I hang up and make a beeline to my room. I feel like reading.
Every book I pick up seems like a more depressing story than mine, and I want to read something less sad. So I decide to pick up a pen and note pad and write about the worst day of my life. This is it. All I really have left to say is for this being a terrible day of nothing going right, it isn’t really that bad of a day. Things could have been worse. I came to the realization that it’s more like a bad chapter of my life rather than a bad day. Because everyone knows, but most won’t admit, that being a teenager is the hardest thing that someone will ever have to go through. And now I will lay down, and have the best sleep of my life.

I probably do not know you, whoever you are reading this, but please tell me what you think of my writing. Whether horrible or wonderful, let me know so i keep on keepin on, or if i should just save my time and your eyes.

Very much appreciated and cordially yours,
Amanda

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A Terrible Day of Nothing Going Right