clocks

Descending piano triplets ripple through the vast gymnasium as I hesitantly push through the first set of doors, then the second. Now exposed, I scan the distant clumps of chattering preteens in baggy formalwear on the far side of the dark expanse, silhouetted by Christmas lights strung from white lattice dividers. No, no, no. I retreat to the right before anyone spots me, to the too-bright bathroom for refuge. Oh, god. She dropped me off too early. The blue concrete walls dampen the music making it sound even more ominous as I hide in a stall, delaying, counting the seconds, trying to conjure my friends here by the time I emerge. I wait in front of the glaring mirror under the unforgiving fluorescents, cursing every red pimple peeking out from behind concealer I’m ashamed to wear, cursing every stray strand of hair my mom cut, re-tucking my itchy collared shirt into my loose khaki pants. Deep breaths. Is this normal? Or am I not meant for this world? Footsteps approach so I steel myself and step into the linoleum void and bravely float toward my shadowy peers. The singer on the sound system reads my mind: Home, home, where I wanted to go. If I survive this night, this year, I can survive it all.