There’s only thirty more seconds left. Why does time have to go so fast? A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. It's Tommy shooting a basket with a balled up piece of paper. "Hey, Kate! You see that? Only one try!"
I don't want to give him the satisfaction of my reaction, so I just roll my eyes and continue my staring contest with the clock. Three... Two... One... The annoyingly loud bell screeches into everyone's ears. Whooping and hollering is taking place in the already crowded hallways. I slowly pack up my school books, papers, and pencil, delaying the inevitable without being too obvious. I quickly glance around the room to find the teacher looking at me. Oh, no. I attempt getting out of the classroom before he tries to talk to me, but fail.
"How are you doing, Kate? You seemed a little sad today." I want to say terrible, awful, depressing, but as usual, I say the socially acceptable thing.
"I'm fine, Mr. Moore! Just a little tired! Have good day!" My fake happiness is expertly plastered all over my face.
"Okay. You too," he replies with delight in his voice. I sprint out the door, hugging my textbooks, with my head down. The crowd is moving like a school of fish towards the front entrance. I hate Fridays. People get way too happy about the weekend and the stupid Friday-night football games. The games are just another excuse to exaggerate the social class difference between the upper-class, jocks and cheerleaders, and the lower-class, me.
After what seems like one minute, I find myself getting off the bus. I start taking slug-like steps in the direction of my house. Even when walking the slowest speed humanly possible, I still reach my house in only eight minutes. Not long enough. I wish time could stand still, even if only for a little while. I silently insert the key into the door lock and turn it to the right. The front door noisily creaks open, making my heartbeat skyrocket. I walk through the doorway and head towards the stairs. As I'm creeping quietly through the house, I catch a glimpse of my mom who has passed out on the couch again. I routinely walk over and check her pulse. It's still beating away, so I pick up the bottles of alcohol littering the room. I carefully place the bottles in a trash bag, to be thrown out later. Even her faint breath can be heard in the silence of the house. It's kind of funny how such a damaged home can be unbelievably loud at one point and silent the next.