When my baseball bag hits the cement, a hat, belt and three balls spill out, rolling down the street. Even my cup manages its way to the pavement. The bag’s zipper has been broken for two months now, ever since February tryouts. I struggle out of the passenger side of my ill-parked car, but never without getting caught on the seat belt that still strangles my arm. This is when my instincts kick in.
Out from my pocket comes my phone, taunting me with the numbers that grace its screen. 7:58, it reads.
I’m still three blocks from school, up by the church, and there are dire consequences if I stroll into class after the 8 a.m. bell.
After collecting my equipment and tightening the cap on my now-leaking Nalgene bottle that I dropped, I take a split second to gather my surroundings.
Ahead of me I see three familiar backpacks crossing Highland on their way to the high school. Their owners are in a half-trot, juggling books, tennis rackets and baseball bats.
Ahead is of me is what we have come to call the “Late Crew”, a group of four or five seniors who each roll out of bed and, by chance, meet every day in front of the church with only two minutes to spare.
That’s my group. Without them, my chances of making it to school in the waning seconds before 8 are close to none.
By the time the Crew gets to the Exedra, I’ve caught up, but my phone screen now tells a much different story: 7:59.
The group then splits apart, each student taking the most efficient route possible to the doorway to his or her first class, the doorway that separates those on time from those tardy.
Two drop down the science driveway. A third takes a left at the theater. But I continue on, briskly jogging with one eye on the last two digits displayed on my phone, waiting for the ‘5’ and ‘9’ to flip, leaving only zeros.
8:00. When the clock on my phone strikes eight, I know I have only a few seconds to get to class. I pass by the pool and swing a left towards Millennium. By this point in time, my fate has been decided.
After hopping two sets of stairs and bursting through double doors, I’m there, standing outside Room 40.
There’s no time to recollect myself. The sweat above my eyebrows will have to wait.
I push my way into the classroom and the bell sounds as I take a seat. I’ve made it.
After spilling my belongings, sprinting down Magnolia and stressing over every passing second, I take a moment to reflect on the last two frantic minutes.
I had done it all to make it to class on time.
I had just sprinted to Art 1.
“Jack, you’re here on time today,” my teacher congratulates me with a twinge of sarcasm. “Just remember, one more and its detention with me after school.”
