Chris

I'm late. ###
###
I have my bag lunch, my instrument, my Thermos "bought" with Marlboro miles filled with nice water. Jeff, my sister's boyfriend thinks it makes me look like a cool kid. No one is fooled. He’s saving up for a tent. You can even get a jet ski if you smoke enough, though you won’t be much good on a jet ski after that many packs. ###
###
Brian the drum instructor says the punishment for being late is running a lap.###
###
Big boned, or just fat, this will not be easy. Wearing a black t-shirt in this morning sun will not help. Everyone thinks I'm goth. I’m not really; just stupid. I convinced myself that black is slimming, and the tuaregs wear black in the Sahara. I'm just marching in circles around this dusty football field.###
###
The real punishment for being late is choosing someone to run for you. Brian calls me an idiot for being late and for keeping him waiting now. “Just fucking choose.”###
###
Sis dropped me off. She was late to pick me up, drove like a maniac, and then stopped for gas. She reeked of cigarettes. Usually the smell reminds me of my uncles, but I felt like I was going to be sick. We pulled up to the high school late as ever. “Mom’s picking you up.”###
###
I point out a girl for some reason, a flute player, to run my lap for me and hang my head in line. I don’t ever want to be late again, or ever come back. I don’t want to march around like a soldier all day. It’s 8 am on my first day of band camp, and I count four hours until I can drink out of that thermos. By then the cool ice water will hot from the sun and taste like plastic.