I'm running like hell.
I'm not even pretending to be polite. Shoulders slam into strangers, bags thud against bodies, and someone yells something like, "Watch it, dumbass!" but I'm already gone, skidding past a food cart like my life depends on it. Zoe's right beside me, matching my pace, eyes wild and hair flying like she's in a damn shampoo commercial—if the commercial was shot during a stampede.
We don't care. Not one bit. Let them yell, let them cuss us out for being "mannerless" or "feral" or whatever else they can come up with while choking on their overpriced coffees. We've been here before. This is tradition.
We're late. Again.
And not even for a noble reason like rescuing a kitten or getting hit by a rogue taxi. No, we've been late before for the dumbest crap—once because we couldn't find Zoe's left sock and it turned into a forty-minute existential debate about whether socks feel when you lose one of them. Another time because I absolutely had to finish that stupid BuzzFeed quiz titled What Kind of Bread Are You Based on Your Heartbreak Style? Spoiler: I'm sourdough. Zoe was focaccia. We almost missed first period for that.
But today? Today we're late because we thought it was a brilliant idea to crash at her place and stay up talking about our love life. Like that was gonna be therapeutic or healing or some shit.
It wasn't.
It was a mess of giggles, bitterness, the occasional "Wait—he actually said that to you?" followed by gasps and violent pillow throws. We swore we were over them. We weren't. The night ended with us eating cereal out of mugs at 3 a.m., eyes red but not crying, and a half-hearted promise to "just not care anymore."
Except now we care. Because school started twenty minutes ago, and we're dead if we don't make it to homeroom before Mr. Halford does his headcount.
I don't know if we're running from the past or just running on caffeine and regret, but we're not stopping.
I check my phone mid-sprint—bad idea. Nearly face-plant into a bench. Zoe yells, "What are you doing?!"
"Time check!" I wheeze, hopping over someone's emotional support chihuahua. "We're so screwed."
"How screwed?"
"Like, detention-plus-a-call-home screwed."
Zoe groans. "I can't deal with another 'concerned' email from the school. My mom reads them out loud like they're poetry."
We dash around the corner, nearly plowing into a guy selling knockoff sunglasses who doesn't even flinch. Probably used to it. Or dead inside. I briefly consider grabbing a pair and using them as a disguise, but Zoe grabs my sleeve and yanks me forward like a mother dragging her toddler out of Target.
"Focus," she pants. "Just—focus."
We're two blocks away and it feels like we've run a marathon sponsored by shame and bad decisions. I'm sweating in places I didn't know could sweat. My backpack's thumping against my spine like it's trying to kill me before the school can. My hair's sticking to my face like I dunked it in glue. Zoe looks no better—her eyeliner's halfway down her cheek, and there's glitter on her forehead for some reason.
"What even is that on your face?" I gasp between steps.
She wipes it with the back of her hand. "I think it's from the highlighter palette we used at 2 a.m. when we tried to 'manifest confidence.'"
Right. That. At one point, we were lying on her bedroom floor surrounded by snacks, whispering affirmations and applying highlighter to our cheekbones like that would magically make us forget that our love lives resemble garbage fires in slow motion.
We finally see the school gates, glorious and hideous as ever, and just as we're about to make it inside, the bell rings. The late bell.
"Oh come on!" Zoe screams at the sky like it personally betrayed her.
I keep running. "If we die in detention, tell Natalie I lied about being over Liam!"
"She already knows!"
Fair.
We're about to launch ourselves through the gates like dramatic protagonists in the final scene of a teen drama when—boom—a hand appears, palm out, the universal symbol for Thou Shalt Not Pass.
It's him.
Mr. Patt. The Gatekeeper. Capital G. Man stands there every morning like he's guarding a sacred realm instead of a high school with questionable plumbing and a vending machine that only works on alternate Tuesdays.
He raises one eyebrow so high it could legally count as a threat. "And where do you two think you're going?"
Zoe and I skid to a stop, borderline cartoon-style, nearly pile-driving straight into his arm like rogue bowling balls. I lean against the gatepost, pretending I'm not about to vomit from exertion. Zoe's bent over, hands on her knees, gasping like she just survived the Hunger Games.
"Inside?" I offer, with a wheezy little smile. "To… get educated?"
He blinks at me. Slow. Disapproving. The man has mastered the art of silence-as-judgment. It's like being soul-slapped by your dad, your dentist, and God at the same time.
"School started twenty-five minutes ago," he says, tapping his wrist even though he's not wearing a watch. Classic power move. "Again."
I glance at Zoe. Zoe glances at me. Neither of us has a real excuse. Not one that sounds remotely smart or mature or believable. We could lie. Blame traffic. Or aliens. Or a freak sinkhole that only temporarily swallowed her front porch.
Instead, I say, "We were emotionally processing."
Zoe nods. "With cereal. And highlighter. It's a healing method."
Mr. Patt looks so done he might retire on the spot. "Principal's office," he says, stepping aside with the solemnity of a man watching two idiots march toward their doom.
We shuffle in. Dramatic. Somewhere in the distance, the national anthem of poor decisions plays softly—probably on a kazoo.
I whisper to Zoe, "Maybe we tell the principal we're doing a social experiment?"
She grins. "Yeah. Testing adult patience under stress. For science."
Mr. Patt turns on his heel like a military commander about to lead us to the guillotine expecting us to follow like two remorseful ducklings.
We take exactly three steps behind him. Then Zoe whispers, "Now."
And we bolt.
Hard left—through the hedges.
I hear Mr. Patt shout something that sounds a lot like "HEY!" followed by the distinct rustle of an angry middle-aged man trying to pivot in dress shoes.
Zoe and I dive into the shrubbery like trained fugitives, crashing through leaves, twigs snapping underfoot, my bag nearly getting ripped off by a rebellious branch. I don't look back. I can feel the chaos blooming behind us, and honestly, it's kind of beautiful.
"What the hell are we doing?" I hiss, ducking behind a maintenance shed like we've rehearsed this in some secret drama club spy workshop.
"Surviving," Zoe pants, peeking around the corner. "He's still at the hedge! Oh my god, he looks so confused."
I peek too. Mr. Patt is standing at the edge of the bushes like a GPS that's just given up. He spins slowly, scanning the courtyard, one hand on his hip, the other shading his eyes like we're desert mirages.
"He's trying to recalibrate," I whisper.
"He's buffering," Zoe grins.
We slap our hands over our mouths to muffle the hysterical giggles. There's something absurdly glorious about this moment—two idiots in uniform, hiding behind a shed like war criminals, outwitting a man who once lectured us for twenty minutes about etiquette.
Then the school bell rings again. Five minutes to second period.
"We can still make it," I say, wiping dirt off my cheek. "If we go through the back stairs by the art wing."
Zoe nods solemnly, like I've just mapped out a prison break.
"Operation Redemption," she whispers.
"Operation Not-Another-Detention," I correct.
We break cover like stealth agents, dash past the trash bins, through the alley behind the gym, and up the creaky staircase that smells like forgotten lunches and cheap cleaning spray.
We tumble into the hallway, wild-eyed and panting, and slow to a casual stroll like we've just returned from a light jog and not a botanical manhunt.
"Do we look normal?" I ask, attempting to flatten my hair.
Zoe checks me out, then checks herself in a trophy case reflection. "You look like a raccoon who lost custody of her snacks."
"Perfect."
Somehow, impossibly, we've made it.
And somewhere, behind a hedge, Mr. Patt is still trying to process how two teenage girls disappeared in broad daylight.
We should feel guilty.
We don't.
We stroll into homeroom exactly thirty-two seconds after the final bell, doing our absolute best to look like we've been parked here all morning—casual, relaxed, cool as hell—even though we just played hide-and-seek with a grown man who acted like a mall cop in a terrible comedy.
Mr. Halford looks up from his attendance sheet, and instantly the air freezes. You know that kind of cold that hits your spine and makes your lungs want to retract like a turtle? Yeah, that. His eyes narrow like he's seen this exact episode a thousand times.
"You two," he says, slow and ominous, like he's trying to keep his blood pressure from skyrocketing, "again."
The entire class swivels in their seats, grinning like they're about to watch the season finale of Why Are These Two Still Enrolled? — a show we're clearly headlining.
Because, let's be clear: we're good at studying. We're smart. The problem is punctuality is a totally different language.
I do the polite thing. I smile.
Zoe does the stupid thing. She waves, like she's greeting a long-lost fan club.
Mr. Halford sets the attendance clipboard down with the kind of weight and finality you'd use to put down a loaded weapon.
"Would you like to explain," he says, teeth clenched tight enough to chip enamel, "why you are late for the fifth time this month? And please—for the love of literature—do not say traffic, or I swear I will lose what's left of my sanity."
I glance at Zoe, who shrugs with the innocence of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
I take a deep breath and launch into it.
"Well," I say, "there was a thief."
The classroom collectively stifles laughter.
Mr. Halford blinks. Slowly. "A thief?"
"Yes. Some guy tried to snatch my moneybag as we were walking. Zoe and I chased him all the way to the police station. We had to make sure he didn't get away."
Mr. Halford's eyes narrow even further, if that's possible. "And why exactly did this happen on your way to school?"
I bite back a grin. "Well, obviously, the thief didn't know we're the smart students here."
A student in the back snorts. Someone else whispers, "Iconic."
There's a pause. The teacher's lips twitch as if holding back a laugh or a rant. Finally, Mr. Halford exhales. He picks the clipboard back up, muttering something about early retirement and becoming a goat farmer in the hills.
"Sit down," he says, pointing at our usual seats like he's too tired to argue with reality anymore, "before I change my mind."
"Thanks for understanding, sir."
We obey and collapse into our seats, triumphant and barely holding in our laughter.
Smart students? Yes.
Punctual? Absolutely not.