a Day Gone Bad

1

There was a sudden clanging, shrieking wail, the loudest ring I have ever heard in my life. My heart, rapidly pulsing through my veins, I sat up in shock. What was that noise? And where was it coming from? I cracked open an eye and gazed around my bedroom in confusion. You know those mornings you wake up, confused and disoriented, unable to recall the day of the week? That’s how I felt right then, in addition to a strange, throbbing pain in the recesses of my head. I stared, glassy eyed at my jarring alarm clock, and then as the cobwebs of sleep began to clear in my sleepy brain, I jammed the “off” button and dove back under my covers. “Just one more minute,” I promised myself. A full fifteen minutes of blessed sleep passed before I awoke again with a start. I glanced at my alarm clock and gasped. Fifteen minutes behind schedule, what a great start. I dashed off to the washroom, the pounding in my brain increasing to a symphony of hundreds of hammers pounding in harmony deep within my skull. Some nice harmony indeed. For some reason these headaches always seemed to tag along with me, tormenting and irking me to no end. As if I ever did anything to it to deserve it. I was out of the shower in a record of five minutes, my long dark hair still pouring buckets of droplets down my back. I spent all of two minutes overturning my closet to find my favourite sweater, to no avail, it had simply vanished. I stumbled down the staircase and skidded to a halt in the kitchen. Without missing a beat, I flung open the fridge door and yanked out my lunch. It was nice and heavy and in the back of my mind I had a vague thought of thanks to the person who had kindly made my lunch.2

A harried look at the clock told me that Emily would already be waiting for me at out meeting spot. With no time for breakfast, I grabbed the smallest box of cereal out of the cabinet and raced out the door. I knew I looked like a mess when I ran down the cement, front steps that morning. My hair fell around my shoulders in a tangled and dripping mass and my school bag was sliding down my shoulder. I couldn’t understand why it was so heavy today. Today of course, of all days. And don’t forget the box of captain crunch clenched between my fingers. I arrived at our meeting spot, panting and dripping and with a head pounding to the rhythm of every step I took. Just as I had anticipated, Emily was standing there with a bored look stamped across her face, probably there for a while, but she thankfully didn’t mention it. She merely pulled a hand out of her jacket pocket and waved candidly. “Good morning,” she called, tossing her blond ringlets over her shoulder. I grunted in response and she eyed me in concern. “You don’t look too good today, Becky,” she commented. As if I needed her to tell me that. I grunted again and pressed my hand to my head. By now I was seeing bright, black spots pulsing before my eyes. “Are you feeling ok? Where’s your coat? It’s freezing today!” 3

“I didn’t have the best morning and my head is killing” I replied in a slightly slurred voice. “Again?!” she asked, aghast, arching a blond eyebrow in surprise. “What’s wrong with you? You get headaches every day!” I rolled my dark eyes heavenward. “I probably have it in my genes, like, hereditary or something.” 4

“Huh?” asked Emily, scrunching her small, pert nose. Oh right, I forgot. With Emily you have to spell everything out clearly. “It could be the kind of thing passed down from one generation to the next.” “Oh,” she replied. “So your parents get headaches too?” I sighed. “No, it could skip a generation. Maybe one of my grandparents got headaches.” 5

“So ask them,” She said in the tone you would use when talking to a five year old. “I can’t exactly,” I replied in that same tone. “My dad’s parents were dead before I was born. My mom’s father also died and her mothers in an elderly home in Costa Rica, she only speaks Spanish though, so I’ve never spoken to her.”6

“Oh, whatever,” Emily shrugged, her tight curls bouncing. I was glad she dropped the subject. Just the effort of talking caused me to be attacked by pangs of nausea. I really was not feeling very good. But Emily seemed to be in a jolly mood, “like my hair today?” she asked, peering at me through her pale blue eyes. I shrugged. “Well, I can’t expect you to know much about curly hair, yours is straight as a pin!” she laughed, “So anyways, I got this new kind of mousse…” I let her voice fade to the background and just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. I shivered. It really was quite cold, why had I forgotten my jacket? “It’s getting dark.” Emily commented, cocking her head to the grey sky, “I think it might rain.”7

As if to punctuate her prophetic words, the clouds burst open, showering streams of water to the earth below. I watched he droplets accumulate until there was not one dry spot remaining on my clothing. There was a puddle of water in my shoes and my hair, which had just begun to dry, began cascading bucket-loads of rainwater down my icy spine. We broke into a sprint, my heavy backpack thudding against my hips and the pounding in my head increasing to a quicker, more painful beat. The box of cereal in my hands had turned sodden and shredded and the crunchy cereal within it was a soggy, murky mass of rain and flattened cereal bits. How deliciously appetizing. Finally we reached the school building and barged through the doors in relief. Gingerly, I withdrew my dripping hair out of my sodden shirt and tossed it over my shoulder. But on its way over my shoulder it struck something. I looked up and found myself staring into the glowering eyes of Mr. Stonehart, the principal. I looked back down at his shirt and bit my lip. A wet streak ran across his shirt where my hair had brushed over it. That was no good news for me. Mr. Stonehart is the biggest, tallest and scariest man I’d ever seen. And, to put it mildly, being on his bad side meant not much fun. I met his glaring eyes meekly and took an instinctive, timid step back. After about an everlasting minute of deafening silence, I whispered, “I’m sorry.” 8

He must have felt a little mercy, down in his cold, impassive heart for me, standing there with a growing puddle of water around my ankles, for he gave me a stern look of disproval as he said, “Next time watch where you shoot your hair miss.” One more piercing stare for good measure and then he turned away. I sagged against the wall in relief and released my breath in a long, choppy sigh. Emily was still standing right behind me and she shot me a sympathetic smile. I just sighed again and pressed my frigid fingers against my burning temples. Today was obviously just not my day. 9

The day didn’t seem to get much better during math class, Mrs. Lewis asked me to write the equation on the board. I hadn’t been concentrating much and knew I’d make a total fool out of myself. “Uhh... I’m not really feeling too well,” I mumbled. Mrs. Lewis analyzed me with those steely grey eyes of hers; peering above the rims of her round, grey glasses. I guess I really must have looked a bit sick, for she replied, “yes you do look rather sick, go and get yourself some aspirin from the office,” she ordered. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Medicine was a good option. A quick walk to the office and I was there, requesting some Tylenol from Mrs. Handlebar, the secretary. She glared at me, through glinting, coal-coloured eyes and commented with disdain, “Obviously a girl who irresponsibly leaves her house without a coat is going to feel sick.” I glanced down at my clothes, they were still very wet and my feet were still sloshing about in my shoes. She practically threw me the tablets and I ran out of there as fast as I was able. I seemed to be on everyone’s bad side today. The next class, history, wasn’t much better. Mr. Jones returned our history tests, and I looked down at my failing grade with a numb expression on my face. I needed to let out a big sigh but the air seemed stuck down in my lungs. Just another thing gone wrong in my day. During science class we were delightedly surprised with a pop quiz. I didn’t have a head right then, for any cells or atoms and handed it in blank. One more score for Becky today, I was doing just great. I was suddenly hit with another overwhelming pang of nausea and hurried about the classroom for a shot at the water fountain; only to bump into Mrs. Handlebar in the doorway. She glared at me, that familiar, icy glare, her eyes narrowed into slits of blazing coals. I slipped passed her and ran down the hallway, feeling her burning eyes boring into my back. Today was proving to be the worst day of my life. At last, the lunch bell rang and I gratefully unzipped my bag and tugged out my heavy lunch. At least I’d have some good, nutritious lunch after my rather rough day. I eagerly opened the bag and then let out the long, despairing sigh that just moment before was tightly compressed in my lungs. Now I comprehended why my schoolbag was so heavy; the bag was filled with over a dozen onions! Silly of me to even think someone was kind enough to prepare my lunch for me. I gazed down at the onions through glazed, unfocused eyes; it seemed my day was destined to be about as bitter as those onions. Emily kindly shared with me some of her lunch and for some strange reason found it hilarious that I dragged a bag of onions to school. Some distorted kind of humour. The rest of the day was continued torture with the addition of hunger pangs added to my list of sufferings. When the final bell rang I sprinted from my seat like a spring and ran toward the door. Not a smart move for someone with a dizzying headache and a stomach turned inside out. I lost my balance and tripped over a briefcase sprawled on the floor. The bag of onions fell from my hands and from my vantage view on the floor; I watched each onion bounce off in a different direction, like a pack of bouncy balls. I groaned and painfully stood up. “Whose backpack is this anyway?” I moaned. “It’s mine!” proclaimed the indignant voice of Tracy, her head up in the air, “you should’ve looked where you were going.” No sorry or apology, just a look of scorn. With a sniff, Tracy gingerly lifted her bag and delicately brushed off the invisible speck of dirt. I rolled my eyes in disgust and frantically began picking up the scattered onions. No need for anyone to see those, I already made a big enough fool of myself. I managed to pick up most of the onions with the muffled sound of my classmates giggling behind their hands ringing in my ears. Then, with my head feeling like it was about to explode into a thousand splinters, I stormed out of the classroom and marched down the hall. I found Emily chattering by her locker. “Come on Em,” I said decisively, “Let’s go.” “Just a sec,” she replied and then returned to her conversation. I shifted from one foot to the other and tapped my foot against the tiled floor. I watched as a full three minutes passed and then, unable to wait any longer, I blurted, “Good night, I’m leaving.” With that I turned my head on Emily and pushed through the exit door. I walked home in a daze, the one thought of my warm, downy bed, propelling me to place one heavy foot in front of the other. I couldn’t wait to collapse into that comfy, cozy haven. I skipped up the front steps and burst into my house, I had never felt so relieved before. I was finally nearing my goal of the day: my bed. I poked my head in the kitchen where I found my mother chatting on the phone and my little brother, Joshie, munching on something and dangling his legs beneath his chair. “Hi mom, hi Joshie,” I said, “What’s that your eating, Joshie? Chocolate chip cookies?” Joshie nodded, his cherubic cheeks overflowing with cookie crumbs. “Yum!” I said, “Where are they?” 10

“There aren’t any left,” he said, taking another bite. Then, seeing my face fall, he hesitated and then tore off a tiny morsel and handed it to me. “You can have some of mine,” he said graciously. I rolled my eyes, rebuffing his kind offer and then glanced at my mother. She seemed to be very caught up in her conversation, so I turned to Joshie and murmured, “Tell mom I went to sleep, I’m not feeling well.” Joshie nodded kindly, his dark bangs falling into his eyes, and I turned to go. “Just one second, Becky,” Said my mother, holding the phone away from her ear. She rummaged through a stack of papers on the countertop and thrust one in my direction. “Do me a favour, Becky, and run to the grocery, I ran out of some things and we’re having guests tomorrow for dinner.” I sighed and pressed my palm against my aching head. “I’m not really feeling good mom” I said weekly. But my mother didn’t hear, she was back to whoever it was on the line. My head burned, so much for the Tylenol, but realizing there was not much of a choice, I clutched the folded list and tiredly left the house. My bed would just have to wait. The grocery was a mere five minute walk from my house, but on that day it seemed like eternity. The list was just like my mother’s usual style, as random as random gets. From mango sauce to mint flavoured sprinkles, it sure kept me and the sales helper busy. At last I paid and bade my escape, eager at last to finally reach my bed. I blinked in the sudden transformation of the brightly lit store to the grey, bleary weather and sniffed the misty, foggy air. In the background, the sound of a cheerful voice assailed my eardrums, “Ahem, excuse me?” I continued walking and heard the voice repeat itself more loudly. “Excuse me?” Was someone talking to me? I turned around and found myself facing a smiling girl looking around my age. Her hair was pulled away from her face and emanated from her pony holder in tight, dark ringlets. A smattering of freckles was sprinkled across her pale cheeks and her dark eyes were big and bright behind her blue glasses. I raised my brows in question; was she talking to me? 11

To be cont'd