Don't Be Late

“Right!” a faceless voice boomed over the intercom. The shutter clicked, and the flash popped. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I had no idea how I’d explain this photo to my husband.

The morning went awry immediately. The alarm went off at 7:30 A.M., and I hit snooze a few too many times, but I’d slept terribly. I spent so much of the night tossing and turning, overwhelmed with thoughts of the big day. I just needed five more minutes—maybe ten.

Thirty minutes later, I finally shuffled into the bathroom. Coffee was the only thing on my mind. Until I saw myself in the mirror.  I’d forgotten all about the TikTok hack I’d brazenly attempted the night before. The twenty-second tutorial made it look so easy. But the woman staring back at me did not have gorgeous, effortless waves as promised. No, she had a head full of tiny, orange balls of lint. 

“Oh, how could I have been so stupid! Of course, haphazardly cut strips of an old college t-shirt weren’t going to do the work of a blow dryer, curling iron, and styling cream.”

I didn’t have time to shower, but what other choice did I have? 

“I’m just going to jump in the shower,” I called to Tom, assuming he was in the adjacent closet getting dressed. 

After ten minutes of scrubbing and rinsing and scrubbing and rinsing, I finally felt confident that I’d banished all of the orange invaders down the drain. I had one foot out of the shower when the ceiling appeared. God, I just need a coffee. 

Grabbing the nearest towel, I leaned into the mirror. That little slip was definitely going to leave a bruise. But I had a more pressing problem. My hair was not the type to submit to air drying, and I was already forty-five minutes behind schedule. I tussled the towel through my hair, drying it as best I could, to which it responded by expanding in all directions.

A braid would have to do.

“Hey, Tom? Will you grab my red blouse and hand it to me? I’ve got to do something with this hair. You know, the one with the lighter red flowers? The school’s color is red, and I want to make sure that I have some of it on.”

No answer.

“Tom?” He wasn’t in the closet. Men took less time to get dressed; he probably moved on to helping Gracie. 

The options hanging in the closet were unusually sparse, and the red shirt I wanted was nowhere to be found. After a few more minutes of searching, the red shirt was found in the laundry room, soaking wet with the other clothes I’d neglected to move to the dryer two days ago.

“Okay, I guess I’ll just have to find something else.” But there was a reason these items were still tucked away neatly in the closet and not stewing with the rest of the clothes in the washer. They were all too small. Not a single thing was even remotely suitable for a kindergarten graduation.

Braid.

White button-down and lavender pants.

Not at all how I pictured myself attending Gracie’s event.

“Tom?” I tugged at the gap between the buttons of the blouse as I walked into the kitchen. The lights were off, and the house was eerily quiet. There was a note taped to the espresso machine:

Had to get Gracie there early 

You were in the shower

I’ll save you a seat–don’t be late. 

“Don’t be late? Of course, I’m not going to be late to our daughter’s graduation. Give me a little credit, Tom.” I tossed the note onto the counter, turned on the grinder, and went to the cabinet to grab a cup. The hopper made an awful, hollow noise.

It was empty. 

And so were the cabinets.

Rubbing my brow, I strained to think through my options. It was so much easier to think when caffeinated. The morning was already off to a dismal start. I was already late enough, but skipping coffee would make getting through the hour-long, sing-song ceremony impossible. The blue Post-it note stared up at me from the counter. “Don’t be late,” it kept saying. But wait! The ceremony didn’t start until nine, and he was saving me a seat! If I hurried, I could stop for coffee along the way. 

Thankfully, there wasn’t much of a line when I arrived at the cafe. Finally, something was going my way! At least, it was until I got to the register. 

“Hi! Iced vanilla latte with almond milk, please.”

“I’m sorry. We’re all out of almond milk and, unfortunately, our other alternative milks, too. There was a shipment delay. Can I offer you something else?” the barista asked with a devasting smile on her face.

“Umm … no. I’m a creature of habit—with a dairy allergy, sadly.”

“I can make you a tea. Or call our sister cafe a few minutes up the road and ask if they have almond milk.”

“I don’t think tea will have the oomph I need. And that cafe is in the opposite direction. I’ll just take two shots with vanilla syrup—no milk.” My nose crinkled; just saying the word left a bitter taste on my tongue.

The dark, milk-less bean juice sloshed around the cup as I climbed back into the car. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that terrible. I took a sip and hoped for the best. 

But it was worse than I could have imagined! It tasted like tar swirled through an ashtray while someone yelled “vanilla!” from another room.

And though it seemed unbelievable that the day could get any worse, it did. As I pulled the cup from my mouth, coffee spat from the lid and landed directly on my blouse.

My white blouse.

Front and center.

Panicked, I flailed around, looking for something to sop it up before it set. I found a crumpled napkin under the seat, licked it, and rubbed frantically at the black-brown spots.

Pop! The button at the fullest part of my breast went careening into the dashboard. I dropped my head to the steering wheel and bemoaned my fate. I wasn’t even wearing my good bra. Not that going open shirt, with a lacey black bra, was an option for an event filled with six-year-olds, but it was better than anyone seeing the old, worn-out nursing bra I was wearing.

My phone pinged. 

It was a text from Tom: Where are you? 

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat without replying and looked for something to secure the gaping hole in my shirt. Crusty paper clip in the crevice of the console? It wasn’t a safety pin, but it might work. 

I shoved the clip through the buttonhole and twisted it, bending it into place on the adjacent placket. Adjusting the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself. 

I was a mess. 

This whole day was a mess.

I started the engine. Ding! Ding! Ding! The fuel light flashed on the console as I pulled out of the parking lot. “No!” I groaned loudly.

I stopped at the first gas station I could find, but it wasn’t until I’d already turned in that I realized the station was undergoing refurbishments. There were only two working pumps—and a line.

“Seriously?!” 

There was no choice, however. The school was still a few miles down the road, and while I might get there, I’d likely run out of gas just looking for a parking space. The clock read 9 A.M. as I pulled into the line. 

I was late. 

Late. 

Late. 

Late.

The car at the pump finished quickly, but I was still stuck behind a gas-guzzler of an SUV. 

I texted Tom: Had to get gas. I’ll be right there. Has it started?

Tom: Opening ceremony. Music just started.

“Damn it!”

Everything that could go wrong had. My shirt was stained and barely held together. I pulled the vanity mirror down. Wisps of hair frizzed out of my braid in all directions. And was that? Yes, it was. There were still orange fuzz balls in my hair! I shot the cup full of bitter, black juice a spiteful glare. 

Stuck, I stared aimlessly at the convenience store windows while I waited for the SUV to finish. My lips pursed as an idea percolated. They might have almond milk. The shelf-stable, God-awful kind, but almond milk, nonetheless. 

I was already late and stuck until this beast of a vehicle finished filling up. I killed the engine, grabbed my purse, and bounded out of the car.

“Hey, lady! Where are you going?” the man in the car behind me shouted from his window. I waved him off. There was no time for him. I was about to save my day, or at least my sanity.

I returned to the car, boxed almond milk in hand, just as the SUV drove off. The clock read 9:06 A.M. as I pulled forward. Half a tank would be enough to get there and still make it to see Gracie get her scroll. 

I exited the station, feeling high on success. I split my focus between driving and removing the lid on the carton. I unscrewed the lid to the carton of milk and popped the top off of the coffee cup. 

My phone pinged repeatedly. 

Once.

Twice.

Three times in a row. 

“I’m trying, Tom!” I shouted.

I had a carton in one hand, a cup in the other, and my knee guiding the steering wheel, but the milk wasn’t coming out. Oh, the stupid tab was still on the carton!

My phone pinged again.

“Shut up!”

As I turned onto the street of the school, I spotted a car leaving a prime spot.  I steadied the carton on my lap and pulled. The milk streamed into the cup as I steered the car into the parking spot.

My phone rang, Tom’s photo lighting up the screen.

“I’m here! I’m here!” I shouted aloud. 

Thud! The car's front end scraped the curb and began to climb the sidewalk. I hit the brake. Opera music began to play as the cup, the carton, and all of their contents went flying through the air. The final note synced perfectly with the splat! of all the contents landing on my shirt and pants.

There was a knock on the window. I grabbed my phone and silenced it as I rolled down the window.

“Ma’am, were you on your phone?” the officer asked.

“No, I just grabbed it as I was—”

“Ma’am, are you aware that using your phone in a school zone is illegal?”

“Yes, officer, but I wasn’t…”

“Are you also aware that you ran that stop sign before hitting the sidewalk here?” He pointed to the front of her car.

“Stop sign?” I craned my neck, looking behind me in disbelief.

“Ma’am, please step out of the car.”

The bars squealed as they slid through the tracks. Holding Cell Six was just like I’d seen on TV. Dirty, ominous, and a cold metal bench the only furniture to speak of. I expected no less, and at this point, I didn’t even care. Exhausted, I pulled at the orange jumpsuit as I trudged over to the bench to lie down.

“You get one phone call,” the guard said as she locked the bars. “I’ll come and BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep!

“What?” I asked, confused.

BeepBeepBeepBeep!

“Hey. Hey, wake up.”

I opened my eyes. Tom came into focus. “Wha—” I sat up, disoriented.

“Your alarm has been going off. It’s time to get up. We don’t want to be late for Gracie’s graduation; she said she gets to sing Yankee Doodle.” He walked out of sight and into the bathroom.

“Yeah, don’t want to be late,” I mumbled as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

“Oh, hey,” his head popped out of the bathroom, “I think you’ve got some orange fuzz or something in your hair.”