Brenda

Brenda

7:29 AM - My alarm wakes me with an anxiety-inducing siren. I need to remember to set it to some other sound, one that won't actually wake me up. It is remarkable that by its simple existence, school has the power to turn me into an exhausted, depleted, zombie-like version of myself wandering comatose toward Friday. There is no amount of sleep that could ever be enough to sustain even the most energetic of teenagers, so all I can do is maximize every minute of every night, only to drag my lifeless body to school on time the following morning. Last night, I enjoyed eight hours and nineteen minutes of sleep. Largely because I’ve condensed my morning routine down to 18 minutes exactly. I spend no more than two minutes snatching something to eat for my walk to school, and if I hustle, at just the right pace, I’ll arrive exactly on time at 8:05 AM. Since this routine of mine leaves absolutely no margin for error, getting out of the house in the morning is far more stressful than it should be, avoiding any and all time-consuming variables. I know it isn’t the brightest choice to cut it so close, but sleeping is unequivocally the best part of my school day existence. Therefore, I firmly contend that I deserve to make what little happiness I experience during the school week last as long as possible. 

7:49 AM - I leave my apartment building and notice an adorable Havapoo. It takes all my strength to not run and pick her up, interrogate her owner, and obsessively cuddle her wasting multiple minutes en route. However, knowing that this would be the difference between being on time and being late, I keep it moving. 

7:55 AM - My mind is begging my legs to keep up, but the three-hundred-pound backpack threatening to snap my spine in half won't allow them to do so. There are drops of sweat forming at the top of my forehead, then one drips down my face eventually landing in my mouth. The vile taste overwhelms me with nausea, and I am sure to make a face that illustrates exactly how disgusted I am. I take a breath and remind myself that I’m almost there. Truthfully, I have no right to be upset about my sweaty state. If I had just woken up five minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have needed to jog to school, arriving both on time and completely dry. 

8:00 AM - Someone starts tapping my shoulder incessantly. Who is that? I use the heavy weight of my backpack to spin myself around to see who is responsible for creating a delay in my already rushed walk to school. The unfamiliar woman says, “Hi Hannah! Do you remember me? I’m your mom’s friend, Brenda!” Dammit. I hate when this happens. I absolutely do not know who this woman is; what I do know is that if the air conditioning unit I spot dangling above her head doesn’t drop at this very instant, I’m going to be late for school. 

“It’s so great to see you, Brenda!” She then goes on to recount every interaction I've had with her since the day I was born. Realizing that this encounter will not be brief, I begin flipping through the files in my brain in an attempt to find a decent line that will get me out of this conversation without offending this annoying friend of my Mom’s. I’ve got nothing. I normally wouldn’t care about offending some random woman, but since I know that even my slightest movement will travel back to my mother at warp speed, I do my best to stay respectful.

8:03 AM - I’m waiting for her to pause and take a breath so I can quickly slip in a parting sentiment ( a “Well it was nice seeing you!” or an “I’ll tell my mother you said ‘Hello’”). However, instead of providing me the opportunity to extricate myself from the conversation, she says, “I haven't seen you since you were this big,” gesturing her hand to the height of a small toddler. What exactly am I supposed to do with this information? You would think, after hearing this same stupid line over seven thousand times, I would have figured out an adequate response followed by a direct exit strategy. But, again, nothing. In desperation, I let out an obnoxious-sounding cackle and hope that she buys it, while simultaneously allowing me to get a word in edgewise. Sadly, my fake laugh actually seems to encourage her as she rambles on with even more excitement and commitment than before. 

 I never realized a conversation could have the ability to make me feel as if there were an actual beating heart inside my skull. My brain is about to fall out of my body and drop at this woman's feet in response to her mind-numbing anecdotes. Part of me wishes that it would, but I imagine she would just scoop up my brains with her shoe, and keep right on talking, not missing a beat. 

 Time? Unknown, because it would be rude to look at my watch while I’m in the middle of a conversation with dear old Brenda. I finally get my opening when she pauses to take her first breath since she started speaking. May I tangentially add that this woman has some set of lungs? She should be participating in a triathlon instead of standing here torturing me.

I must seize this moment because if I don’t I might not get another opportunity to escape until noon. At this point, I am positive she would ask me to accompany her to lunch. I wish I could magically make her realize that if I’m late one more time I will get suspended for having six lates in one quarter. It will be on my permanent record, I won’t get into college, I won’t get a job, and I will probably end up homeless, all because of stupid Brenda. To ensure my path to gainful employment, I do not let this five-millisecond window close before saying, “Well, it was so nice seeing you, I’ll tell my mom you said, ‘Hello!’ Bye!”

How do my mother’s friends even recognize me if they supposedly haven’t seen me since I was “this big?” Why do they even enjoy conversing with a child? Do they not sense the large, gray, suffocating cloud of awkwardness between us during these interactions? When I’m an adult, I swear, I will avoid my friends’ kids as if conversing with them will bring instant demise. 

8:10 AM - I finally arrive at school and frantically check my phone for the time. I’m late! Now when my parents ask me how I ended up homeless, I will be sure to tell them that it was all Brenda's fault.

5:05 PM- I walk through the door and see my father leaning on the giant wooden table in the foyer. I could tell he had been patiently waiting for me, probably for an embarrassing amount of time during which he could have been accomplishing something much more meaningful than waiting to yell at his daughter. I let out an exaggerated sigh, he begins to open his mouth, and all I can do is brace myself. 

“Hannah, school emailed us saying you were late, AGAIN! I told you before, being late is unacceptable. When you are older, this will not fly in the workplace; you will be fired. No one is going to wait for you. I mean why can't you just get to school on time. It’s not that hard, it’s not like it's brain surgery, I mean come on!!” 

He continued rambling on but all I could focus on was that one phrase. “It’s not like it's brain surgery”. He was just so wrong. It's just as intricate, every move needs to be planned with perfect precision. While doing the surgery you must make sure the patient's heart doesn't stop, and that their brain doesn't begin bleeding. In my case, I had to be careful not to die of boredom or anger, but I also had to make sure I wasn't rude, otherwise, my mother would kill me for upsetting her weird friend. 

“Are you even paying attention? Hannah!”

“Hi, yes, I was listening. I‘m sorry” 

“Just go to your room” 

And off I went.