My lungs are burning, but I keep running like my life depends on it—because honestly, it kind of does.
People are everywhere, and I'm bulldozing through them like some kind of human wrecking ball. My shoulder clips this businessman's briefcase, sending papers flying like confetti. A woman with a stroller shoots me the stink eye and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days." But I'm already three blocks ahead, my sneakers slapping against the pavement in a rhythm that screams desperate student trying not to die.
Zoe's right there with me, her blonde hair whipping behind her like she's starring in some action movie. Except instead of running from explosions, we're running from the soul-crushing reality of another detention slip.
"Move it, people!" Zoe shouts, vaulting over a fire hydrant with the grace of someone who definitely peaked in middle school gymnastics.
Some guy in a food truck hollers after us, "Slow down before you kill someone!"
"We're the ones about to die!" I yell back, not even turning around.
God, we're such a mess. But this isn't new territory for us—oh no, we've perfected the art of being catastrophically late. It's like our superpower, except instead of saving the world, we're just disappointing teachers and giving our parents gray hair.
Last week, we were forty-five minutes late because Zoe couldn't find her "lucky" hair tie. The one that looks exactly like every other black hair tie on the planet, but apparently this one had "good vibes" or some crap like that. We tore her room apart like we were searching for buried treasure, only to find it wrapped around her wrist the entire time.
And don't even get me started on the Great Sock Incident of two weeks ago. We literally had a philosophical debate about whether socks have feelings when they get separated. I argued they probably feel abandoned, like a divorced couple. Zoe insisted they were probably relieved to finally get some space. We were so deep in this ridiculous conversation that we completely forgot about first period until Zoe's mom started banging on the door asking if we'd died in there.
But today's disaster? Today takes the cake.
We stayed up until God knows what time at Zoe's place, supposedly having some kind of "healing girl talk" about our train wreck love lives. What a joke. Instead of healing, we basically just reopened every emotional wound we've ever had.
"Wait, he actually texted you 'hey' with just one 'y'?" Zoe had gasped around midnight, clutching a pillow like a shield. "That's basically emotional assault!"
"Right? And then he had the audacity to add a period at the end!" I'd thrown my own pillow at her face. "Like, what am I supposed to do with that energy?"
We'd convinced ourselves we were over our respective disasters—me with Liam and his commitment issues that could fill a psychology textbook, and Zoe with Marcus, who apparently thinks dating multiple girls is "keeping his options open." Spoiler alert: we were not over anything.
By 3 AM, we were eating cereal straight out of coffee mugs because we were too lazy to find actual bowls, our eyes red and puffy, making pinky promises to "just not care anymore." We even did this whole ridiculous ritual where we applied highlighter to our cheekbones thinking it would somehow manifest confidence or whatever.
"If we glow on the outside, maybe we'll glow on the inside," Zoe had whispered, blending sparkly powder across my cheeks like she was performing some sacred ceremony.
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," I'd replied, then immediately asked her to do my other cheek.
Now, sprinting through downtown like we're being chased by zombies, I can still feel traces of that stupid glitter on my forehead. Fantastic.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket, and like an idiot, I try to check it while running. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I nearly face-plant into a bench that came out of nowhere.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Zoe screams, grabbing my arm to steady me.
"Time check!" I wheeze, hopping over some lady's tiny dog that looks more like a walking cotton ball than an actual animal. "We need to know how screwed we are."
"Scale of one to ten?"
I glance at my phone screen and my heart drops into my stomach. "Like, nuclear-level screwed. Detention-plus-angry-parents-plus-possible-suspension screwed."
Zoe lets out this sound that's half groan, half dying whale. "I can't handle another 'concerned parent meeting.' My mom will literally frame the email and hang it on the fridge like it's some kind of achievement."
We round the corner and nearly take out this guy selling knock-off designer sunglasses from a folding table. He doesn't even blink. Dude's probably seen worse things than two panicked teenagers having a public breakdown.
"Focus!" Zoe pants, yanking on my backpack strap like I'm a dog trying to chase a squirrel. "We can still make it if we don't die first."
Two blocks. Just two more blocks and we'll be at school. My backpack feels like it's filled with concrete blocks, bouncing against my spine with every step. Sweat is dripping down my face, and I'm pretty sure I've sweated through my deodorant, my shirt, and possibly my will to live.
Zoe looks like she's been through a blender. Her carefully applied eyeliner is now halfway down her cheek, and there's still glitter scattered across her forehead like she head-butted a craft store.
"What is that on your face?" I gasp between breaths.
She swipes at her forehead with the back of her hand. "I think it's from our 2 AM confidence ritual. You know, when we thought makeup could fix our emotional problems?"
Right. The Great Highlighter Experiment. We'd been lying on her bedroom floor, surrounded by empty chip bags and half-finished bottles of nail polish, whispering affirmations like they were magic spells. "I am confident. I am worthy. I don't need boys to validate my existence." All while applying enough glittery makeup to blind a small aircraft.
Finally—FINALLY—we see the school gates. They're standing there like the gates of heaven, except instead of angels, there's just a bunch of teenagers who actually managed to wake up on time like functioning human beings.
And then, like the universe has a personal vendetta against us, the late bell rings.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" Zoe screams at the sky like it personally offended her entire bloodline.
But I'm not giving up. Not today. "If we die in detention, tell everyone I lied about being over Liam!"
"Everyone already knows you're not over him!"
Fair point.
We're about to launch ourselves through those gates like we're in some dramatic movie scene, when suddenly—WHAM—a hand appears in front of us like a traffic cop stopping a runaway train.
Mr. Patt. The Guardian of the Gates. The Destroyer of Dreams. The man who takes his job more seriously than Secret Service agents take protecting the president.
He's standing there with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised so high it's practically touching his hairline. The man has perfected the art of the disappointed adult face. It's like being judged by your grandpa, your principal, and a disappointed deity all at once.
"And where," he says, his voice dripping with the kind of authority that makes your soul shrivel up, "do you two think you're going?"
Zoe and I skid to a stop so fast we nearly pile into each other like some kind of slapstick comedy routine. I'm leaning against the gatepost, trying not to throw up from running, while Zoe's bent over with her hands on her knees, gasping like she just climbed Mount Everest.
"Inside?" I offer, attempting what I hope is a charming smile but probably looks more like a grimace. "To... learn things? And be good students?"
He stares at us. Just stares. The silence stretches on so long I start wondering if he's having some kind of system error.
"School started twenty-five minutes ago," he finally says, tapping his wrist even though he's not wearing a watch. Power move. Classic. "This is the fifth time this month."
I glance at Zoe. She glances at me. We both know we're toast. We could lie—blame traffic, or construction, or a freak meteor shower that only affected our specific walking route. But honestly, we're too tired for creative fiction.
So instead, I go with honesty. Sort of.
"We were emotionally processing," I say, like that's a totally normal excuse for being late to school.
Zoe nods seriously. "With cereal. And highlighter. It's a therapeutic method we learned on TikTok."
Mr. Patt looks like he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. "Principal's office," he says, stepping aside like he's directing traffic to a funeral. "Both of you."
We start walking toward our doom, feet dragging like we're heading to our own execution. Mr. Patt falls into step behind us, probably making sure we don't make a run for it.
"Maybe we tell them we're conducting a social experiment?" I whisper to Zoe.
She grins despite our impending doom. "Yeah, testing the limits of adult patience. For science."
We take exactly three steps before Zoe whispers, "Now."
And we bolt.
Hard left, straight into the landscaping like we're trained escape artists. I hear Mr. Patt shout something that sounds like "HEY!" mixed with what might be a very inappropriate word for a school environment.
The hedges are not kind to us. Branches are grabbing at my backpack, twigs are attacking my hair, and I'm pretty sure something just tried to eat my shoe. But we push through like we're in some kind of botanical obstacle course.
"What are we doing?!" I hiss, diving behind a maintenance shed like we've done this a thousand times before.
"Surviving!" Zoe pants, peeking around the corner. "Oh my God, look at him!"
I peek too, and it's beautiful. Mr. Patt is standing at the edge of the bushes, spinning slowly like a confused GPS system. One hand on his hip, the other shading his eyes, scanning the courtyard like we're mythical creatures that just vanished into thin air.
"He's buffering," Zoe whispers, and we both clap our hands over our mouths to keep from laughing out loud.
There's something absolutely ridiculous about this moment—two supposedly smart students crouched behind a shed, hiding from a man whose biggest concern in life is whether teenagers arrive at school on time. We're like the world's least threatening fugitives.
The second bell rings. Five minutes until next period.
"We can still make it," I whisper, wiping dirt off my face. "Back stairs by the art wing. If we're quiet."
Zoe nods like I've just outlined a master plan. "Operation Not-Another-Detention."
"Operation Please-Don't-Call-My-Parents."
We break cover and sprint across the courtyard, past the dumpsters, through the narrow alley behind the gym that always smells like forgotten lunches and industrial disinfectant. The back staircase is our salvation—creaky, mostly unused, and usually unguarded.
We tumble into the hallway like we've just completed some kind of military training exercise, wild-eyed and breathing hard. Then, like magic, we slow to a casual stroll. Just two students, walking to class, totally normal, definitely didn't just play hide-and-seek with a school administrator.
"Do I look normal?" I ask, trying to fix my hair.
Zoe checks her reflection in a trophy case and grimaces. "You look like you got in a fight with a garden and lost."
"Perfect."
Somehow, impossibly, we made it. And somewhere behind us, Mr. Patt is probably still trying to figure out how two teenage girls just disappeared into thin air in broad daylight.
We should feel guilty about this.
We absolutely don't.
We stroll into homeroom exactly thirty-two seconds after the final bell, trying our best to look like we've been sitting in these seats all morning. Casual. Cool. Definitely not like we just completed an impromptu parkour course through the school's landscaping.
Mr. Halford looks up from his attendance sheet, and the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. You know that feeling when you walk into a freezer? That moment when your body realizes it's made a terrible mistake? Yeah, that's happening right now.
His eyes narrow as he takes in our appearance—my hair looking like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, Zoe's makeup situation that can only be described as "abstract art," and both of us still slightly out of breath.
"You two," he says slowly, like he's trying not to have a stroke, "again."
The entire class turns to stare at us like we're the main attraction at a zoo. I can practically hear them thinking: Here we go again with the Late Girls Show.
And here's the thing—we're not bad students. We actually get decent grades. We do our homework (mostly). We participate in class discussions (when we're actually there). Our only real problem is that punctuality is apparently a foreign concept to us.
I decide to go with the polite approach. I smile. You know, that innocent "I'm just a sweet student who definitely didn't just evade a school authority figure" smile.
Zoe, on the other hand, waves. Actually waves. Like she's greeting fans at a red carpet event.
Mr. Halford sets his clipboard down with the kind of finality usually reserved for signing death warrants.
"Would you like to explain," he says through gritted teeth, "why you are late for the fifth time this month? And please—for the love of all that is holy—do not say traffic."
I glance at Zoe, who shrugs with the kind of innocence that only makes you look more guilty.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to go big or go home.
"Well," I say, "there was a thief."
The classroom goes dead silent, and then someone in the back snorts with laughter.
Mr. Halford blinks slowly. "A thief."
"Yes, sir. Some guy tried to grab my bag while we were walking to school. Zoe and I chased him for like six blocks. We had to make sure he didn't get away with my wallet." I pause for dramatic effect. "And my homework."
"Your homework," Mr. Halford repeats flatly.
"Yes, sir. I mean, you always tell us education is important, right? We couldn't just let some criminal run off with our assignments."
A girl in the front row is biting her lip, trying not to laugh. Someone else whispers, "This is amazing."
Mr. Halford stares at us for what feels like an eternity. His eye twitches slightly. Then he picks up his clipboard, mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "I should have been a farmer," and waves us toward our seats.
"Sit down," he says, "before I change my mind about believing that ridiculous story."
"Thank you for understanding, Mr. Halford," I say sweetly. "We really appreciate teachers who care about student safety."
Zoe nods solemnly. "We're just trying to be responsible citizens."
We collapse into our seats, triumphant and barely containing our laughter.
Smart students? Absolutely.
Punctual students? Well, nobody's perfect.
As Mr. Halford starts taking attendance, Zoe leans over and whispers, "Think Mr. Patt is still looking for us in the bushes?"
I glance toward the window and grin. "Probably. We should send him a postcard from homeroom."
"Dear Mr. Patt," Zoe whispers, "Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Love, the Vanishing Students."
And despite everything—the running, the hiding, the elaborate lies, and the impending doom of our permanent records—I can't stop smiling.
Because sometimes, being a disaster is the most fun you can have before 9 AM.