Perfect Storm
I wish I could say it was the first time
I'd put off writing an article until the
day it was due, but my dad didn't raise
a liar.
The third floor of Buchanan, the main
library on campus, was bleak.
Florescent lights twitched overhead
and the scent of burnt popcorn
circulated through the air conditioning
ducts. Luckily, it was only the first
week of the semester, so no one was
around to watch me wrestle my USB
drive into a slot on the side of an
ancient copy machine.
I still hadn't finished unpacking into
the new off-campus apartment Hanna
and I had leased, but somehow I'd
managed to spend fifty-eight dollars on
Mexican food and leave an important
assignment until the last second.
The food thing was Andre's fault. He
was the one who kept suggesting we
grab lunch at Pepito's, our favorite taco
stand (a place where self control meant
nothing to me).
The second thing was all my own
doing, unfortunately.
But this morning I'd had hope.
I'd thought I'd pulled off another
successful feat of procrastination—
another last minute lunge across the
finish line that separated failure from
permissible mediocrity.
I hadn't accounted for the rain.
Garland, California (population thirty
thousand during the school year, and
half of that in the summer) was an
hour north of downtown Los Angeles.
We were used to droughts. But by the
time I'd made it to Buchanan, I was
soaked from the crown of my head to
the chipped nail polish on my toes.
I'd worn a sundress. I looked like an
idiot.
A very damp idiot.
And as I stood there, slapping the side
of the copy machine and dripping a
puddle onto the hideous grey-green
carpet beneath me, my phone started
to vibrate somewhere in the depths of
my backpack.
I groaned and dropped it to the floor to
begin a search and rescue mission.
There were only three people who
could realistically be calling me—
Andre Shepherd, Hanna Pham, and my
dad.
It was Hanna.
"Why are there granola bars all over
the bathroom floor?" she demanded, in
lieu of a greeting.
"I'm sorry," I said. "The bottom of the
box gave out. I was in a rush."
"Are you in class yet?"
"Nope. Buchanan. Third floor."
"Oh, shit. Is it Thursday already?"
The abomination in question had
started chugging out of the printer at
a speed of approximately two lines an
It was, in fact, Thursday—otherwise
known as deadline day at the Daily,
Garland University's school paper. Our
editor-in-chief wanted a hard copy
turned in to a box on her desk by noon.
Joke's on her, I thought.
My article was going to suck no matter
what format it was in.
The abomination in question had
started chugging out of the printer at
a speed of approximately two lines an
hour.
I groaned and pinched the bridge of
my nose.
"I'm in hell," I muttered under my
breath.
"Well, at least you finished it, right?"
Hanna offered. "Ellison can't get mad
at you if it's done. You did your best.
That's what counts."
I barked out a bitter laugh.
"Han, this is the worst thing I've ever
written."
"Yeah, but you spent, like, the entire
summer in Mexico City. I think you get
a free pass on this one. Visiting your
mom's family is more important than a
fluff piece about the football team."
Except it'd turned out more like a
celebrity gossip column than fluff
piece.
And I'd authored a lot of Jonas Brothers
fan fiction back in middle school, so the
standards of judgment were pretty low.