Crashing Into Billie Eilish

The school bell sat deep, deep within my stomach. Heavy and unwavering. Not ringing. I have exactly five minutes of school left for the term and all Miss Richards, my art teacher, wants to do is talk and talk about short films and holiday assignments.

I could feel the holidays buzzing beneath my skin warm, warm in my veins, floating up through my throat, and into my head, making me dizzy.

"This is a team project, so find a partner," she says, meandering the rows and rows of sleepy, jittery teenagers frothing in their seats, wanting to go, go holiday now! "You are required to compile a short film. Pay attention to aesthetics and expressing your unique style through a lens." She stares at us, her green eyes sparkling through the diamond shape of her dainty fingers.

Then she pauses, folding her hands in front of her. Kids rise to their feet, legs warm and trembling with freedom uncontained. Cold but optimistic that this time, winter holidays will be the best. And I hope, too.

Miss Richards holds up a finger. "This counts twenty-five percent of your year mark. So try your best to do well. This is easy grades, people."