// A Day in the Life...
| 10/07/2004 - 12:45 p.m. |

"Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. Be-"

I fling my right arm across the bed and smack the magic button that makes the loathsome sound cease. My precise action is an auto-reflex and I have no recollection of the previous five occasions I hit "snooze" this morning.

"Zara, get up!"

"ZARA!" Someone is shaking my arm. Said someone urges me to "Wake up, Z! Come on, babe, it's 7:45."

"WHAT?!" I shriek and jump as high in the air as I am tall (which is 4'8-AND-a-quarter").

"Oh good, you're awake Z," Jax deadpans while I charge into the bathroom, knocking the pile of open books off my bed in the process.

With clear amusement, my adoptive mother of a year-and-a-half talks through the door. "Up too late studying, little one?"

I choose to ignore the hint of self-righteousness in her voice. "First period Jax! I have a midterm in fifteen freaking minutes!"

"I'll lay some clothes out for ya, Z, and then I've got to get Issac up," is her reply.

I take a two-minute shower and rush out of the bathroom. I throw on my "uniform"--athletic pants, tee, and a sweatshirt; pull my black curls into the standard ponytail; grab my backpack and gym bag; and trip going down the stairs. I land at the feet of Jax's husband, Taylor.

"Morning, short stuff," he greets me from 6'2" above.

"Hey, ya big oaf," I grunt my customary reply.

After checking me over, Tay concludes, "I think you'll live."

Jax helps me stand and insists I breathe. "Come on, kiddo. In...Out...It's just a test Z...In...Out..."

I comply briefly before seizing my belongings and dashing out the door.

"Hope your day gets better, lovey! I'll see ya tonight, ok. And please be careful, Zara!!" she calls after my quickly retreating bike...


...I screech to a halt at 8:15 outside my 9th-grade honors history classroom. I take a half-moment to try that breathing thing again before I open the door and slink inside.

"Good morning, Ms. Santi." Mr. Pompous smirks and hands me a copy of the midterm.

When the bell rings thirty-five minutes later, I frantically scribble the last of a brilliant, if incoherent, essay on the role of women in the Roman Empire before he snatches the paper away.

"Time's up, Ms. Santi," crows Mr. Pompous.

I am speed-walking down the hall, thanking goddess for the multiple-choice section, when I slam into a steel beam that is some football player's left arm.

"Hey, slow down, Princess. You about to get pinched or somethin', Meadow?"

"Wow, it musta taken both of your brain cells to come up with something that original," I congratulate him as I duck under the appendage and ram my right knee into his groin. "You might wanna stay on the lam for a while though, arruso," I advise before taking off again whistling...


...I make it through the next two periods without further injury or mishap and arrive at my fourth period class, with a full minute to spare even. Ali, who has third-period lunch, informs me, "It's broken again," before I even ask what the frozen yogurt flavors are today.

"Porca puttana!" I cuss in Italian and flop into the seat next to her. "And I forgot my friggin' lunch too."

"It really is pathetic how obsessed we are with that machine," laughs Ali, my best friend and teammate at Independence Gymnastics Club since forever. "Do you think there's a 'Fro-Yo Anonymous'?"

I offer no witty comeback, seeing that our geometry teacher is presently glaring at us as she announces, "We're starting with a pop quiz today." In response to the chorus of groans, she continues, "Oh, pipe down, folks. It's short and it's open-book."

That would be helpful was mine not still at home.


As soon as the last bell finally rings, I fly out of the building, leap on my bike, and race to the gym--always my haven.

I'm going full out from minute one, in that fierce, do-NOT-screw-with-me zone where everything is BAM, rock.fucking.solid.

Ali doesn't bother even trying to keep pace; rather, she conserves her energy to provide color commentary, in preparation for a future broadcasting career.

Lauren, my coach, says, "Slow down, Z."

"And she GII-AANT swings through her bars warm-up even faster."

Lauren says, "Take it easy, Z."

"Would you look at that block off the vault? We're talking tornado force!"

Lauren says, "I said six routines, not ten, Z."

"Oh my, and the Z-ster mounts the beam for another...Folks, she is on a World Record pace!"

From the far side of the gym, Lauren's other half, Dale, finally bellows, "Get OUT, Zara. NOW. And chug a bottle of chill, would ya?!"

I shoot him green poison daggers and prep for another tumbling pass.

"GODDAMMIT ZARA, I SAID GET OUT. NOW!"

I let loose an inspired, multi-lingual string of obscenities and a few choice gestures as I stomp back IN to the locker room. Well, F-THAT. There is still an hour left of practice, so I go running--for an hour. I come back to get my bags and pick up my bike--playing oblivious to the stares--and sprint the ride home.

I am still clumping, muttering, and punting as I enter the Rosen's garage and go through the door to the kitchen. If I were paying any attention at all, as I grab a diet soda and slam the fridge door before stamping my way up to my room, I would see Tay and nine-year-old Issac gaping wide-eyed...and notice Jax is nowhere in sight.

If.

I bang open my bedroom door and start flinging my stuff on the ground.

And scream.

"Jesus H. Christ!!! Che CAZZO are you doing here?!? Trying to give me a damn heart attack!??!"

Jax is there, sitting in the big rocking chair, solemn and calm as can be. The expression on her face, however, that raised eyebrow included..."Hey, how was your day Zara Michaela?"

Yup, that's the one. Sends me scrambling to think of what the hell I did this time...