Page 293 of Satan's Spawn
Damn these fucked up teenage hormones.
I’m bolting out of the bed and gathering up essentials to get me dressed and to the courthouse on time. Which is nearly impossible since it starts in thirty damn minutes.
You’re the optimist,I tell myself, not bothering with the fancy clothes I laid out and throwing one of Crayton’s black tees over my head.
Swallowing the morning meds dry, I toss my hair up in a bun, then haul ass out of his room bouncing as I slide on my flats.
I run through the house, not bothering to grab a piece of fruit on the dining room table before slamming the obnoxiously heavy door behind me, and continuing the marathon down the hall.
Where I’m met with more fun obstacles.
Like the elevator that isn’t working, and I wouldn’t put it past Crayton to break the damn thing to assure I don’t make it.
Skipping a dangerous amount of steps, I make it safely from the fifteenth floor to the first with only a throbbing ankle to show for it.
When I dart outside the sun and heat hit me like a glass door, making me squint as I search for the nearest yellow taxi.
Luckily for me, one just pulls up in front of his building.
I limp over to it, feeling like the squirrel in those Pixar movies trying to catch the nut.
Mine is just the human one.
With a not-so-subtle brush past the guy climbing out of the taxi, I jump inside and scream for the little old man in a fedora to take me to the courthouse.
“If you’re in a rush, young lady, you may want to consider the train. Traffic is terrible today.” The old man looks my way over his shoulder.
Seriously?
“We’re in Manhattan, traffic is a fucking staple of the community, now go.”
His eyes widen before turning back to face the wheel, taking off onto the street.
Jesus, Rebecca, harsh much?
There’s complete silence the entire thirty minutes to my destination, and the old man must feel fear or pity because he tells me the ride is on him.
With an apologetic smile and quick “thank you,” I swing the door open, my feet already revving their engines when I slam it closed.
There are only a few people settled around the wide concrete steps, mostly eating lunch or on the phone waiting to be seen or heard by a judge.
I ignore all of them as I jog up to the top, sliding inside the courthouse when some lady appears behind the door.
It’s quiet, eerily quiet. Almost empty.
Which is quite the bad omen for a place usually filled with zipping suit ties and high heels.
In between the bundling nerves, I’m envisioning both articles of clothing on the same person, and now all I can see in the randos is determination and very bad fashion sense.
Going toe to toe with another set of stairs, I tap my way up the spiral staircase with a sweaty palm against the banister.
It’s well after nine-thirty, so I know the arguments have already commenced, and my hope is people are still being allowed to watch and not getting turned away.
My second hope is that there’s no frowned upon rule about bursting through doors during court proceedings.
What can I say?
I’m not clear on the semantics of being late because I’mnever freaking late.
