We’re never going to make it. This is it. My life is over.
In the days and months that follow this tragedy, when they speak my name, they’ll say in hushed tones, “She died as she lived: full of complaint and bile, mere inches from her goal.”
Mom twists to smile at me in the back seat.
“See, June? The doors aren’t even open yet!” she says.
My best friend, Imani Choi, is riding shotgun, and it’s good because this way my mom can’t get the full force of my eye roll.
“I know they’re not open yet, Mom. That’s not the point.”
Outside the convention center, there’s already a snaking line along the sidewalk up the street and around the corner. A milling press of hundreds of early birds waiting to get in.
ZombieCon! is the biggest thing this town has ever seen. For the first time, it feels like the new convention center might reach its capacity, at least in the exhibit hall and ballroom. They’re saying up to ten or even fifteen thousand people are projected to attend the con!
“Look at that line,” I moan.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Imani says.
I take a deep breath.
It’s not Imani’s fault we’re not already in line for Zombie-Con! Even though we’d arranged to spend the night together, and said we’d get here before sunrise, and even though I’d texted Siggy last night, to remind her again of the importance of getting here early. And even after I had set two alarms, and set my mom’s alarm as well.
We’re still running late.
It’s Mom’s fault. She laughed this aren’t-you-cute indulgent laugh when I told her to get moving this morning, that the early bird catches the worm, the world isn’t going to wait for you, rise and shine, all those nagging things she says to me every morning to go to obnoxious school. But now the one thing that I really want, the one thing I’d worked for, well, the one fun thing, and Mom had the nerve to say, “Hold your horses, I need coffee.”
Then she moaned and complained, leaning against cabinets and counters, imitating me on school mornings. Paying me back for how hard I am to get going most mornings, and laughing like it was so original.
And as if that wasn’t annoying enough, after coffee, and after Imani finished putting on her makeup (which she doesn’t even need because her brown skin is flawless), on top of all that, I had to listen to Mom ask Imani about the colleges she would apply for if the early decision one didn’t work out. Which, I know, is the single issue that stresses Imani out so much, even if she’s used to parents asking about it because they all ask.
Then Mom continued asking about other scholarships Imani might apply for (she’s already got one sponsored by a local law office) and Mom kept going, Do you know if Siggy is planning to take the SAT again? June is, you know that already, next Saturday, and maybe if there’s time while you’re standing in line, you could help quiz June on the test-prep app . . . on and on and on.
I just kept quiet in the back seat. We were almost there; I’d worked for this day all summer, saving all my summer jobs money that didn’t go toward gas. Between summer school and my jobs, my white skin barely even tanned, because I barely went outside during daylight, it felt like.
So I’m determined. Nothing but nothing is going to ruin today, not even the Math Booster app.
And not the fact that I’m retaking the SAT for the third time next weekend.
And not the fact that I’m not sure any college is going to admit me if I fail math again.
Someone has to let me in, right?
Right?
And not the fact that it doesn’t really matter if I do take the SAT again. My score isn’t going to improve. We all know I have a learning disability. In math and math-y things. So why do I have to keep banging my head against this wall?