Sophie Hearn (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} soph_omore) wrote,@ 2008-03-16 10:23:00 |
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Hearn?....Hearn?....Hearn?....
---Oh, she's sick. My neighbor's dogsitter's son's friend saw her in the hospital yesterday.
When we were kids, we used to have days like this. One a year, picked at our discretion. My parents called them “Abracadabra Day." We could skip school and do anything we wanted (within financial reason). I should mention that out of all the possible things we could do, we usually stayed at home, ate junk food, and watched Indiana Jones. My hypothetical day is about to be a lot different. I hope.
My ideal day off would likely be spontaneous. The problem is, it's a little hard to plan spontaneity. So I guess we'll just go with it.
I wake up and stumble toward the kitchen. My mum's already left for work. She's in Davis and wont be back until 6:00 or 6:30 due to meetings. So says the note on the fridge. Lying on the counter is my unfinished essay that's due 4th period. I think about the day ahead and contemplate whether school is really worth it. I've already taught myself the math from the book. (Not that my math teacher could possibly teach me anything anyway.) Not to mention that French quiz.
I conclude that it is definitely better not to go, and I manage to convince myself that my mum would have let me stay home... But I don't call her. (I don't want to bother her, you know?) Having settled my guilty conscience, I decide to have some fun.
My brother Ernest is still at home, asleep. He's only been home for a few hours. Late night, I guess. I try shaking him and yelling in his ear. When that doesn't stir him, I pull out my trusty supersoaker and squirt him in the back of the head. He grunts and whirls around. His eyes wide, he aims an open palm at my face. I dodge and step back, knowing he can't quite reach me in his groggy state.
“Wanna be my chauffeur?” I ask cheerfully jingling his keys.
Confused, he peers at me through blood-shot eyes. I hold out two twenty dollar bills and his face lights up. Suddenly he's not angry with me anymore. We settle on a deal. He'll drive me for free if I pay for gas and food, and as long as I get him back in time for his class at the community college. I know this will be risky, considering the amount of food he eats, but I agree. I hop into his Lincoln Mark VII and we head out to get crêpes and bubble tea, making a wide arc around the school to avoid Mr. Barone and his trademark x-ray rainbow glasses that can spot a truant from a mile away.
After a peaceful walk around the block, we decide that we need to make the day more extravagant. We call up my uncle who lives in Marin, and ask him if he'll sail us around the bay.
He sounds dismayed on the phone as he says, “I'd love to, but the boat's being fixed.”
We thank him and make to hang up when he stops us. “Wait. I've just gotten my pilot's license. Would you like me to take you in the plane instead?”
We quickly agree. “Promise not to tell our parents, though?” Ernest asks.
He laughs heartily. “Well, if you promise you wont tell on me. I'd probably get in more trouble than you.”
We wait for him on the landing strip at the airport and share a bag of Jelly Bellys while discussing if it's really safe to fly with Uncle John so soon after he's received his license. (This being, of course, the same John that drove around on a dirt road in the rain, with both of us on the roof.)
He arrives and we jump into the little plane. Ernest calls shotgun, so I hop in the back.
We're far in the air before he asks if I've got my seatbelt on. I look incredulously at the back of his head. Does he think I would get into a plane with him without a seatbelt? Now my mind begins to drift and I wonder how much safety a seatbelt would really provide if we were plummeting toward the earth.
A loop-de-loop quickly spins these thoughts from my mind and almost makes me throw up. Ernest laughs at me, so I throw a Jelly Belly at him.
Uncle John eventually lands the plane. He flies back across the bay after saying goodbye. Ernest has to get to his class, so he drops me at Peet's for a cup of joe and a scone (yeah, that's right. I said it. Scones are awesome. Don't deny it.)
I'm contemplating how to ambush my friends and get them to join me. I'm sure as hell not spending my day off by myself. It shouldn't be too hard. If I can't cajole them into it, I'll have to put a bag over their heads during passing period and kidnap them. They'll forgive me once they're out of there.
After some finagling and skillful maneuvers, they find themselves outside the 7-11 with no idea how they got there. I just go along with it and pretend I don't know how I got there either. We all stand around and drink Slurpees for a bit, more than slightly bored and increasingly sugar-high. No one wants to return to school, but no one has any brilliant plans, especially without any transportation. (The BART is far too difficult to walk to on a stomach full to the brim with flavored ice.) We think about stealing a car, and then remember that we are supposed to be 80% realistic.
Finally, finally, Ernest is done with his class. He calls me back on my cellphone (which is magically not broken for today.) We all pile into the car and he drives away without asking where we're going. I'm thankful, because I have no idea. We end up a few blocks away, stopped in front of a house I have never seen. I'm confused but don't question him. He slams the door, and within a few seconds he's beckoning to me from the stoop. I follow his lead, leaving my friends staring at us from the car. A few minutes and several thank-yous later we return with a box of fireworks bought in Utah by one of Ernest's friends.
We drive to the pier with the box rattling around in the back. It's getting a bit dark, so we set up a barbecue and roast some shish-kabobs. It's past seven now, and Mum said she'd be home. We figure we'd better finish up or she'll be worried (and/or furious). We set off the fireworks and have our own mini show with plenty of OOHs and AAHs from ourselves and passersby.
As fate would have it, some dickhead calls the police, so we have to hurry away. We pass the cop-car as it races down the road to find the source of our illegal pyrotechnics. (Yeah, we magically know they're coming. Don't mess with my logic today. It's impeccable.)
And of course I go to school the next day with a folded note.
---Oh, she's sick. My neighbor's dogsitter's son's friend saw her in the hospital yesterday.
When we were kids, we used to have days like this. One a year, picked at our discretion. My parents called them “Abracadabra Day." We could skip school and do anything we wanted (within financial reason). I should mention that out of all the possible things we could do, we usually stayed at home, ate junk food, and watched Indiana Jones. My hypothetical day is about to be a lot different. I hope.
My ideal day off would likely be spontaneous. The problem is, it's a little hard to plan spontaneity. So I guess we'll just go with it.
I wake up and stumble toward the kitchen. My mum's already left for work. She's in Davis and wont be back until 6:00 or 6:30 due to meetings. So says the note on the fridge. Lying on the counter is my unfinished essay that's due 4th period. I think about the day ahead and contemplate whether school is really worth it. I've already taught myself the math from the book. (Not that my math teacher could possibly teach me anything anyway.) Not to mention that French quiz.
I conclude that it is definitely better not to go, and I manage to convince myself that my mum would have let me stay home... But I don't call her. (I don't want to bother her, you know?) Having settled my guilty conscience, I decide to have some fun.
My brother Ernest is still at home, asleep. He's only been home for a few hours. Late night, I guess. I try shaking him and yelling in his ear. When that doesn't stir him, I pull out my trusty supersoaker and squirt him in the back of the head. He grunts and whirls around. His eyes wide, he aims an open palm at my face. I dodge and step back, knowing he can't quite reach me in his groggy state.
“Wanna be my chauffeur?” I ask cheerfully jingling his keys.
Confused, he peers at me through blood-shot eyes. I hold out two twenty dollar bills and his face lights up. Suddenly he's not angry with me anymore. We settle on a deal. He'll drive me for free if I pay for gas and food, and as long as I get him back in time for his class at the community college. I know this will be risky, considering the amount of food he eats, but I agree. I hop into his Lincoln Mark VII and we head out to get crêpes and bubble tea, making a wide arc around the school to avoid Mr. Barone and his trademark x-ray rainbow glasses that can spot a truant from a mile away.
After a peaceful walk around the block, we decide that we need to make the day more extravagant. We call up my uncle who lives in Marin, and ask him if he'll sail us around the bay.
He sounds dismayed on the phone as he says, “I'd love to, but the boat's being fixed.”
We thank him and make to hang up when he stops us. “Wait. I've just gotten my pilot's license. Would you like me to take you in the plane instead?”
We quickly agree. “Promise not to tell our parents, though?” Ernest asks.
He laughs heartily. “Well, if you promise you wont tell on me. I'd probably get in more trouble than you.”
We wait for him on the landing strip at the airport and share a bag of Jelly Bellys while discussing if it's really safe to fly with Uncle John so soon after he's received his license. (This being, of course, the same John that drove around on a dirt road in the rain, with both of us on the roof.)
He arrives and we jump into the little plane. Ernest calls shotgun, so I hop in the back.
We're far in the air before he asks if I've got my seatbelt on. I look incredulously at the back of his head. Does he think I would get into a plane with him without a seatbelt? Now my mind begins to drift and I wonder how much safety a seatbelt would really provide if we were plummeting toward the earth.
A loop-de-loop quickly spins these thoughts from my mind and almost makes me throw up. Ernest laughs at me, so I throw a Jelly Belly at him.
Uncle John eventually lands the plane. He flies back across the bay after saying goodbye. Ernest has to get to his class, so he drops me at Peet's for a cup of joe and a scone (yeah, that's right. I said it. Scones are awesome. Don't deny it.)
I'm contemplating how to ambush my friends and get them to join me. I'm sure as hell not spending my day off by myself. It shouldn't be too hard. If I can't cajole them into it, I'll have to put a bag over their heads during passing period and kidnap them. They'll forgive me once they're out of there.
After some finagling and skillful maneuvers, they find themselves outside the 7-11 with no idea how they got there. I just go along with it and pretend I don't know how I got there either. We all stand around and drink Slurpees for a bit, more than slightly bored and increasingly sugar-high. No one wants to return to school, but no one has any brilliant plans, especially without any transportation. (The BART is far too difficult to walk to on a stomach full to the brim with flavored ice.) We think about stealing a car, and then remember that we are supposed to be 80% realistic.
Finally, finally, Ernest is done with his class. He calls me back on my cellphone (which is magically not broken for today.) We all pile into the car and he drives away without asking where we're going. I'm thankful, because I have no idea. We end up a few blocks away, stopped in front of a house I have never seen. I'm confused but don't question him. He slams the door, and within a few seconds he's beckoning to me from the stoop. I follow his lead, leaving my friends staring at us from the car. A few minutes and several thank-yous later we return with a box of fireworks bought in Utah by one of Ernest's friends.
We drive to the pier with the box rattling around in the back. It's getting a bit dark, so we set up a barbecue and roast some shish-kabobs. It's past seven now, and Mum said she'd be home. We figure we'd better finish up or she'll be worried (and/or furious). We set off the fireworks and have our own mini show with plenty of OOHs and AAHs from ourselves and passersby.
As fate would have it, some dickhead calls the police, so we have to hurry away. We pass the cop-car as it races down the road to find the source of our illegal pyrotechnics. (Yeah, we magically know they're coming. Don't mess with my logic today. It's impeccable.)
And of course I go to school the next day with a folded note.
