into my bra crevice. In desperation, I started spinning out random combinations thatseemed like they could work: left 38, right 13, left 9 … left 42, right 23, left 2 … I stopped only when Mr. "Rico Suave" Ricardo popped his head out the door and asked, "Well, Miss Darling, are you going to join the rest of the Ds-through-the-Fs for homeroom this morning?"
I went to homeroom and proceeded to have a quiet conniption. The only other person who knows my combination is Hope. Not much help.
So I tried to visualize then analyze the particular situation I was in each time I opened my locker. Was there a pattern? Did I usually carry on a conversation while I turned the knob? Or did I open it in silent concentration? Was my backpack on my shoulders or off?
By the time homeroom was over, I was out of my head. Not because I couldn’t get my books, but because it was my very own brain malfunction that was preventing me from doing so. We learned in Psych that the "breakdown in selective attention" is one of the first signs of schizophrenia. Does this qualify?
Then again, menopausal women are known to go a little wacko, so maybe the fact that I haven’t menstruated in almost two months is having a similarly psychotic effect. I’m waaaay late. However, there’s no possible way that I’m pregnant unless (a) I got knocked up by daydreaming about a very naked Paul Parlipiano while I was sitting on the toilet or (b) I’ve been chosen for the Immaculate Conception Part Two: Electric Boog-a-loo.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Funny.
This is my attempt at being blasé. I can’t get too freaked about my non-period because stress is probably responsible for it’s tardiness to begin with. But every time I go to the bathroom, I silently pray for a smudge of blood on my skivvies, only to be let down. I feel like I’m in ninth grade again, when I was the last girl I knew waiting for menarche to open the door to thewonderful world of womanhood . Ack.
Still, if I keep getting more and more bizarre, I don’t think I can blame it all on PMS. I’ll have to persuade my parents to take me to a doc who can give me the get-right-in-the-head meds I need.
Schizophrenia or no, I needed my books. I had to go down to the office and have the secretary look up the number for me. No way would I admit that I’d forgotten it, though. Not seven months into the school year. On a Friday. I’d rather lie. I’d say that I hadn’t used my locker in ages because it was so far away from all my classes and I hated being tardy. Scotty (it’s always good to name-drop a fellow scholar/athlete in these situations) was nice enough to share his with me, even though it wastechnically against school rules. But now I needed to get a pair of running shoes (again, evoking the scholar/ athlete thing) that I’d stuffed in there during cross-country season …
I had the lie set up by the time I got to the office.
"Well if it isn’t Jess Darling!" chirped Mrs. Newman. "We don’t see your face around here very often."
School secretaries are always thrilled to see me. It’s the last-name thing. They assume I’m way nicer than I really am.
"Hi, Mrs. Newman."
"What can I do you for?"
Is hokeyness a prerequisite for high-school secretaries?
"Well, it’s a long story, but I need my locker combination …"
"Jess, say no more." She started clicking away at the nearest computer.
"Uh, you don’t need to know why?" I asked. I was a little disappointed. I had my faux facts in order.
She just kept right on smiling. "Not fromyou I don’t."
Even though I didn’t have to, I gave her the whole bogus story anyway. Her only response? "That Scotty Glazer is a nice boy, isn’t he?"
She wrote the numbers down on a slip of paper and handed them to me. (For future reference: left 45, right 17, left 5.) Then I turned to leave without looking up from the paper and crashed right into … Marcus Flutie! He had just
I went to homeroom and proceeded to have a quiet conniption. The only other person who knows my combination is Hope. Not much help.
So I tried to visualize then analyze the particular situation I was in each time I opened my locker. Was there a pattern? Did I usually carry on a conversation while I turned the knob? Or did I open it in silent concentration? Was my backpack on my shoulders or off?
By the time homeroom was over, I was out of my head. Not because I couldn’t get my books, but because it was my very own brain malfunction that was preventing me from doing so. We learned in Psych that the "breakdown in selective attention" is one of the first signs of schizophrenia. Does this qualify?
Then again, menopausal women are known to go a little wacko, so maybe the fact that I haven’t menstruated in almost two months is having a similarly psychotic effect. I’m waaaay late. However, there’s no possible way that I’m pregnant unless (a) I got knocked up by daydreaming about a very naked Paul Parlipiano while I was sitting on the toilet or (b) I’ve been chosen for the Immaculate Conception Part Two: Electric Boog-a-loo.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Funny.
This is my attempt at being blasé. I can’t get too freaked about my non-period because stress is probably responsible for it’s tardiness to begin with. But every time I go to the bathroom, I silently pray for a smudge of blood on my skivvies, only to be let down. I feel like I’m in ninth grade again, when I was the last girl I knew waiting for menarche to open the door to thewonderful world of womanhood . Ack.
Still, if I keep getting more and more bizarre, I don’t think I can blame it all on PMS. I’ll have to persuade my parents to take me to a doc who can give me the get-right-in-the-head meds I need.
Schizophrenia or no, I needed my books. I had to go down to the office and have the secretary look up the number for me. No way would I admit that I’d forgotten it, though. Not seven months into the school year. On a Friday. I’d rather lie. I’d say that I hadn’t used my locker in ages because it was so far away from all my classes and I hated being tardy. Scotty (it’s always good to name-drop a fellow scholar/athlete in these situations) was nice enough to share his with me, even though it wastechnically against school rules. But now I needed to get a pair of running shoes (again, evoking the scholar/ athlete thing) that I’d stuffed in there during cross-country season …
I had the lie set up by the time I got to the office.
"Well if it isn’t Jess Darling!" chirped Mrs. Newman. "We don’t see your face around here very often."
School secretaries are always thrilled to see me. It’s the last-name thing. They assume I’m way nicer than I really am.
"Hi, Mrs. Newman."
"What can I do you for?"
Is hokeyness a prerequisite for high-school secretaries?
"Well, it’s a long story, but I need my locker combination …"
"Jess, say no more." She started clicking away at the nearest computer.
"Uh, you don’t need to know why?" I asked. I was a little disappointed. I had my faux facts in order.
She just kept right on smiling. "Not fromyou I don’t."
Even though I didn’t have to, I gave her the whole bogus story anyway. Her only response? "That Scotty Glazer is a nice boy, isn’t he?"
She wrote the numbers down on a slip of paper and handed them to me. (For future reference: left 45, right 17, left 5.) Then I turned to leave without looking up from the paper and crashed right into … Marcus Flutie! He had just
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