Nothing At All
It’s hot. Far hotter than January has any business being. My bedclothes - stripped down to only the Star Wars sheets - are twisted around my knees and damp with sweat. I huff at the ceiling, glance at the clock, and huff again. I hadn’t even been trying to stay awake this time, and somehow, that makes it worse - because if I had known I wouldn’t be able to sleep as a result of my mother’s overcompensation for the frigid weather, I would have finished up my history homework with the extra time like a good little dickens. Not me, I think. I’m not a good dickens. The landing groans under the weight of a step, and then two, and then a third final. My head lolls to one side to stare at the dark, looming form of my bedroom door, now outlined by the light from the bathroom seeping through the cracks. It fades away after only a second with a click that’s sharp and loud in the stillness of night. I don’t want to go to school in the morning. That’s the curse of snow days,