8:05 A.M. I hate waking up in the morning to the sounds of mistakes such as my siblings and the beeping sound of trucks outside hauling food and sweets to the Northgate in front of my apartment. Early bird gets the first bite or something like that - I honestly couldn’t care less about it - As I get ready in the morning, I do my routine. Wake up ten minutes after my alarm as I throw myself off the bed and change into my raggedy polyester shirt, my dickies pants I haven’t washed in two weeks with some mysterious stains on the back, and my old “gay” rainbow shoes the “straight” dudes at school make fun of when I walk into class. If yelling at your little sister in the morning was a sport, I would’ve already won the Olympics. I yell at her to get the hell up since she loves sleeping during the day and waking up at night like the fat bat she is. I’m usually done by 8:20 with my backpack packed and myself changed, but since the fat bat can’t possibly get out of bed, she sleeps on the top bunk, and needs time to get off it. Her bed is always messy. Last week my mom found a month-old candy rotting in between her ¨savanas¨ of her bed and dirty plates and cups with flies seeping on her nightstand. Sometimes I wish she didn’t exist. I’ve always had the urge to punch her in the face just because she’s alive. 

My sister yawned, “Hey Sissy!”

“Shut up. You’re only like this ‘cause you just woke up. Trust me, in five minutes you’re gonna be cursing at me for what I ‘supposedly’ did to you yesterday.”

“I mean it’s true you hit me yesterday!”

Between you and me, I did hit her yesterday. But we’re not gonna tell her that, are we? I like messing with her anyways.

Once I’m done arguing with her lazy ass, I go into the bedroom/ living room/ kitchen and jump into mom and dad’s bed where, both mom and baby sister are peacefully sleeping, that won’t last long. 

I scream, “AMA!!”

Mom wakes up startled and tells me to shut up ‘cause the baby’s sleeping. I point to the living room clock with neon green numbers signaling “8:25 A.M.” Suddenly, mom jolts up from the bed and points at my shirt looking angry as if she was about to blow a fuse telling me to change. Whatever. I quickly try and rummage through my shirt drawer for a spare uniform shirt since my school has a very stupid dress code even going as far as saying kids can’t have white-out and saying, “Your attendance matters because we care about you!” Bullshit. While looking for another shirt to put on, I found a picture of mom when she was “ joven y bella.” I personally think she should’ve shed a few pounds. That’s just me though. It was an old polaroid picture of her and a famous singer Jenny Rivera. She was my favorite singer too, but she died in a plane crash in 2012. Every once in a while, my mom and I find ourselves singing her songs on a Saturday morning while the neighbors are still asleep. 

8:35 A.M. The cold winds brush through my face as I open the big wooden door leading to the outside of my apartment.

“Mija, ¿Quieres llevar la camioneta de tu papa?” Mom struggles to blurt out as she’s holding my sister wrapped in a blanket like a tortilla.

“Sí. ¿por qué no?”

Ewwww. I don’t like taking my dad’s work truck to school. I’ve always been embarrassed that the rich, white kids at school would make fun of it. You can easily tell the car’s been sprayed painted on over the original color. It’s a sticky feeling whenever you touch the door handles, the rust and bare skin of the truck’s top half showing. Dad said he always wanted an American eagle painted on the hood of it. I found it ironic since my dad hates Donald Trump, the “Pinnacle of the American dream.”

It smells like rotten fruit here. I don’t mind it. As I’m waiting for the car to warm up I decided it would be a good idea to turn on the radio. 

93.7 F.M. “And here we see sunny California and beautiful beaches.”

No.

85.3 F.M. “Highway 93 near L.A traffic collision…..”

Always a traffic collision near there.

101.6 F.M. “You know Pete, there’s this virus that’s spreading through all of Europe and maybe even here in the United States.” 

AGAIN?

“Yea, but there’s no way it’ll be a new virus. I mean we already have Covid-19 don’t we?”

I quickly turn off the radio. A few minutes later, mom comes downstairs and gets in the car.

“Mija, ¿Por qué te ves tan espantada?”

“Nada má, ‘toy bien.”

Drop off my sister first then me. 

As it’s mom’s turn to take the wheel she screams, “PORTATE BIEN.”

“Si amá.” (While everyone stares at me)

8:58 A.M. Right on time. I barely make it to class when the bell rings. The bio substitute stands up and walks around the dimly lit classroom as if she were inspecting us. She gives me the worst death stare I've seen in my life.

“Delancii, go to the principal’s office.” She says in her broken english.

“Am I in trouble?”

“How am I supposed to know? Just go, and take your stuff with you.”

Fine.

As I’m walking to the principal's office, the office lady who takes attendance looks at me with the most disgusting look on her face and tells me the principal is waiting for me in her office. I wonder what’s her problem. Maybe I am in trouble.

The principal’s office isn’t like any normal office. It always smells like coffee in there and she has a sh*t ton of cat pictures. The last thing I need is her cats taxidermied and put onto a shelf.

“ Delancii! My favorite student.”

What the hell.

“Uh, hi? You called.”

“Oh, right. Well you know how you applied for early decision at Brown? ” She says while pulling out an envelope from her drawer.

“Here.” She hands it to me.

In bold cursive letters reads, 

December 22, 2026

Dear Delancii, 

I am pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to Brown University’s class of 2030…. You were chosen not only for what we believe you can contribute to our academic community but also for what you will gain from the wonderful opportunities that distinguish and define undergraduate education at Brown.

I’m still in shock while she’s jumping up and down, holy crap, I just got accepted to Brown University.