I sit here, two seats from the door and three seats from the librarian's watch tower. Two boys were seated near me, one with a golden mullet that advanced down to his knees. The other is quiet, a new face in my gallery. Senior year, a clean record so far. Merely a few minutes late to the first block, I wind up frittering an hour and a half staring at the ceiling on a Tuesday afternoon. Nothing like the Breakfast Club, more like waiting endlessly at the dentist's office. The dinging of the air ducts and the heat trapped in my jacket. Is this supposed to teach me a lesson? We will stick you here and expect you to learn not to sleep in for a second or two over. The librarian stares and glares as if she has never been late before. The only thing I have obtained from this is that the library smells like a rustic book, similar to the dusty ones you find at thrift stores. The air is brittle like the war novels no one has tended to open since 84". The power keeps flickering on and off in the halls. Never have I heard the school so peaceful. Tricky to misplace it as relaxing.