Twenty Tardies

 

The fourth period bell rang, and Charlotte rushed to class. She could have sworn the hallways had been crowded with kids just a minute ago, but now it was unusually quiet. I can’t get another tardy, she thought angrily. I already have nineteen Another one and I’ll have to meet with the dean. She burst into class, slightly out of breath. Everyone was seated at their desks, and the teacher, Mr. Phillips, had already begun the lesson.

Staring at her feet, Charlotte made her way to her desk in the back of the classroom and plopped down, dropping her backpack at her feet.

“Ms. Nelson,” Mr. Phillips said, pausing his lesson. “Late again.”

Charlotte shrugged and removed her textbook from her bag. She didn’t really care about being singled out by Mr. Phillips; she was late almost once a week. Sometimes, if she came up with a really good excuse, Mr. Phillips would turn a blind eye and mark her as on time. 

As the day wore on, Charlotte was late to several more classes. She was even late to lunch and had to wait at the back of the line. By the time she got her hamburger, the lunch period was almost over. She scarfed down her food, which she came to regret later when indigestion caused her to be late to French. After French, she suffered through two more classes. Then, it was time to go home.

--

As soon as the final bell rang, Charlotte grabbed her phone from her bag and opened the bus schedule app. The next one was due to arrive in five minutes. Five minutes? That’s ages away. I’ll have time to go to the bathroom, Charlotte decided, walking leisurely down the hall.  

“Hey, Charlotte!” A voice called from across the hall. A tall, blonde boy wearing a baggy sweatshirt and shorts was standing at his locker. He waved to her. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” It was Benny, one of Charlotte’s oldest friends from middle school. 

“Benny! What’s up?” Charlotte responded, running over to him. Soon, they were wrapped up in conversation.

By the time Charlotte came to her senses and remembered the bus, it was too late. Defeated, Charlotte slowly crossed the street and plopped down on the bench at the bus stop. She didn’t need to check her phone to see when the next bus would come. The buses only arrived once an hour. That’s what I hate about the public transit here, Charlotte thought bitterly. It’s always on time, and I’m not. 

 

--

When she got home, Charlotte’s mother was waiting for her. She was a tall woman with long chestnut hair and a thin, shrewd face. She stood in such a way in the foyer- with her arms folded across her chest, backlit by the lights in the living room- that her long shadow settled over Charlotte.

“Charlotte,” Her mom started, elongating each vowel like she did when she was angry. “Come downstairs, I want to have a chat with you.”

“Busted!” Her younger brother Wyatt yelled from where he was playing video games on the couch. Charlotte shot him a look.

“Charlotte, what is going on with you lately?” Her mother said, leaning towards her expectantly.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte said dismissively, shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” her mother said, losing patience. “You know what I mean.” 

Charlotte shrugged and looked around, avoiding eye contact. She settled on the doorway to the kitchen, focusing on the gleam of sunlight on the metal pots and pans stacked on the granite counter. 

“English was your twentieth tardy,” her mom continued. 

“What?” Charlotte pretended to act shocked. “I don’t understand how that happened. In which class?”

“All of them,” her mom frowned. 

“Oh.” 

“You have to meet with Mrs. Williams tomorrow during break. This is really serious, Charlotte. If you get any more, you might have to repeat the tenth grade.” Charlotte winced.

“No way,” She exhaled. “Are you kidding?” 

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” 

Her mom did not look like she was kidding. She was glaring down at Charlotte, her lips pursed. 

“You know,” her mom began. She let out an exasperated sigh, her forehead creasing. “If any of this has to do with Grandma, I can get someone for you to talk to. I’m sure the school will understand-” 

“It’s not about Grandma!” Charlotte shouted. 

 Wyatt stirred in the other room.

--

The next day, Mrs. Williams also brought Grandma up at the meeting. 

“Charlotte, dear,” Mrs. Williams said in her old, raspy voice. Charlotte was sure she used to be a smoker. “I know things have been difficult for you at home, with the recent passing of your grandmother, and I know the school counselor would be happy to work through these issues with you.” 

Charlotte wanted to snap at her, just like she had at her mom, but she knew she couldn’t do that.  She smiled thinly and shook her head.

“Everything is fine at home, Mrs. Williams,” Charlotte said evenly. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Williams pressed. “It might be a good idea to talk to someone. The passing of a family member is not something to take lightly, and I suggest-”

“That isn’t necessary,” Charlotte interrupted. She couldn’t bear to hear more of Mrs. Willaim’s scripted response. Mrs. Williams had no idea what she was going through. She didn’t even know Grandma, Charlotte thought bitterly. I don’t care what she says.

“You can’t keep being late to every class, dear,” Mrs. Williams said. “You’re a very smart kid, and your grades are very good. I would hate to see this affect your future.”

“I know.” Charlotte bounced her leg up and down, desperate to get out of Mrs. William’s sickly-sweet smelling office. “I’m working on it.”

Okay,” Mrs. Williams said at last. “You can go.”

“Thanks.” Charlotte stood and left. 

--

After the meeting, Charlotte felt her stomach churning. She kept mulling over what Mrs. Williams and her mother had said. You might have to repeat the tenth grade. I would hate to see this affect your future. There was no way Charlotte was going to watch all of her friends graduate without her. And her grades were almost perfect; it just wasn’t fair.

Even though she didn’t get to her next few classes on time, Charlotte wasn’t as late as she usually was. She even caught the bus, which was very impressive. Her favorite seat was open, and she sat, leaning against the window. As she stared out into the street, she caught the reflection of the woman sitting across the aisle from her. It was an older lady, her face buried in a book. One of her veiny hands rested on the large leather handbag taking up the seat next to her. The dull red paint on her fingernails was chipped and faded. 

The bus lurched to a stop and Charlotte almost hit her head against the window. The woman took her hand off the leather bag to grip her book, but it slipped from her lap. The bus began to move again, and the book slid down the aisle towards Charlotte. The woman sighed and tried to reach for it, but it was too far. 

“Here,” Charlotte said, grabbing the book from the ground near her feet. The woman snatched the book, her cracked lips forming a smile. 

“Thanks, dear,” she croaked, depositing the book into her handbag. “I was afraid I would have to get up and get it.” 

Charlotte caught a glimpse of the cover. The Book Thief. 

“No problem,” Charlotte replied. “You know, my Grandma used to like that book.”

“Used to?” the woman frowned. “What made her dislike it?” 

Charlotte was caught off-guard.

“Uh, you know, uh, she’s not around anymore,” Charlotte managed to say.

“Oh,” the woman sighed softly. Charlotte could barely hear her over the traffic. “That’s too bad.”

“It is too bad.” Charlotte heard an unintended bitterness in her own voice and winced.  “I mean, I miss her a lot.” The old woman looked away and was silent for a moment, lost in thought. I’ve said too much, Charlotte thought. 

“One of my friends used to like that book, too,” the woman said, finally turning to look back at Charlotte. “It was her favorite. That’s why I’m reading it.”

“Really?” Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say. “Do- do you like it?” The woman chuckled to herself.

“Not at all,” she laughed. “But I still like to read it sometimes.” 

Unsure of what to do next, Charlotte turned to look out the window again. They were stuck in traffic, the bus flanked by cars. Storefronts were sandwiched between tall, glittering office buildings. Small trees lined the busy sidewalks. Workers and students carrying briefcases, backpacks, and coffee hurried by, all in a rush to get somewhere. I wonder if any of them are late to where they need to be, Charlotte thought. I bet some of them are. 

“I’m always late to everything,” Charlotte blurted. “They, uh, my mom and my dean, they say I might have to redo the tenth grade. You know, because I’m late to, uh, everything, really.”  

“You didn’t miss the bus,” the woman said sweetly. “So, not everything.” 

“Well, yeah, but most things,” Charlotte continued. “I was late to four classes today- science, French, math, English-” Charlotte felt her voice crack and her face flush. 

“It’s okay,” the woman said, trying her best to be comforting. 

“It’s not okay,” Charlotte objected. “They’re going to make me redo a grade! Don’t you get it?” 

The woman gave her a pained look and reached for her, extending a withered hand. The hand brushed her shoulder, and Charlotte flinched. Then the woman brought her hand back to her lap. 

So stupid, Charlotte thought. 

For the rest of the way, they rode in silence. At last, it was Charlotte’s stop. Wordlessly, she stood and left the bus. The woman didn’t even look up. 

--

Charlotte walked slowly down the sidewalk. She wasn’t in a hurry to get home and face Wyatt with his video games, or her parents, constantly scolding her for being late and talking about her grandmother. Eventually, she found herself in front of her grandmother’s old home. It was a small, ranch-style house painted a hideous mustard yellow. It looked out of place next to the other houses, which were neutral colors- white, or beige. 

Charlotte chuckled wryly. Her grandmother had always talked about getting the house repainted, but she had never gotten around to it. The front lawn, which had been neatly manicured when her grandmother had still lived there, was missing patches of drying grass. Charlotte leaned against the black chain link fence encircling the lawn, resting her chin on the cool metal. 

After a few moments, the front door opened. Charlotte jumped back from the fence, realising how creepy she must have looked. A short, bald, middle-aged man wearing casual jeans and a lime green polo shirt shut the door without locking it and made his way towards her. Figuring that leaving would make her look even more suspicious, Charlotte stayed where she was. 

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Do you live here?” Charlotte asked dumbly. The man raised an eyebrow at her but nodded. “Have you ever thought about repainting it?” The man gave her a confused look. “You know, like white, or a different color.”

“I haven’t, but my wife always goes on about how gross the color is,” the man chuckled. “We just moved here a few months ago. Are you looking for someone?” 

“No, I know where she is,” Charlotte said, looking at the ground. The man wore untied grey nikes, his heels sticking out like he had just shoved his feet in to come outside. 

“I’m sorry, who?” the man said. 

“Oh, my grandma,” Charlotte replied. “She used to live here. You should really take better care of your lawn.”

“Excuse me? I think that you should leave.” A shadow passed over his face, his brow furrowing. For some reason, his aggravation made Charlotte feel better. 

“Sorry. I just wanted to see the house.” Charlotte backed away from the fence. “But you should probably re-paint it. My grandma always wanted to, but she was too late.”

“That’s too bad,” he said apathetically. “Please leave.” 

“Geez, I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Charlotte said, backing away even further. She stumbled off of the curb and into the street. The man glared at her from behind the fence. “Your lawn is disgusting, by the way,” Charlotte yelled, laughing madly. The man gripped the top of the fence. His face was bright red, the afternoon sun glinting off of his shiny, round head.

“I’m going to call the police,” he resolved, loudly enough for Charlotte to hear. “Get out of here. Get away from my house.” 

 “I’m not on your property,” Charlotte taunted. “The police can’t do anything to me. It’s not even your house. It was my grandma’s.” 

“I worked hard to afford this house,” the man snarled. “You’ve probably never worked hard in your life, you stupid punk.” The man pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Ok, ok, no need to call the police,” Charlotte said, gasping for breath. “I’ll get out of your hair.” She spinned around and walked away, grinning over her shoulder at the man, who was glowering at her from behind the fence.

--

When Charlotte arrived at home, she made her way to the stairs and was about to climb to her room, but something stopped her. She peered over the banister at Wyatt, distracted by the flashing lights and colors on the TV screen. Even though he was three years younger than her, Charlotte saw her future in him. Was she doomed to waste away, distracted, until she became shriveled and old like the woman on the bus, passing the time by reading books or talking to strangers? Grandma wasn’t like that, Charlotte thought. She did something with her life. Charlotte remembered the bald man, raving about how he had worked hard for his house, Grandma’s house. And how neither the man, nor grandma, had gotten around to painting it. 

Charlotte turned around and headed across the foyer, towards the dining room. I’m not going to be like Wyatt, she determined. I’m going to paint my house. 

“Everyone! Dinner’s ready!” Charlotte’s mom called from the kitchen. 

“What’d you say?” Wyatt yelled in response.

From where she was sitting at the dining room table, Charlotte could hear the click of her mom’s heels on the hardwood floor as she approached.

“Oh, Charlotte, I didn’t realise you were home,” her mom said. “What are you doing at the table already? You’re usually late.” 

“I know,” Charlotte said, looking up from where she was sitting at the dining room table. “I got here early.”