The blustering winds send icy chills down my numbing fingers. I — stupidly — forgot gloves. Snow pools about me, littering the exterior of my car.
I fumble with the scraper, leaning across my windshield, scrape, scrape, scraping off its icy finish — careful not to touch the glass with my frostbitten forearms. Being the genius I am, I forgot a coat too.
Filing out of the school gymnasium, adults, bundled in coats with warm, remote-started cars — unlike me — hustle like businesspeople with places to be, eyeing me pitifully. I avoid their gazes.
Hands burning, fingers screaming, I scrape quicker, my shame accumulating alongside the snow. An elderly man strolls by, cigarette lighter in hand, chuckling when he sees me shivering. I cut my losses, unable to brave the cold any longer, and yank the car door, icicles flying off in a dramatic spectacle.
I slam my head against the wheel and sigh, defeated.
I can drive, but I forget to pick up my sisters. I have a credit card, but I don’t know how to pay the bill. I give my full effort, but it’s still not enough.
How am I supposed to grow up — I can’t even scrape away frost.