Parallel

the annex lot across the street.
    I spring out of bed.
    “Why didn’t my alarm go off? And why is my alarm clock on the floor?” I point an accusing finger at the base of my nightstand, where my clock radio is lying facedown on the carpet. My mom bends to pick it up.
    “There was an earthquake last night,” she replies, setting the clock back on my nightstand. It’s blinking 12:00. “At least, they think it was an earthquake.”
    “There was an earthquake? In Atlanta ?” I stare at her. “How is that possible?”
    “Apparently, it’s not the first time it’s happened. And it wasn’t just here, either.” She presses the radio button on my clock. The familiar sound of my favorite morning news program fills the room.
    “No significant damage or injuries have been reported, but people are reporting power outages in various parts of the city. This is the third earthquake to hit the Atlanta area since 1878. Seismologists are baffled by the quake, which, despite its relatively small size—only five point nine on the Richter scale—appears to have triggered seismic activity all over the globe.”
    I wonder briefly if I’m still asleep. An earthquake felt all over the world?
    “Can I make you breakfast?” Mom asks, standing up.
    I shake my head as I slide out of bed. “No time. But thanks.” I pull the elastic from my hair, wishing I’d had the foresight to wash it last night, and wince as my fingers hit a tangle.
    “Any chance school is canceled?” I call after my mom. She reappears in the doorway and shakes her head.
    “They’ve already announced that it isn’t.”
    “What about aftershocks?” I ask as I give myself a once-over in the mirror above my dresser, trying to decide whether it’s absolutely necessarily to bathe.
    “I guess they figure kids will be safer at school,” Mom replies. “Fewer windows.”
    I skip the shower and douse myself with lavender Febreze instead. I put my unwashed hair back into a ponytail, grab my bag, and head down the back stairs to the kitchen.
    “You excited about your big first day?” Dad asks when I appear.
    “‘Excited’ is a strong word.”
    “Well, try to enjoy it.” His voice is wistful. “You’re only a senior once.” I can tell by the look in his eye that he’s remembering his own senior year of high school, hanging out in Andy Warhol’s studio in midtown Manhattan after school (yes, that Andy Warhol), making silk screens and lithographs and probably doing massive amounts of drugs. He told me once that although his life got happier in the years that followed, he’s never felt quite as alive as he did then.
    “Don’t forget your lunch!” Mom says, coming up behind me, brown paper bag in hand. As always, there’s a colorful sticker holding it closed. I told her once, years ago, that the stickers were unnecessary because the bag just ended up in the trash. The next day, there was a note inside the bag, on exquisite handmade paper: Dearest Abby, The Beauty of Life is in the beauty of life. Treasure the details. Love, Mom. The stickers kept coming.
    “Don’t speed,” my dad warns.
    “I won’t,” I lie, and head for the door.
    My school is exactly four miles and five traffic lights from my house. Over the past three years, I’ve learned that the time it takes me to get there varies dramatically depending on the time of day and the weather. Before seven o’clock on a clear day, it takes me four minutes. On rainy days during rush hour, it takes at least twelve. Today is the first “morning after an earthquake” I’ve ever experienced, so I’m not sure what to expect, but I’m definitely not prepared for the standstill I encounter as soon as I pull out of my neighborhood. Nobody is moving. It’s as if everyone within a ten-mile radius decided to hop into their cars at the exact same time. I glance at the clock on my dash and groan. It’s 8:25 already, and I still have three and a half miles to go.
    “If I’m late, then it probably means a lot of people are late. I’m sure they’ll postpone the drawing.” I say this out loud, confidently, trying to trick myself into believing it. Yeah, right. Our principal—a large, unfortunate-looking man whose arsenal of painful clichés and acne scars has earned him the nickname “The Cheese”—will no doubt relish the opportunity to wield his favorite catchphrase: “It’s up to you to do what it takes.” In other words, don’t blame the earthquake—if being at school on time