Lessons In Absurdity

‘I decided to ignore just being called a bitch by my teacher.’

During my first Geography lesson, our teacher, Mikhail Grigorievich — a plump man with a paedophile moustache and sweat-stained underarms — walked to the blackboard and asked, “Who can tell me where America is?”

It’s cold — very cold. And dark. The worst possible combination.

I open my eyes, bleary with fatigue, and crawl to the shower. Last night, I stayed up late, sending songs to girls from my class on VK, the Russian “Facebook.”

From the kitchen, Mom yells for me to hurry or I’ll be late. The hot shower doesn’t wake me; if anything, it has the opposite effect. I play around with the taps, alternating between cold and hot water, hoping to jolt my system enough to leave the house.

I want to smoke. Badly.

After drying myself with a towel, I shuffle to the kitchen like a zombie and attempt to choke down some oatmeal. There’s no coffee — I’m not supposed to drink it yet. Not at fifteen.

A thought crosses my mind: What would happen if I collapsed on the kitchen table, face-first?

Six minutes later, it’s time to go. My outer-space costume hangs by the door. I pull it on, the process eating up another two minutes.

“Take out the trash, will you?” Mom says. In my fifteen-year-old head, it feels like an insult, an attack — not an innocent request. On these early February mornings, I hate not what she says, but how she says it. On these…