Monday - October 30, 2017 - 7:24 a.m.

The wrath of reality struck me like lightning as my eyes creaked open, bidding their farewell to the much-needed sleep from which they'd just been ripped. I rolled over and glanced at the clock on my nightstand, calculating the maximize time I could remain in bed and still make it to first period on time. With the help of dry shampoo and instant oatmeal, I figured I could spare another six minutes.

I rested my head back onto the soft pillow, gazing blankly out the window as thick raindrops splattered against the pane.

Gloomy mornings were one of Chamberlain's many trademarks I'd come to accept since moving here. If the color gray could be personified by a city—"village" seemed like a more appropriate classification—it was Chamberlain. The name was horribly misleading; it rolled magnificently off the tongue, creating the impression of an affluent neighborhood where seven-figure homes lined the street, where trendy restaurants and four-story shopping malls awaited you around every corner. Six years ago, when my family and I left Jefferson City, I'd vowed to give this place a fair chance. One mile into the city limits, every trace of foolish optimism had left me, replaced by an imminent dread as I witnessed the desolate nothingness that was my new home. I couldn't envision a more bleak place if I tried with all my might. Granted, this state as a whole wasn't much to write home about—there's a reason "Missouri" and "misery" were homophones. Still, Chamberlain somehow managed to make St. Louis look like St. Lucia.

After my additional six minutes of freedom had lapsed, I let out a harsh groan of misery, prompting my skittish Maine Coon, Monty, to leap from the foot of my bed and skitter out the door.

The thought of removing myself from this heavenly bed made my skin crawl. I tried desperately to recall the number of unexcused absences I'd incurred so far this year. One more couldn't hurt, I told myself, yanking the toasty silk covers up to my chin just as my bedroom flew open.

"Cassie! It's time to get up, honey."

The sound of my mother's shrill voice pierced my ears like a dagger.

I managed a light nod, shifting my gaze subtly towards the doorway only to find she hadn't moved an inch, and reluctantly hoisted myself into an upright position.

"Mom, it's only seven-thirty. School doesn't start until nine."

She plopped her laundry basket onto the ground and leaned against the doorway, a good indicator that a lengthy rebuttal was on the horizon.

"Cassie, how many times do we have to go over this? You're going to have a job one day—a real, adult job. And in a formal work environment, early is on time, on time is late, and—"

"Late is unacceptable," I blurted as she switched into life-coach mode. "I've heard the spiel a million times."

She cast me an offended look. "It's not a spiel, honey. It's one of the many keys to success as a young professional. Punctuality is of the utmost importance, and mastering it early on will benefit you greatly in the long run." She picked up the laundry basket, a smug look streaming into her face as she vanished into the hallway.

Exerting every ounce of effort my body was willing to expend, I threw back the covers and trudged over to the mirror to examine my hair, which currently resembled the tassels of an overused scrub brush.

Returning to school after a fun weekend was an excruciating process, and it didn't help that my academic motivation had plummeted to an all-time low since the start of my senior year. Like the remainder of my graduating class, I was suffering from a severe case of stage-four senioritis that was both contagious and untreatable. The only glimmer of hope that kept me going nowadays was the blissful vision of myself walking across the auditorium stage in May, a crisp diploma in hand. It was all downhill from there. Aside from summers and a handful on holidays, I would no longer be subjected to this town's painful bleakness.

Oh, how I'd yearned for this escape over the years—and rightfully so. College was my ticket out, the wide-open window to a life I'd been dreaming about since I could remember: a life far away from my overbearing parents, a life in a town with a population greater than ten-thousand, a life with a rewarding job and a family to come home to every night...

These prospects were all it took to get me through eight hours of daily tedium—nine if you counted the additional hour of nagging and lectures that usually ensued after I'd gotten home from school. It was all temporary, I constantly reminded myself. In ten short months—though I knew they'd be the longest months of my life—Brandon and I would be settled into our new apartment in Columbia, beginning our new life together. There would be no one to tell me where to go, what time to come home, what I could and couldn't do. I could almost taste the exhilarating independence that lay ahead.

An odious aroma greeted my nostrils as I trudged downstairs and into the kitchen. I grabbed some turkey from the fridge and began throwing together my lunch, trying my best to avoid any further interaction with my mother as she enthusiastically ladled blueberries into a large steaming pot.

"I made breakfast," she said in an annoyingly cheerful voice. I could never figure out her secret to being so chipper at eight a.m.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I replied, emitting a prolonged yawn as I spread mayonnaise on a slice of bread.

"Honey, skipping breakfast is extremely unhealthy. It slackens your metabolism, raises your cortisol levels, and even increases your risk of heart disease."

I grunted softly as the dietitian in her reared its ugly head.

A couple weeks ago, while my parents were engaged in their post-dinner channel surfing, they stumbled across a critically-acclaimed documentary exposing the dark secrets of the nation's food processing industry. You know, the ones that show herds of helpless cattle crammed together in some grimy barn in the middle of nowhere, eerie music drifting softly in the background, while some prophetic narrator drones on about corporate greed and the horrifying prospects for future generations.

Needless to say, the film had achieved its desired effect—a little too much so.

Following this inconvenient epiphany, the two of them swore off their usual "fixed foods," as my mom now referred to them, and vowed to revitalize their bodies with an all-natural diet. And, just as I'd expected, they planned on dragging me along into this nightmare. Over the past three weeks, our kitchen had become a smorgasbord of all-organic, GMO-free, grass-to-table delicacies, which my mother swore up and down would leave us feeling more energetic and in-sync. Of course, by "delicacies," I meant horrendous-tasting, vile-textured foods I could barely swallow without convulsing. And, in her dictionary, apparently "in-sync" and "insane" were synonymous.

"Fine," I replied curtly. "I'll grab something on the way to school."

She grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and scooped in a heaping serving of the questionable substance from the pot on the stove. "Honey, why don't you just have a little?"

"Mom, I'm fine. Really."

"But it's good!"

"Mom, I don't—"

She shoved the piping hot bowl into my hands before I could finish my sentence. I cast a wary glance at the contents inside, trying to figure out what it was. The closest resemblance was to congealed vomit, interspersed with blue lumps and white specks. I'd finally identified the source of the kitchen's foul odor.

"Better eat up, before it gets cold."

"What is it?" I asked apprehensively.

"Flax seed and chia porridge," she said, a distinct tone of pride in her voice. "It's packed with nutrients. This stuff is ten times healthier than those Jimmy Dean breakfast bowls you're always eating. I don't know what we were thinking bringing that processed garbage into our home all these years."

My mouth began to water as I pictured the savory sausage and crisp cheesy potatoes I could be removing from the microwave right now. I racked my brain for another excuse to not have to put this into my body, but nothing came to me, and my body lacked the energy to argue any further.

"Morning, sweetie," my dad said as I came into the dining room and sank into a chair across from him. "I forgot to ask, how was the Homecoming dance?"

"Good," I answered, placing the first bite of oatmeal into my mouth and masking the putrid taste with a sip of orange juice. I didn't bother disclosing the fact that I'd been named Homecoming Queen. Honestly, it wasn't that big of a deal to me, and if my parents ever got word, I knew they'd never shut up about it.

"Did Brandon have a nice time?" he asked.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

I managed another bite of oatmeal. "Would you like me to call him up right now and ask?"

He responded with an amused chuckle, returning his gaze to the Wall Street Journal.

My mom strolled into the dining room and dumped a spoonful of eggs onto my dad's plate. "Oh, Cassie, I forgot to tell you. We're having brunch at the Lockwood Inn with your grandparents after church on Sunday. I thought you and I could go to the mall this weekend and pick out some nicer clothes for you."

"Nicer clothes?" I asked with a mixture of annoyance and dread.

"Well, I was going through your closet the other day and I didn't see a lot of good options for the service. We really do need to find you some more appropriate attire for—"

"You went through my stuff?" I interjected. My voice was more accusatory than intended.

A rigid look washed across her face. "If you're referring to the closet full of clothes your father and I purchased for you, then yes. I went through your stuff."

"I'll just wear what I usually wear," I replied, paying no mind to her snarky comment.

"Cassie, you wear the same blue sweater and black skirt every Sunday. People notice things like that. We don't want them thinking our daughter is deprived of—"

"It's just some stupid service! Why are you freaking out?"

"Cassie Mae!" my mom snapped. "I don't want to hear that from you ever again. Are we clear?"

I nodded stiffly.

"And you and I are going to the mall this weekend. That's final."

I let out a barely audible groan as she disappeared into the kitchen.

It was hard enough enduring an entire week of school when I had the weekend to look forward to—now, even that small glimmer of hope had vanished. My spirits sank as I pictured what now lay ahead for me: a grueling shopping trip with my mother, an unbearable two hours church listening to a monotone pastor drone on about sin and sacrifice, and, to top it all of, a stuffy rant from my senile grandparents about why we should have nuked North Korea by now.

After I'd stomached my last bite of oatmeal—I knew I wouldn't be allowed out the door until every last morsel was gone—I grabbed my backpack from the living room couch and made a break for the door.

"Cassie!" my mother yelled from the kitchen just before I'd escaped earshot. "Make sure to ask Brandon if he wants to join us on Sunday!"

Of course. It wasn't enough that I was miserable—my innocent boyfriend had to share in the suffering.

Without responding, I flung open the front door and stepped out into the blustery morning wind. I immediately hustled over to the mailbox and scooped out the contents, a frighteningly compulsive habit of mine ever since I'd submitted my application to Mizzou a few weeks back. My heart raced in suspense as I shuffled through the various envelopes and weekly circulars, praying to God I'd find what I was searching for.

Nebraska Public Power District, Hometown Financial Services, J.C. Penney Fall Catalog, Middlefield Auto Insurance...

With a deep sigh of despair, I chucked the worthless contents back into the mailbox and began making my way down the street.

It'll be here any day now, I told myself. It has to be.

I spotted Olivia and Hazel in front of the Mark Twain memorial near the entrance, the same spot we usually convened before first period. The two of them acted like it was a federal offense to walk into school alone, as if that would somehow tarnish our already untouchable reputations as the three most popular girls at Chamberlain. I went along with this trivial formality simply to entertain them, though their unwarranted paranoia never ceased to amuse me.

I sauntered across the front lawn to meet them, mentally preparing myself for yet another week of mindless submission. I tried to convince myself that the school days would start going by faster as the year progressed, and graduation day loomed ever closer. This is nothing, I reassured myself. I'd made it through three years of high school—nearly three-and-a-half now. Seven more months would be a breeze.

I couldn't help but chuckle at my stupid optimism.

"Hey, girl!" Hazel exclaimed in her usual bubbly voice as I walked over.

I glanced at the morse code scribbled down the side of her Starbucks cup: HL, AM, ExF. I translated this as her usual Hazelnut Latte with almond milk and extra form. She drank at least one per day, sometimes multiple. I was thoroughly convinced her bloodstream was ninety-five percent espresso at this point.

"Did you not get my text?" she asked.

"No, sorry." I suddenly recalled switching my phone on vibrate at church yesterday. I fished it from my purse, hastily entering the passcode and opening her message.

Coffee run before school. Submit orders now!

"Don't worry about it," I lied, a slight dejection washing over me. Monday mornings were insufferable enough with caffeine, and I knew that my body, devoid of any natural energy, would now have to fight extra hard to make it to three-o-clock.

All eyes gravitated towards the three of us as we made our way down the hall, nothing uncommon for our morning stroll to English class. Like always, I kept my gaze straight ahead, paying no mind to the stealthy glares and murmurs surrounding me. They seemed more prevalent than usual today, which I attributed to Saturday's Homecoming coronation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a group of guys hanging around near the bottom of the stairwell, ogling the three of us and pointing in our direction with a severe lack of subtly as they whispered among themselves. The second Olivia and Hazel caught wind of them, they waved seductively in perfect sync, casting the boys an alluring smile.

I couldn't help but chuckle at their customary flirtatious antics. For a split-second, I considered reminding them both that they had boyfriends. "Do you know them?" I asked, opting for a more indirect route.

"No," Olivia replied, a touch of defensiveness in her voice. "It's called being friendly."

Friendly. So that's what we we're calling it nowadays.

"Holy shit," Hazel whispered, nudging Olivia excitedly—the same kind of excitement she exhibited after stumbling across a new eyeshadow palette in Sephora. "Liam Suthers is staring daggers at you!"

Olivia discreetly—as discreetly as she was capable of, anyway—shifted her gaze to the herd of jocks near the stairs, emitting a faint squeal as she confirmed this. "Goddamn," she whispered, biting her lip and casting Liam a sensuous look. "Puberty sure did amazing things to that boy."

I rolled my eyes as far back in my head as they would go, when an ancient memory suddenly seeped into my mind like rainwater into a sewer.

It was the Friday of my first week at Truman Middle School. I remembered it vividly seeing as how badly I'd yearned for the end of the week. It was P.E. class, and I'd stowed myself away into a far corner of the gym, sulking in solitude as I reluctantly dribbled a basketball to earn my ten measly participation points. As I eavesdropped on the lively conversations around me, my resentment towards my parents boiled inside of me, and in that moment, I seriously contemplated running home and demanding they take me back to Jefferson City—somewhere familiar, somewhere where I had friends, the only home I'd ever known.

About halfway through the period, I decided to seek refuge and snuck off into the girls' locker room, where I stumbled upon preteen Olivia and Hazel cooped up behind a string of lockers, scarfing down Sour Patch Kids and fidgeting with their cellphones. As I made my way over to the bathroom stalls, where I'd planned to spend the remainder of the period, Olivia frantically summoned me over and asked if I knew how to change the ringtone on a BlackBerry Bold. Employing the most basic technological intuition, I managed to troubleshoot the issue fairly quickly. Elated by fact that she would now hear the chorus to Evacuate The Dancefloor every time she received a call, she yanked me into a constricting, yet amicable hug, and the three of us immediately hit it off. From then on, we congregated in the girls' locker room every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon while the other kids honed their badminton techniques or ran bonus laps for extra credit.

Thus began a longstanding friendship of three future cheerleaders, brought together by an apathy for physical activity. The irony still baffled me to this day.

Considering how timid and reclusive we'd been back then, it often perplexed me that we'd somehow ended up the most popular girls at Chamberlain High. Nowadays, it was hard to believe there was a time when the three of us had been nothing more than a few ordinary faces in the hall. Our Friday nights had consisted solely of Chinese takeout and America's Next Top Model marathons, and our sole form of communication with the male species occurred via video chatrooms online, where we couldn't even manage to hold a conversation for more than ten seconds without chickening out and signing off. Back then, the closest I'd come to "standing out" was my onstage debut in the sixth-grade production of Oklahoma! in a smelly, run-down theater with a maximum occupancy of ninety persons.

It was right around the start of freshman year when our transition to the in-crowd took place. Olivia's older sister had persuaded her to follow in her footsteps and try out for the cheerleading squad. Olivia, who had always a competitive mindset, was simply unable to refuse this suggestion. And, of course, Hazel and I were involuntarily recruited as her trusty running mates.

Then the unexpected happen: we actually made the cut. It was all downhill from there. People began to see our faces at every football game, every pep rally, and soon enough, every weekend house party. The fact that we all went on to date members of the football team was undoubtedly another contributing factor to our school-wide fame. Before long, all the clichés had tied together nicely, and here we were.

Yet I had never let this new prominence change who I was, and that was something I'd always prided myself on. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Olivia and Hazel, whose heads had swelled from the size of raisins to the size of watermelons over the past few years. I couldn't really blame them; it was so easy to get swept away into the cosmos of popularity. But to me, being popular in high school was like landing the starring role in a movie. You were the center of attention for a little while, had an endless