Peanut Butter

An annoying sense of urgency flooded my veins, my heart beat beginning to pump blood faster than necessary.

It was meet-the-teacher?

Open house?

School orientation night?  

Whatever you wanted to call it.

Whatever it was exactly, it had not even started and I was ready to be done. To say I had a case of senioritis would be an understatement. It’s really bad, y’all. I will definitely need to see a doctor soon.

And by doctor, I mean extended vacation.

Ugh! Another year of education awaited me, breathing down my neck with its homework, blood, sweat, and tears because there would most definitely be tears. I had a hard schedule. My most tough courses I had yet to face and I knew it. The odds of them completely kicking my butt were inevitable.

Because this was my senior year, and for some unknown and incredibly stupid reason, I waited, avoided, the hard classes. Welcome to procrastination at its finest.

I opened the green folder - denying what I knew I would see- digging around, finding a small slip of paper. I read it to myself holding it closer to my face than needed. I had never expected that I would see THIS.

PB?? What the crap is PB?? What does that even mean??

I started mentally checking off the list of things PB could possibly stand for. When in doubt… process of elimination, that’s what I say.

Peanut butter?

Personal best?

Prison break?

Public bank?

Private bank?

Pandora’s box?

Public broadcasting?

Paint brush?

President Bush?  

Post box?

Princess bride?

“I’m just going to go with Peanut Butter,” I told myself. “That’s probably the best option.”

But then it hit me.

PB. Ugh! I knew exactly what PB meant.

PB. Portable B. The dreaded Portable B.

And I’m spending three out of my 5 classes in that room. That’s right, I’ll be spending 75% of my year in a portable. MY SENIOR YEAR, FOLKS!!! But seriously though, how Redneck is that? We are talking I have reached Hunny-Boo-Boo and marrying your cousin level of redneck. I think I’d rather chop my foot off. Can you not just give me the Kunta Kinte treatment, instead?

The denial hit me like a brick wall. This can’t be. There’s no way I’m taking classes in a hot in summer, cold in the winter, creaky floored, probably leaks when it rains portable. No thanks. I’ll pass.

Its taken a few hours, but I think I’m finally past the first few stages of grief.

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

And now, acceptance.  

This is my senior year and I’m sure it’s going to be great; or at least, that’s what they tell me.

So this is my senior year, according to me, while stuck in Portable B.

Ladies and gentlemen, let the 76^th annual Hunger Games begin and may the odds be ever in my favor.