Tales From The Underground Tunnels

By  CLAIRE XIAO ‘27

Dear [insert name of teacher],

I meant to come to class on time. Believe me, I really did. This morning began fatefully.

My roommate is long gone. She has tried to wake me up multiple times. Her techniques were violent. This may have contributed to my tardiness. I am now limping. This will greatly hinder my arrival. As I drag myself out of my warm bed into the cold, dark air of my room, I glance at my clock. 7:59. Plenty of time.

I swing my abnormally large bag and saunter (stumble) casually out the door. My broken leg is beginning to feel better. My backpack, conveniently, is left wide open. 

The bell sounds. 8:00. I scan my lion card at the Academy Building. All of a sudden, I am swept off my feet. It is pitch black. I scream but no noises make it out of my throat. I fear I may die. Instead of blaring threats of death, I thought of you, my dear teacher, hand hovering over the tardy button, loyally awaiting my arrival.

I wandered further through what I assumed was a tunnel. I slipped in the mud and fell. I was now knee-deep in sand and dirt. I was sinking. I made an elaborate raft out of all fifteen pages of my annotated bibliography (I would like an extension, please). It is now 8:14. 

My new shoes are ruined. My pristine, precious, white shoes are now brown. I trudge desperately. I can see the light ahead. Something crunches below my feet, and for a second, I think it’s a skeleton. I yell in horror (This causes me to lose my voice. Can you drop my Harkness grade?). But when I look down, the disfigured mass is only the body of a discarded Grill cookie. 

Somehow I claw my way out of the tunnel. I make a mad dash. It is 8:16.

I hobble into your classroom. I am utterly disheveled yet triumphant. My hair is matted and my clothes cling to my skin. I brace for the worst: your piercing gaze, your judgment, the mark of tardiness upon my soul. But, alas, as I raise my head, a room of confused students is staring back at me. The teacher clears his throat, “May I… help you?”

I pivot on my remaining uninjured heel. My shoe releases an egregious squelching sound. As soon as I am in the hallway, I collapse on the ground in defeat. It is 8:17.

I am still late.

Please don’t dick me,

[insert name]