knowing better

In they waltz, minus the grace, minus the timing, right through the middle of class.

"You know," I say for the eight-hundredth time, "if you would just ride the bus that comes right to your house, you'd never be late."

The half of the duo who provides the ride wrinkles her nose. "I'm not gonna get up that early."

"Gas is expensive," I shrug.

Next class, the scene repeats.

"Or," I say, collecting the tardy slips, "you could leave five minutes earlier and always be on time." Detentions for being chronically late are mandatory. And so avoidable.

"Today we got up at 5 in the morning," comes the choral response. "We went jogging."

"You've been up since five, and you're still late." At this point, it's rhetorical.

"We went jogging. Can you tell?"

"Can I tell?" And while they may not be able to define incredulity, they recognize it on my face, drop the conversation and, for the moment, get to work. Perhaps this time they'll actually finish.

It's one of those young high school friendships: every decision is a joint decision, though two heads aren't better than one. Now a thirty-six hour health kick; later a trip to the hairdresser's for highlights that are blue and a red not found in nature. It's all very fourteen, which one of them is, for another month or two. But the other one is a mother.