I stare at the glowing green digits and the colon between them blinking. 4:59. One more minute. All the digits soundlessly shift to 5:00. My head leaves the pillow so quickly that I can feel my hair sticking up from the back. I hold my hands out straight, trying to get the duvet off my body, inch after inch, no rustling. I somewhat enjoy it, the aching of my wrists working alone to the quiet thumping of my heart. I let out a soft breath when I am no longer sinking under the covers that protect me from more than just the cold. I rub my hands together and then across my crewneck and sweatpants to smooth out the wrinkles caused by my body that refuses to sleep like a log and chooses to be, what’s the opposite of a log, an antilogarithm. Pathetic, yet I feel the corners of my lips twitch. I’m not a fan of learning, but I am the biggest fan of school. My backpack sleeps at the bottom of my bed, and in its smallest zipper, it holds a lonely pencil with a melted eraser and maybe a crumpled piece of paper if I wanted to make a cheat sheet for a test. I checked the bigger zipper to make sure I packed my toothbrush and toothpaste last night. They’re in there along with a bottle or tube of whatever the beige liquid is called, concealer or something, that I stole from a drugstore. I tuck it in a small zipper hidden on the side of my backpack. My legs ache as I slowly twist my hips to the side of the bed and drop them into my shoes, which keep my backpack company at night. My finger gets crushed between my own heel and the shoe’s as I force my two-sizes-too-big-foot into the shoe. Note to self: somehow, get some shoes this weekend. I tip-toe to my window. I carve a smiley face into the condensation, then smooth it off with my thumb. I lift the window open and dangle my feet from it to jump, landing right next to my black bike, which I am four years too old for. By now, I could recite my routine in my sleep, which I do, but I break into a cold sweat every morning. Not knowing if my parents would choose to wake up early and fill my days with the same pain they pour into my nights gives the routine an unpredictable aspect. I walk through the half-lit halls of my ancient high school, but their lights are relatively modern, leaving a spotlight trail behind me with each clicking noise. I pass by the custodian and his squeaking cart on the way to the bathroom. He’s used to seeing me, and I enjoy waving to him every morning. I like him; my chest releases every time I see him, and he never asks questions. The restroom lights take a while to flick on, and I use my foot to push the door shut and walk to my usual sink and mirror, sitting at the very end. I stare back at my sunken reflection and the darkness under my eyes that seems to deepen each day; I can no longer tell the difference between a bruise and dark circles. I pull out my toothbrush and toothpaste and brush with quick circular motions, facing the door in case anyone walks in, also because I can’t bear to keep looking into the partially broken mirror. As I spit out the last bit of toothpaste, I try to muster a smirk. It ends up looking like the smile that grownups give at funerals. I grip the sink, close my eyes, and imagine the thick red arc painted from ear to ear, smiling from ear to ear. A red ball holding my nose up. Red coils with some yellow fall onto my disheveled brown hair. Somehow, my fourth-grade teacher gave me my favorite nickname: Class Clown. My eyes became glassy when she first said it, but I smiled, a smile like the one painted in red, reaching the ears but not the eyes. The second time my teacher used it, she was drowned by the laughing and clapping of my classmates, so only I heard it, and I learned to love it because I was the happy clown everyone loved. The name followed me from elementary school like a shadow, giving me company in anticipation of hearing its name, yet it has stayed hidden this year. I open my eyes, and my hair returns to its boring brownness, and my face to its sullenness with cheekbones too deep, making shadows that match my eyebags, but with a bit of concealer, the bruises are removed from the matching set. I squat on the toilet seat of the out-of-order bathroom that has been out of order since the beginning of the year by some miracle or a will. The last-minute morning bell rings as I finish the homework for my next class. Logarithms, how ironic. I don’t rush to class, though. I stroll through the halls before reaching it. I slam my hand onto the door handle and let it bounce back before slamming it back down, kicking the door and letting it hit the wall vibrating. As if on command, the other students slam their fists on the tables, laughing. I smirk. “Never failing to make an entrance, huh?” She looks up from her clipboard, still taking attendance. I wasn’t late enough. “Oh, you mean this?” I knock on the open door. She narrows her eyes, “Take a seat. Did you at least do the homework?” I look her in the eye, “Homework?” She purses her lips, turning them white. She’s already seated me in an isolated desk in front of hers. She rolls her chair toward me, “Hey, Class Clown?” As if with a wet wipe, she smears the red arc off my face. “Being a clown is no career.”