nepodoban.

“Hey, Opposable! Get a move on!”

Mismatch makes a face, but doesn’t even attempt to run.
She ‘ain’t exactly the gracefullest girl there ever was.’
Gets points for effort, though.

The Louisiana sun doesn’t help her speed. She glares at it.
She abhors being late, but somehow can’t seem to be anything else.
Death is in her alarm clock’s future.
A gruesome one, maybe involving tea.

She awkwardly hikes up her lime green backpack.
The only reason she bothers using it is its hue.
Color is Mismatch's cri de coeur.
Her mother objects, but her father says nothing.
He knows it’s just her way of whistling in the dark.

The bus leaves.
She stops, huffing.

“Sugah-hahhney-ahhced-tea!”