March 29, 1995

Martha grabbed the maroon hooded sweatshirt from her closet. The mornings were still cold, though nothing like the bleak, painful winter which had somehow lasted five oppressive months. Then last week came and spring overtook winter. Gray and brown turned blue and green. Life killed death.

It was unlike anything Martha had witnessed. Southern California's seasons were blurred and flat, like a psych patient on too many mood stabilizers. This was pure joy out of crippling despair.

She left her bedroom for the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Then she fished through her plastic makeup drawer and found her mahogany lipstick to match the sweatshirt.

As a senior, James was able to forego a study hall and start the day an hour late, so it was rare for him to drive her to school. Martha didn't understand why he kept his first period open. He supposedly woke up at 5 a.m. each morning without an alarm. She would love to ride to school with her boyfriend instead of on the bus with the broken heater and blown out shocks. But starting the day on unique paths was important, or so he said. For whatever reason, today was different.

The doorbell rang. She grabbed her backpack and walked downstairs to answer.

He smiled and said, "Good morning, Martha Beckett."

She nodded. "James Quinn."

"Okay if I come in?"

"Sure..." she said slowly. Her father had left a half an hour ago and the house was empty but for the pair of teenagers.

James walked past her and into the kitchen. She followed. He turned to face her, leaned against the counter and said, "You hate surprises."

"Yes... I... Wait, is this your freaky way of telling me you have a surprise?"

He cracked a smile and nodded. "We are not going to school today."

"Wha..." Her shock forced out a laugh. "No. No, I'm going... What do you..."

"Take a breath," he said. "Calm down. It's the perfect day for it. You don't have any tests or anything significant to turn in. Two of your classes will have substitutes. It's nothing you'll miss."

"I don't know..." Martha had never ditched school and had no plans to. She did her best to stay out of trouble and had, thus far, succeeded. "I don't think we should-"
"It's already happening, Martha."

"What does that mean?"

"I've already called the office for you."

"How? No. You... You can't just do that without asking me!"

"I know, I know." He approached her, lay his hands on her shoulders, and halved her anxiety. "But I already have asked you. And you say yes. But then you don't get any sleep the night before. And..." He altered his cadence and inflection. "My impression of your father always creeps you out, Marty."

She tore herself away. "Ohhhh my god! Don't ever do that again."

"I promise."

"Like ever." Martha shuddered. "So, like... we're really not going to school?"

"Well, you're not." He smiled. "My mom hasn't called into the office yet."

She stared at his smile for a moment then understood. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Sure." He put his arm around her shoulder. "You'll be great."

"But I... How..." In the five months they had been dating, she hadn't met his mother. It was strange, to be sure, but Martha hadn't given it much thought as she avoided talking about her own mother as well.

"You have a similar timbre. Just soften your voice a little." He walked her to the kitchen table and they sat down. "Go ahead... try it."

"Okay, uh... What should I say?"

"Try 'Hello, my name is Ruth Quinn.'"

Martha cleared her throat. "Hello, my name is Ruth Quinn?"

"Good. That's good. A couple of things: it's a statement, not a question, and try to speak from your chest instead of your throat. Make sense?"

"I think so. Okay... Hello, my name is Ruth Quinn."

"Brilliant! Now... you had four other fires to put out before my stomach flu added to your mess of a day so you're rushed and annoyed."

Martha took a moment to imagine the urgency then nodded. "Okay." James stood up to retrieve the wall phone. She practiced her line, playing with the pace and inflection. "Hello, my name is Ruth Quinn... Hello, my name is Ruth Quinn."

James sat with the receiver in his hand; thumb on the switchhook. "Just give her my name and grade – that I'm sick and won't be in school. Keep it short and sweet. The more details you give the more suspect you sound. Above all – tell her this is happening. Don't ask for her permission."

"Got it." Her fear had morphed into inspired anticipation – a prize fighter awaiting the first bell.

James dialed. As he handed her the phone, he said, "Two hands so it won't slip."

Martha took the phone with her sopping hands and listened to it ring. Her heart pounded. Was she really about to do this?

She heard a click and then a voice: "Adams High, main office."

Martha's brain was suddenly empty – an abyss... a void...

"Hello?" said the voice.

"He's in the twelfth grade and he won't be in," tumbled out.

"Excuse me?"

Martha pinched her eyes closed and she was sitting in the office watching the indignant principal lecture her father. She opened her eyes and James was biting his lip to keep from laughing. He thinks this is funny! Irritation displaced terror and her wits returned.

"Sorry, this morning has been hell. My son, James Quinn, is sick and won't be in school today."

"James Quinn. Twelfth grade," the voice droned. "Thank you." Martha heard a click and the dial-tone hummed. She exhaled.

James chuckled and said, "That was phenomenal! See – you had nothing to worry about."

Martha's eyes went wide. "Are you kidding? That wasn't funny. This isn't funny! I could get in a lot of trouble!"

"No you can't," James dismissed. "Mrs. Fredricks hates her job and resents her superiors and does nothing more than the minimum required. She's paid to be a secretary, not a detective. But I'm serious. That was something special. 'This morning has been hell?' That wasn't in the script. That was all you."

It was a clever piece of improvisation – she had to admit. She walked the phone back to the wall jack then wiped her hands on the front of her sweatshirt. Though she was softening to James' machinations, adrenaline remained in her blood. Ultimately, the risk had been slight – detention, most likely; her father's disapproval followed by his forgiveness. But from the racing heartbeat and machine gun fire of synapses, Martha felt as if she had escaped mortal peril. She had more than escaped, however. She had walked up to death and stood her ground – stuck her head in the lion's mouth without flinching. Well, maybe a little.

Martha returned to her chair. She took a deep breath and remembered where she was and with whom. "So... What should we do?" Her imagination made her blush.

"Chicago."

"Chicago?"

James stood up. "Yeah, it's a beautiful city and I'd like to show it to you."

"We're skipping school and driving into Chicago?" She stood and they walked to the door. "We'll be just like-"

"Don't say it."

Martha smiled. "Are we going to pick up Cameron?"

"Martha."

"What?"

"You know, there's more to Chicago than John Hughes." He opened and held the door.

She stared at him for a moment then proceeded. As she passed, she whispered, "Chick, chickaaah..."

Author's note: 

What do you think about James making these kinds of decisions for Martha?  Every time he's given her notice, she's gone sleepless the night before and doesn't have nearly as much fun.  But shouldn't she be able to choose?  Or should she just sit back and enjoy the ride?

Like, totally 90's(ish) detail:  Life moves pretty fast, Martha.  If you don't stop and look around once and a while, you could miss it.