Sometimes I wonder if my parents actually remember being young. If they did, you would think there would be less of this expectation for me to be excited every year on the first day of school. When I came down this morning for my breakfast, mom was in the kitchen cooking waffles. She does this every year on the first day of a new school year despite my protests that all I want is cereal thankyouverymuch. But whatever. She kept giving me these looks out of the corner of her eye and asking if I was excited. And what could I say? No, mom, what makes you think I’m excited about a new year in a brand new place I never wanted to be?
It would’ve been nice if she’d been that interested in my feelings when she decided to take the job here in Ohio. But whatever, right? You live, you learn. You make the best of what you’ve got. So I answered her in the affirmative, that yes I was excited and looking forward to meeting some students in my new class (even though I am not the warmest most friendliest person you’ll ever meet—at least not right off the bat). That made her happy.
Once the waffles were eaten and the orange juice consumed, I took my backpack and headed for the bus stop. The weather here is colder in the summer than it is in North Carolina—but then again I think that’s because there’s no humidity. That’s what made NC so hot. That’ll be one thing I don’t miss…but don’t get me wrong. I’d go back in an instant.
So school sucked. Lincoln HS isn’t really all that different aside from being a new school with new faces. First days of school tend to be the same all over. Teachers pretend to care about you and play “getting to know you” games even though chances are that unless you’re the teachers pet, they won’t care about you or think about you ever again. Teachers inform you of their super exciting polices. Don’t chew gum in this classroom. Come prepared. I have zero tolerance when it comes to cheating. Blah, blah, blah.
It’s all the same, no matter what school you go to. and like all schools there are your typical cool people. Jocks a plenty matched appropriately with tall, thin & ditzy cheerleaders. There were a few Goths as marked by their black attire (and heavy black mascara—both guys and girls) and studded jewelry. There were the preps dressed in My Michelle brand clothing—plaid blouses, modest almost uniform like skirts for the girls and ties for the guys. It’s like the scene in 10 Things I Hate About You—except this school was definitely missing out on the cowboys.
I didn’t make an effort to talk to anyone. No one I’ve met today tried to talk to me.
It’s going to be a long year.
But I’ll get through it.
p.s.: 2 more years and I might have something akin to free will. That’ll make this time go by. If nothing else.