By Ginny Morris
I am surrounded by a sea of strangers- older strangers, to be exact. They don’t look, dress, or act like me. I see guys with beards, girls wearing dresses, and couples making out in the corner. Where am I supposed to fit into this picture?
You see, everyone already has their “group”, but here I am walking the halls alone, clueless of the location of my five friends. Yes, I only have five friends. I am so pathetic.
I mean, I feel so tiny and helpless. All of them are staring at me. I knew I shouldn’t have worn this shirt; my shoes don’t even match! My feet are so ugly and fat. Does my hair look bad? Maybe I used too much hair-spray. Does my make-up look bad? I bet it looks stupid; I don’t even wear eye-liner yet! I wonder if they can sense my fear. Yep, I bet that’s it.
Wait, where am I? This school is huge! How am I ever going to find room 180, my homeroom? I should probably ask a teacher.
“Excuse me, where is room 180?” I say, feeling like an idiot.
“Upstairs, to the right.” the teacher retorts.
“Thank you!” I say, sounding a little too desperate.
I scurry through the crowds trying not to knock anyone over with all of my bags- four to be precise. It’s insane to be carrying around four bags- my purse, over-the-shoulder beach inspired backpack, polka-dot lunchbox, and Nike bag for gym with clothes and shoes inside- but I have to. I never had this much stuff to carry last year…
The stairs are a mad house. There are even more “groups” and couples here! I guess this must be the hangout spot, the place to be. Strange, for I have no desire to hang out at the stairs; I, on the other hand, wish I were back home, safe in bed, like I was yesterday.
Yesterday was the last day of summer, my last day of freedom. In my house, summer is a treasured time, a glorious reprieve. There are no cares, worries, or stress; it is a peaceful bliss, unlike my current location: Pickens High School. Today, as you may have already guessed, is my first day of high school.
I don’t think freshman quite fit in. There are many differences between freshman and upper class-men. They can drive; we can not. They have jobs; we do not. Most of them have credit cards; most of us do not. They wear whatever they want; we, on the other hand, are still trying to figure out what exactly our “style” is. We follow the latest fad; they do not. They don’t seem to care what others think, but we still do. They seem to know who they are and what they want to do with their life; we do not, or at least I don’t. I think freshman try too hard to fit in, whereas upper class-men do not. How in the world are we supposed to fit in and survive in this dog-eat-dog society?
I have finally reached the upper ninth grade wing! Wow, this hall is deserted. Where is everyone? Oh wait; I see a group of guys. Of course, they are upper class-men- sophomores, I think.
“Oh look at the little freshman!” one moron taunts and slings his arm above my head. All of his buddies laugh hysterically.
Idiots. There is no need to ridicule me; they were freshman once before too!
Oh well, the morons are gone, so it’s just me and the hall again. Oh room 180, where are you? The bell is going to ring any second now, and the last thing I need is a tardy. I read the room number on door to my left: room 176. Hallelujah! I must be close! Room 177. I peer into room 178 as I walk by. In it, are some familiar faces from middle school. What a relief to know that I am not alone in the mist of this madhouse! I walk past the faces, then past Room 179.
At last, room 180 is in sight! My joy quickly fades into sorrow, for when I round the corner, through the door, I don’t recognize a single person in my homeroom. As I take a seat, I search the room desperately for someone, anyone that I might possibly know. No-one. If I don’t even know anybody in my homeroom, will I know anybody in my other four classes? I’m doomed. How am I ever going to make it through this day of torture?