Everyone from my old school is disgusting, and I hate them all. I know that that’s probably not the best mindset going into a new school, but it really helps me get rid of the nerves. With the first day of eighth grade tomorrow, I was expecting to be nervous out of my mind at the thought of starting a new school, but all I feel is relief.
At least there’ll be new people, is all I can think when I close my eyes and go to sleep the night before the first day.
When I wake up the next morning, the nerves hit me. I had been overwhelmed with excited anticipation at the thought of never having to see anyone from my old school ever again, but now everything else minorly scary crawls into my mind like spiders.
What if nobody likes me? Oh my God my hair is horrible! What if I get a really mean teacher? What if there aren’t any cute boys? What if everyone is just as bad as before? I look horrible. Why does my hair not cooperate the one day I need it to?
Like every first day of school, I get dressed faster than I’ll ever get dressed for the remainder of the school year. I’m ready twenty minutes before I have to leave, giving me time to contemplate eating breakfast and get several different food items out, before realizing that anything I put in my mouth will be thrown up within the minute.
The extra time also gives my mom the opportunity to take first-day-of-school pictures of my brother and I, who both refuse to smile. It’s extremely difficult to act happy at six o’clock in the morning.
Since he is four years younger than me, my brother and I go to different schools, so my mom drives him. I have to walk to the bus stop for my new school, which is conveniently located just down the block.
Getting on the bus for the first time is awfully intimidating. Most of the people look like high schoolers, and nobody is sitting next to each other. Every single row is taken by an obnoxious single rider. Some have their bags on the open seat next to them, others don’t. I look for the youngest looking girl on the bus without a bag next to her and ask if I can sit next to her. She consents.
“My name’s Molly,” she tells me immediately after I sit down and position my bloated bookbag under my feet.
I turn to her and smile warmly, though I’m not sure I’m happy to converse this early in the morning. “I’m Cassidy,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, Cassidy,” Molly says, flashing her own smile, “What grade are you in?”
“Eighth,” I reply.
“Cool,” she says, adjusting her body towards me in preparation for the bus ride conversation. “I am, too!”
“Really?” I ask excitedly. “Who do you have for first hour?”
“Mrs. Sheinblum,” she answers.
“Oh, I have her fourth,” I say. “I have Mr. Linkin first.”
Molly makes a kind of disgusted face at me. “I hear he’s really strict,” she says, “and he assigns a lot of homework.”
We talk this way for the whole bus ride to school. I learned that she started at Westmont Middle and High School when she was in sixth grade, and her older sister is in tenth grade now. She knows a lot of the teachers and students that go there. When I told her that I was new, she asked me if I wanted to sit with her at lunch. I gladly accepted her offer.
So far, the day is going great; I made a friend and I found a place to sit at lunch, all before I even stepped onto campus. Fantastic.
When I get to school, I immediately recognize all of the buildings from the tour I took several weeks ago, and I easily find my homeroom. Some kids are already there, sitting at desks, chattering politely among themselves. It’s obvious that most of them were together in previous years, but there are few like myself who don’t know a single person here. With newly gained confidence, I sit next to a curly-haired girl who isn’t talking to anyone and start a conversation the same way Molly did with me.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m Cassidy.”
She turns to look at me, her pretty brown eyes scan my face. She grins and holds out a hand. “I’m Leila,” she replies. “Are you new?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking her hand and shaking it. “Are you?”
She nods and we let go of each other’s hands. She yawns, and slaps a hand up to her mouth to cover it. I chuckle.
“You’re tired?” I ask rhetorically, rolling my eyes and then yawning myself.
She smiles and nods. “It’s way too early. I literally can not function at this hour.”
“Same. I’m gonna fall asleep at some point throughout the day. Just watch.”
She laughs and agrees with me. “My old school started at nine,” she tells me.
“Really? You’re so lucky,” I answer. “Mine started at eight.”
“Where did you go to school?” she asks, running her fingers through her hair, stopping at the bottom to play with a single curl absentmindedly.
“East Ridge,” I respond. “I hated it.”
“Oh yeah? Why?” she inquires.
“Well,” I begin, “it’s kind of a long story, but basically everyone there was either rude, weird, or gross. Like I’d walk into the bathroom and there’d be kids selling drugs. I mean, it’s a middle school, and there are thirteen year olds selling drugs. That’s just horrible. I didn’t really fit in there. I guess I wasn’t rebellious enough.” I laugh to make light of the story. There was more that happened, but I’m not the kind of person to go around telling random people my personal stuff.
“Wow, that’s terrible,” Leila says. “I didn’t mind my old school, but I had to switch because of my dad’s job. I just moved here from California.”
The bell rings before I can say anything more, and in walks Mr. Linkin. He’s short, chubby and bald, and doesn’t look nearly as scary as I had imagined. In fact, he looks a little jolly, with his fat, pinkish nose and upturned lips.
He introduces himself, and immediately begins role.
“Ashley Andrews… Jonah Darland… Synthia Mark…”
Synthia Mark. That name sounds vaguely familiar. I wonder why. I turn around to find the source of the, “Here,” that followed the name, and see her sitting in the back, examining her fingernails boredly.
Her hair is blond and straight, and her eyes are so bright of a blue that they shock me from all the way across the room. From what I can see, she is beautiful. Though for some reason, she looks like someone I know.
Throughout the whole rest of class, the thought of her being from my old school chews at me. I know I’ve seen her before. I must have had a class with her or something. I have to ask. I have to. I need to know. When the bell rings, I’m quick to get up, say goodbye to Leila who is going the opposite way as me for her second class, and basically chase Synthia into the hallway.
“Synthia!” I call, slowing down when I call her so that I don’t seem creepy.
She spins around and looks at me, but doesn’t say anything.
“Did you go to East Ridge Middle School?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes at me as she tries to figure out who I am. “Yeah,” she replies, “You’re… Cassidy, right?”
I nod, and feel dread pour into me. She knows me. She went to my old school, and she knows me. I’m dead. This is the worst thing that could have happened today.
“I had Spanish with you,” she recalls, a smile forming on her face. “Yeah! You were always trying to ask Señora Velez things in Spanish but she always yelled at you because you were ‘una gringa’.”
I remembered her now. She had always been relatively quiet in that class, and she sat across the room from me. I was never really friends with her, but then again, I wasn’t really friends with anyone. Still, the stereotype that I have put on anyone associated with East Ridge Middle School applied to her, and I dreaded this conversation.
“Yup,” I say, “That’s me. Una gringa grande.”
Synthia laughs and tosses her head back. “I hate East Ridge,” she says, grinning, “but I’m happy I know someone who went there.”
“Wait, really?” I’m a little surprised, honestly. Isn’t she supposed to be an East Ridge Druggy? Isn’t she supposed to love the freedom that she got at East Ridge because none of the teachers cared that there were kids hooking up and smoking pot in the bathroom?
She looks at me with mildly astonished eyes. “Yeah!” she exclaims. “Ugh, it was literal Hell. Did you like it there?”
“Oh my God, no,” I answer way too quickly. “It was the worst two years of my life.”
Synthia smiles. “Are you going this way?” she asks, indicating with her head down the South hall.
“Yeah, I actually am,” I reply, and every bit of dread and hatred I originally felt towards her melts away.
I walk with her to my next class, and have a really fun conversation with her, making fun of East Ridge. I guess not everyone from there is as bad as I thought.