One thing I’ve always been afraid of is, for lack of a better description, humans eating bugs alive. The first time I had watched Hellraiser was about three or four months ago. At the scene with the (supposedly) homeless man in the pet store, I yelled with my fingers in my ears and my eyes glued shut. If it weren’t for the ending of that movie, I would be avoiding the entire film for the rest of my life. I’m aware it’s a unique fear, but at least it’s something I can try my best to ignore. I’m glad that- out of all of my fears- this is the one that sticks forever, because the other ones could never be avoidable.

I’m not really sure if I can say I had a fear of growing up and making changes, but that’s what I used to tell people. I’ve lived in Franklin my whole life, and I had been going to school in the same building since kindergarten. Between elementary and my middle school, those two schools- and that one building- will forever be where most of education came from. My brother and sister had been going there since the moment the doors opened, and I was one among many other legacies. My family was no stranger to the community over there- it was a home away from home. I was upset just switching from elementary to middle school, so stepping up from eighth grade and switching to a school in another state was torture.

I remember so well how different eighth grade felt from all the other grades. I started off the year, and ended it, with the same boyfriend. I know for a fact that that was what started it all off. From that point on, so many changes occurred: I became the most optimistic person I’ve ever known, I discovered my dream of being a therapist, my mind was clear and healthy, I was actually working on my well-being and had even started meditating, I was on good terms with everybody. In my opinion, everything was absolutely perfect, and my resting face had become a smile. Then I had to leave it all behind.

My hair was tied up, my nails were professionally done, wearing a new dress, new shoes, necklace, makeup… The list goes on. The temperature was perfect, just like the scenery. The sky was pink, everything was in bloom, and the air smelled sweetly of flower petals- yet another thing I’ve fallen in love with about my home. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of taking a walk, so I made my way to the school through the worn path in the woods.
Listening to The Adventure, by “Angels and Airwaves”, memories of that year poured through my mind. As I got closer to the bridge, I followed my routine of reading the “S+C” I had carved into one of the trees by the river. I walked through the aperture of the forest and let out a sigh as I watched the clouds pass by the building. I thought of a memory from fifth grade. One day at recess, over three years ago, someone had pointed out how the clouds moving through the sky made it look like the school was moving towards us. It’s something that returns to me every time I gaze up at the school.

I traveled down to the basement where the eighth grade classes were placed. I left my bag in the room of Mrs. Zogby, who I’ve come to know very well through common family friends, and ran out to find my personal friends. Jake, Amber, Mairead, Austin, Alex, Nabeel ,tons more. These were my friends. Mairead I had met in kindergarten, Austin I had only known for less than a year, Amber was from the same preschool as me. They didn’t all get along perfectly, but that was okay. These are my friends, and this was the last big event we’d get to be a part of together.

One by one, I watched my classmates poor into the basement ecstatically. Most of these people I had known for nine years, yet I hadn’t recognized a single face. If anyone knows my group of friends, they’ll know that about half of us are trying to get a picture of Nabeel. I was successful with over fifteen photos, as well as millions more of Emily disrupting my camera shots.

Soon enough, it was time to line up. At my middle school, grades are split into teams. Sixth grade, I was on Babbitt; seventh grade, it was team Yoko; and for my final year, I was on the Atticus side, as opposed to team Angelou. With the last name that starts with B, I was closer to the front of the Atticus line than the back. When I got to the fork of the hallway which split the grade, I was paired with an Angelou student to walk beside. The 2014-2015 eighth grade proudly made its way up the stairs and towards the gym, where a sea of faces watched us sit in our assigned seats. I, being part of the band, passed my seat and went to sit with my fellow band-geeks.

“You’re so goth”.

Nick was a seventh grader, and a good friend of mine. I knew that if I was going to wear all black and white, and decorate my dress with chains, I would hear those words. Over the course of that past year, he had managed to get at least half of the band to start calling me goth. That band was nothing but a family, and the teasing fit in perfectly, but I never thought I’d miss it.

After I performed, I sat in my assigned seat and blended in with the rest of my grade. There awaited a bottle of water and a recognition award:

  Dear Carolyn,   6/24/15

You will be remembered for your work ethic, your
  passion for music and your creativity. Keep up the
  great work!

  Sincerely,
  Mr. Anthony, Mrs. Nelan, Mr. Mase, Mrs. PArnell,
  Mrs. Viveiros and Mrs. Zogby

I tried to remember at which points my teachers would’ve noticed my interest in music. I now remember how much it showed in Mr. Anthony’s advisor, but in the moment, I could only remembered that one time I was in english: I was writing music during class instead of working, but I was such a teacher’s pet to Mrs. Nelan that I got away with it. When she had asked what I was doing, and I had answered, she went on to ask which instrument I played. She then proceeded to tell me that she used to play saxophone as well, and our departure was followed by a teasing face from my best friend, Mairead.

During the step-up ceremony, I was publicly recognized for being one of many honors students, but a few individuals were awarded for having straight A’s. I was extremely upset to learn that I wasn’t getting a piece of paper with the president’s signed named.

The gym was scorching hot, so whenever I wasn’t involved, I was looking at my peers and searching for full water bottles. On top of sweating myself dry, I was dying of boredom; but soon enough, things started to get a lot more interesting. Watching the baby picture slideshow was a laugh, but nostalgic feelings electrified me during the time capsule, the lip sync video, and Ms. Wittcoff’s speech.

The preparing of the time capsule was nothing but filling a box with random items, or at least, that’s probably how the crowd behind us viewed it. To us, that box meant everything that made up our middle school experience. I watched as the capsule was filled with sweet memories, such as when the school was flooded for a weak. While every other school in Franklin was about to be let out for summer, we were stuck for another seven days, all because of a broken sprinkler head which led to disaster.

The lip sync video itself was nothing special, but watching my principal, Ms. Wittcoff, cry was sickening. All throughout elementary school, I was terrified of entering sixth grade with her as my principal. There were so many horrible rumors about her saying that she yelled at everyone who crossed her path. People had even called her Ms. Witchcoff, or something worse with a similar sounding play on words. I lived by these rumors until I had actually met her. She could’ve been nasty to those who disobeyed, but I never came close to even witnessing it.
Just when I thought that Ms. Wittcoff’s crying was sad before, then came the speeches. I already hated speeches enough, so I didn’t listen to most of them. A lot were from the student council, who none of I would miss, but I gave all of my focus to Ms. Wittcoff. I didn’t only watch her speak into the microphone, but I watched tears form into her eyes for the entire set of speeches. I thought back to how hard of a year it had been for her. Not only was she diagnosed with breast cancer, but she had even lost her husband to cancer. When we were in sixth grade, she had directly told us that we were her favorites, and that meant so much to me. Walking through the halls, she would always ask how my siblings were. In fact, a lot of teachers would ask me that, even ones I didn’t even have. I then realized that no one at my new school would ask that. I wouldn’t get to hear people ask if Ryan was still in college, or see shocked faces when I mentioned that Lindsey grew up to join the ROTC army program.

“Most of these faces I have known for years beyond middle school,” said a crying Ms. Wittcoff, interrupting my thoughts. “Many of you are the youngest of your family, and I’m terribly upset to see you go and take the name with you.”

She went on talking about how badly she hoped to see us visit. With each new word, a new tear emerged. My heart dropped with each tear that fell. Part of me didn’t want her stop talking, but I wasn’t complaining when she dismissed my grade to the after party.

First thing everyone did was take pictures out front. In a short amount of time, I had managed to collect pictures of, not only more of my eighth grade friends, but also my younger friends from band who had stayed during the ceremony. I then realized that this could be my last chance to get pictures with my teachers, so I went to all that I could- including Mr. Mello, who had my brother and sister, but not me- and embarrassingly took “selfies” instead of waiting for someone to take a picture for us. This short amount of time was followed by the after party. Just like any other party event at my school, there were way too many things happening in one night, but it didn’t cease to entertain me. In fact, looking back, those sort of school events were more fun than I’ve ever experienced at any high school dance. This was the last time I would get to attend a cheesy, dance-like party with those people. It was probably the last time I’d get to attend any cheesy, dance-like party at all.

After the party, I got to sit around and wait for my parents to help clean up. The temperature did not change, and nor did the smell of summer air, but the sky was now lit up with stars. I was thinking of Sam, who lived directly across the street from the school. I was always thinking of him, but this time, the warm thoughts of my boyfriend were accompanied by new thoughts. We had at least another week of school left, but it felt as if this was the last time I would see everyone. We were not returning on Monday, there was no hope of talking to any of my peers again, and I did not savor the evening enough. Strangely, I didn’t feel as upset as I would’ve a month ago. I had officially left eighth grade, and I was about to leave the Franklin school district for the first time, but I felt satisfied. I was not going to forget my childhood schools, and so far, I haven’t.

Since then, I’ve stopped talking to most of my friends. Sam and I broke up, but we still talk often. The sad thing is that I used to talk to over half of his grade, but now he’s the only one. My band teacher, who used to be an apprentice of my elementary school music teacher, had watched me grow immensely as a musician. On the last day of school, he called in the entire band and cried as he announced that he was leaving school. I knew that, unlike my other teachers, I would never get a chance to see him again.

Since the last day of school, I’ve visited the building multiple times, which is nothing new. I now paint on the trees in the forest, and I occasionally walk to the playground like I used to. I still don’t like change, but I don’t feel sick thinking about it anymore, and I’ve decided that growing up isn’t as bad as I made it. What comforts me is that these events from my past happened at all, and I’m actually proud to call them nothing but memories.