The blow of a whistle pierces the crisp, cold, air, sending flocks of children running to the doors.  The snowball I am holding falls through my gloved hands, now soaked with the melted snow.  I can still see the snowflakes left behind from the crystal ball, stuck to the fibers of my gloves. 

I start to run, joining the stampede of kids.  The wind stings against my face, my eyes tearing up from the resistance.  I can feel the skin of my cheeks tingle from the cold, but the warmth circulating inside my entire body contrasts the bitter burn.  The snow makes running difficult.  The swish, swish of my baby-blue snow pants rubbing against each other accompanies me as I trek across the jungle gym.  Each step is a struggle, as I am weighed down by extra layers of clothes and boots that never stay tied.  I sink into the fluffy white powder with each step; it’s like being pulled down by quick sand.  My boots spray snow behind me as I sprint across the playground, finally reaching the basketball hoops by my class’s assigned doors.

I file in line with the rest of my class.  I am sandwiched between classmates; all of us are bundled up in the “Full Meal Deal.”  I’m breathing heavy from the grueling run across the playground.  I can see every exhausted breath I exhale.  My nose runs, but my face is too numb from the cold to feel the snot oozing down.  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the ice crystals that got caught in my golden curls.  The darker brown strands of my hair, dampened by the melted snow, cling to my face and neck, causing discomfort.  My squinted eyes blink away the flakes and loose pieces of hair blow into the brown irises.  The sensation of water seeping into my favorite pair of jeans is consuming me.  On the right knee of my snow pants, a tiny tear emerged, enlarged by sliding around on the slick ice patch near the fence.  Twigs and tumbles contributed to the gaping hole.  Stuffing has sprouted out, causing the material to thin.  Snow sneaks in through the weak material and causes my light wash jeans to turn a darker shade. 

We begin to move, the sound of 50 pairs of size one boots thundering towards the door surrounds me.  We are like a chaotic little army, lined up and marching towards the entrance.  My black and pink jacket is heavier this time though the doors.  The liquified snow has made the black parts shiner, and the pink parts three shades darker into a deep magenta. 

My ears are filled with the annoying squeak of wet boots colliding with the tiled floors.  We are told to slow down; no running, otherwise someone might slip.  The smell of cold, fresh air combined with sweaty kids fills my nose.  It’s a sticky, sour smell that I must endure three times a day.

The halls are decorated with Christmas art projects from each class.  Red and white strips of paper hang down from the ceiling to form candy canes; while ginger bread men and green-coated and pointy-eared elves dance on the walls.  Outside classroom doors, Christmas countdown chains, with alternating red and green loops, drape down door frames.  The sound of lockers clicking open and slamming shut begin to consort with the cut-out elves in the halls.  I start to peel off my Barbie hat that’s stuck to my head from sweat and wiggle my fingers out of snow-crusted mittens.  I unzip my newly darkened jacket and hull off the sky-colored snow pants, with the untied boots still stuck inside each leg held in place by the elastic opening.  I grab my inside shoes and hop over water puddles that have formed on the white tile, trying to avoid getting my socked feet wet.  I trudge into the classroom, dreading all the cloud knowledge I will be forced to listen to during science hour.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be seven again.  My biggest worries being the answer of 9+5 and trying to get home in time to watch Arthur at 4:00.