High School is Not Pretty

When I was younger—around the time I first started grade school, give or take a few years—I thought that high school was going to be magical: large, sprawling campus; beautiful buildings; and spacious classrooms. But then again, at that age, I thought everything was going to be magical. Unfortunately, nothing was magical, and nothing was ever going to be magical, least of all a high school campus.

On the first day of freshman year, I walked towards the main building, which looked ancient and, frankly, seemed like it was about to fall apart. The originally white (now it was more of a pale brownish-yellow color) paint was scratched, there were cracks all along the outer walls, and chunks of the red brick roof were now on the ground.

I hesitated outside the front entrance (the dark green paint here was also scratched and peeling), scared that if I pulled open the door, it would somehow cause the entire building to collapse. Kind of like in Jenga, when you remove that final block that determines the fate of the rest of the structure.

Luckily, I didn’t have to make a choice, because right at that moment, someone from behind shoved me forward and pulled open the door. The main hallway was crowded with students who somehow all managed to be at least a foot taller than me. (Some where sitting down against the wall, but I could just tell that when they stood up, they’d be like eight feet tall or something.) The lighting was terrible: it was very dim, and one light was flickering like in a horror movie. Like, thank you very much—high school is already terrifying enough without that extra horror movie feel to it.

I grumpily weaved my way in and out of the mass of students, some of which were running back and forth playing some ball game, others who were just chatting, and even a couple who was having an extremely explicit make out session in the corner. Lovely. I was supposed to be going to room 42, which was my first period English class, but all I had managed to accomplish was getting lost in this not-even-very-big school. (Now that takes some skill.)

Finally, after about seven minutes of wandering back and forth between the broken and stained white walls while trying to convince myself that I wasn’t in a horror movie (it was too loud for any phantoms to be around anyways), I finally gathered up the courage to ask someone for help. Of course, that was when the bell rang, and everyone else scrambled off to class, seeming to know exactly where they were going.

Well this was going to be a pleasant four years.

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