First day of school as a sophomore. It went a little something like this:
[ waking up ]
This could have been an innocent act.
Of course. It wasn't. :|
I get up after my mom yells at me for a third round, put on an outfit that hardly makes me look any good, watch a few of my videos on my sparkly computer and pretend like I ate something. Dad feeds me pills, I brush my teeth so hard that my gums bleed (a lot.). I pop the tab on a Mello Yellow and listen to Dane Cook to put me in a better mood (-extremely effective.) Mom bitches about how I look like shit.
I tell her if you go all out on your first day, you'll look like hell in comparison for the rest of the year. [/unquote]
She isn't amused.
7:40 I leave the house to go to the bus stop.
[ the bus stop, whut ]
It's hot outside.
Okay, I dunno if I've complained about this yet, but it's been EPIC heat wise, lately? It's been well into the hundreds in both heat index and actual temperature, and since I'm so used to Tennessee being cold when I stand out in the bus stop (-last year we had a VERY long winter, so I can't imagine a bus wait without such temps.) I was shocked to walk outside and find it humid.
Not just humid, but hot.
I could tell it wasn't in the nineties yet, but nonetheless. -_-;
The bus stop is a block's walk from my house, and I don't bring a backpack. The only people who bring backpacks on the first day of school - at least at my school - are either Freshman or kids with overly concerned mothers. (Quite often is it both.) The only thing I have is my iPod in my pocket and a pencil in the other.
It is when I reach the bus stop that reality begins to dawn on me.
Firstly, we should rewind a little. In 7th grade, my life was social hell. In eighth grade it was pretty bad too, but 7th grade was the worst. Hell, even sixth graders picked on me in 7th grade, but only one group of, I don't know if they're gutsy or just punkass, but they were some wannabe skater kids that lived in my neighborhood and rode my bus. In eighth grade, while they were all thinking they were hardcore for being in 7th grade, they tried to make fun of me more. By that time, I had less of a ";_;" attitude and more of a "Go contract an STD, asshole >|" attitude.
I had forgotten about them when I went into ninth grade, having not seen them for a year, and while they would occasionally cross my mind when I talked about how much I hated middle school, I usually had enough to think about.
But now, as I am reaching the bus stop, Dane Cook talking about the Friend Nobody
So I put on Prodigy on repeat as loud as it gets and glared daggers at them. Occasionally they look at me with "o_o;" or ">_>;;;" or "._.;;;" faces. BUT NEVER ONCE WITH "8]" FACE. (Inside joke, ILU STACIE.) Anyways yeah. I stood around, listening to Smack My Bitch Up and let Sasori vs. Shisui battles play in my head (THANK YOU FUJI.) and waiting for the bus, and I realize something else.
There are a lot of motherfuckin' people at the bus stop :|
A few from before are gone, but a bunch have replaced them in bulk. Freshman. (You can tell they're freshman in two ways. A, you've seen them at the middle school. B, they're talking about the schedules, not with "OMG I GOT HER." talk, but more "OMG WHERE IS THIS CLASS." And a similar one, "OMG WHERE IS THE BUS." I speak for the first time that morning, my tone far colder than I had intended it to be, but
"It is always late. Get used to it."
It was the kind of burn one can only get from pressing ice to their skin.
The bus pulls up, and when I get on, I snag the seat I always sit at.
The bus pulls up, and there are already too many students on it.
[ bus ]
I take the seat, continue blasting Prodigy (-god that music is so epic.), and I do not talk. I do not talk because there is no one around me worth speaking to. (At least not yet.) And as we pull around, students I do and don't recognize filling the bus, one stop loads an old friend of mine. Zach. He sure is talkative. I am out of the zone, for the most part, and run my fingers through my hair and day dream.
Tubby gets on.
Tubby has always been Tubby. He's a big guy around the middle, short too, and he looks like he's in sixth or seventh grade just as he did when I met him in eighth grade. He's sexually immature, in fact, all around immature, his Digimon (POKEMON PWNED THAT SHIT >|) backpack stuffed with brand new binders, new pencils and fresh erasers, crayons and calculators, a schedule in one hand and a school map in the other.
You're so not going to get beat up :|
He sits next to Zach, who sits in front of me, and I turn down my music to listen. I can't remember if I talked or not, but it's doubtful I did, maybe enough to say "Hi Zach." or "-annoyed noise-" when Tubby gets on the bus. Like the punkasses, I had forgotten he existed, either out of forced memory loss or just me being loose in the mind. (Probably the latter.) And otherwise I go quiet.
[ arrival ]
The bus dumps us at the normal landing site, behind the school, and I have a clear idea of where to go. I see another friend of mine, give him an almost hug, and I flinch when he kisses my cheek. Yay antisocial :| The, "LOL UR LATE TO CLASS" bell rings at that second, which is really goddamn annoying, because the bus always makes us late to school when it's the least convenient. e_e
I start powerwalking to my homeroom. Through the gym hallway, up a set of stairs, around the pit, through the foreign language hallway, through the art wing, a left down the English hallway, and when I reach the door, number 319, I open it and stare.
This is not my homeroom.
What. The. Fuck.
Instead of the class I'd come to recognize, about 35 people with S as their last name, as that was how homerooms were divided, I saw seniors. Like Tory Rockwood, from last year's Biology class, a football player who tried to get into my pants. Or Tori.. something or another - I never learned last names in Creative Writing - curly blonde hair in a pony tail and cheeks splotched pink as always.
I shut the door before anyone sees me and feel myself panicking.
Where the fuck am I supposed to go?
I turn to the nearest moving body, a teacher, and ask where I'm supposed to be. She asks who my homeroom teacher is. I tell her Modarelli. She tells me, to my EPIC HORROR, that Modarelli is gone. GONE, MOTHERFUCKERS. And she pointed me to a list where I could find my new homeroom teacher.
Of course the goddamn room is on the other fucking side of the school >|
And so BACK TO MORGAN POWER WALKING LIKE A MANIAC.
[ homeroom ]
I get there in two minutes, but I'm sweating and my hair probably looks like hell, which bothers me a lot e_e The room is full of those I recognize, all with folders of stuff on their desks, and I take an empty seat, the metal on my pants clinking quietly against it. David Smyre sits next to me. I have known and hated him since seventh grade. Three long years, and of course he is in my homeroom for all of these years.
Mr. Proffitt tells me he does not have anymore folders, and therefor I'd have to get emergency cards, a fees and dues list, an agenda, and all the other necessary stuff in the West Mall office. That sucks. I hate that office. I always have to sit in there when I have to go home early, and every time I do, my mom gets so mad.
I sit around and itch to draw until I am presented my schedule. It's on a yellow piece of paper and reads as follows:
|01||S2||300203000||203||ENG II STAN/CP||FT2||MTWTF||WRIGHT|
|04||S2||320202000||204||PHYS SCI STAN||423||MTWTF||SUMMITT|
(That color too.)
Everything that labeled as S1 is in my first semester, so basically, Gym/Sex Ed, Latin I, Algebra I, and Advanced Art this semester. WHICH SUCKS. :| Algebra is my worst subject, Latin will be crazy hard, and I've always hated Gym. Lovelylovely :| Art, however, I was in a pretty good mood for.
And so, I began to draw on my paper.
Mr. Proffitt told us something about the school that kind of made me want to die. The school, which had always been a bit overcrowded, had just been bombarded with a HUGE freshman class. 560 students. The school population had jumped up to more than 2150 students, and it was horrible obvious. x_x
At 9:30, Homeroom ended.
[ lifetime wellness ]
I find this class pretty easy. It's in a flat-top outside, and I'm surprised to see than Tony Rivierra, from what, 6th grade, is in the class, looking much trimmer than before. During class change, however, I saw someone that really disturbed me. Looking at her face for a split second, I could have sworn.. it was Brandi from Peninsula. The girl who fell in love with me. I almost said something, but the halls were packed with lost freshman, and some dickhead pushed me forward.
I enter the class, sit in the back, and stare at the floor.
When the teacher comes in, Coach Carter, he is wearing a sling, and immediately launches into a dramatic story as to how he cannot use his arm anymore, how he suffered an incredible surgery and is in physical rehab for it. Late students sneak in while he's preoccupied with his Gai-sensei pity tale. I'm only half listening.
Abruptly does he write his name on the chalkboard, introduce himself, and begin handing out a syllabus.
The paper informs us that we will be in the classrooms Monday and Wednesday, and Tuesdays and Thursdays will we be in the Gym, and Fridays alternate, depending on if we're good little kids or not. He launches into another rant about how students don't listen to him when they need to and I start chewing my nails, occasionally eyeing the students around me with only so much interest. After three minutes he gets on track again, and he talks about what makes our grade what it is, and how we have to dress out.
My heart thuds.
This is what I had been worried about.
As quoted directly from the syllabus:
4) Requirements for participation in the physical activities
A. Elastic waist gym shorts of a single solid color
B. Appropriate athletic shoes for both indoor and outdoor activities.
It's A that makes me want to throw up a little. (But there's nothing but acid in my stomach.)
My legs have almost 2000 scars on them put together. LIKE FUCKING HELL I'M WEARING SHORTS. He talks about other things while I quietly begin to panic in my mind. What if he's one of those hardcore teachers about dressing out? What if I don't pass because I don't dress out enough? The class is required for a diploma. How am I going to do it? Will he let me wear pants? Will he not let me unless I prove I have the scars? What if he (-and this is where my thoughts start getting erratic) tells me to take off my pants to show him the scars, and for some reason or another I do it, and he rapes me or something?
And so sudden does the chime bell ring. It's a half day, so we're only spending about 25 minutes in each class.
I approach him and ask if we can wear track pants instead of shorts.
He smiles and says sure.
(Mentally, I am ecstatic. I'm such a headcase.)
[ latin I ]
After going through the gym, up the stairs, around the overly crowded Pit (-this takes about seven minutes due to the Slow Freshman!traffic) and down the foreign language hallway, to the right (I have a slight detour to smile and say hi to Mr. Hilliard, my old Art teacher. He has cut his hair and frankly, it looks weird.) and into my Latin classroom, it is as tiny as my friend Taylor (the one who molests me all the time :|) had told me it was.
I squeeze in, find a seat quickly, and sit down. There are wall hangings everywhere, misfit students and Freshman who had been randomly selected to be put in the class to fill it up. (No one ever wants to take Latin at Bearden unless they're a nerd like me >>;) I am holding my schedule and syllabus from my last class, a rather elaborate doodle of a SceneKid!Tayuya covering most of the page, and a boy from my bus snatches it from me.
"Is this lyke, ah-ny-may?"
God teenagers are stupid.
For those of you who have not seen my art, I do not do Anime. The only anime pics in my gallery are drawn by mujakinotsubasa and colored by me.
I kind of wanted to say something, but instead I took my schedule back from him and gave him a look that could kill. No wonder people seem to hate Freshman. Not all of them are bad, but Jesus, the bad ones give them all a bad name :|
The teacher walks in, and introduces himself as Magister Hughes. In my mind, I keep hearing "Hughes-sensei", just because I know that if I accidentally let that slip, he'd probably have a bit of a fit. He's tall, older, not that awful looking for a male teacher, and it's pretty obvious he's REALLY into Latin. The way Hannah is into Japanese. He tells us that, because of the complexity of Latin, we will only be learning how to read and write it in Latin I. However, he says, in Latins II and III, speech will be taught. He tells us we will learn a bit of Roman history, talks about, rather openly, how Latin is a language all the nerds and geeks learn, how he himself is one, and how Latin Club is cool.
Frank, a friend...ish thing of mine, is in Latin Club.
I might join.
He tells us vocabulary is imperative and index cards are awesome.
He makes the freshman identify themselves as such, just to humiliate them, and admits this. I chuckle a little, while the rest of the class guffaws.
Then, guess who walks in?
It's fuckin' DJ. He had spent the entirety of ninth grade at a Boarding school in god knows where because of his grandma, and for the first time in a year, I was spending a certain amount of time with him. More than that, I was in a class with him. I waved erratically, then promptly went back to being a little emo kid. (I must have looked so fucking weird XD)
He hands out little pieces of paper with questions on them. We read them off and he answers them. It's basically an FAQ that you need to know, but didn't know that you needed to know.
... I don't know.
The only Latin word I know by heart is "Nonipara", which means Nine. The only reason I remember it is because of district_curia , because the_lady_lamb plays Naruto there, and his Naruto crossdresses under the name Nonipara/Parapara, which is a slight reference to how he is Kyuubi, but since Naruto doesn't know this, it's more of a coincidence than anything else.
Fandom is a better teacher than Hughes-sensei will be, and I am sure of this 100%.
Once again, since it's a half day, class lets out very abruptly, and we leave as he rushes to give us our syllabuses.
I hug DJ on the way out.
I've missed him.
[ algebra I ]
Squeeze to the right, up the foreign language wing, across the pit, to the right midway, up two flights of stairs, down the left hallway until you hit the first break, forward a few steps, then to the left again. This almost takes ten minutes, once again, because of traffic, as I make my way to my Algebra class.
Timmy is there.
He was annoying in my Biology class in first semester and even more annoying in my Pre-Al class second semester, and now we're in Algebra together, first period again, and I sit two seats behind him and feel my hair. It's a wreck. Being so tightly squeezed and wearing as much black as I do makes me sweat, which curls up my hair.
I wish I had a hair brush, or the guts to ask someone for one.
I haven't spoken much all day.
(This is how I am at school.)
The classroom starts to fill. Freshman I've seen before and haven't, Sophomores I've seen before and haven't, and a pair of seniors who think they're badass because they diss people on MySpace. I couldn't not recognize them. They look just like their pictures (which I give them credit for. No photoshopping = Good.) and are loud jackasses, talking about how much they hate freshman. Rather loudly do they talk about it, scanning over the crowd and saying things similar to "Yeah, that one's a sophomore, but the rest are all freshman. This sucks."
I don't correct them. I don't feel like it. I don't feel like speaking, and I can feel my throat relaxing too much already. The way it did in my first semester of last year, when I talked to no one, no Ifs, Ands, or Buts about it. The feeling is distinct, and I clear my throat to keep it alive.
The guys stare at me, assuming I'm addressing them.
I don't glance over.
The teacher comes in, and she has a temp with her, and it's the temp who tells us the rules while the math teacher sits back and does.. math teacherly things. And by that, I mean sit on (Not at. On.) her desk and swing her feet, staring at us like a gunslinger or something. I'm uncomfortable. Every few minutes I hear "freshman" from the guys.
God they are pathetic. It's obvious what they're trying to do, and it's rather obviously working on most of the class.
Hell, it's even working on me, and I'm not a freshman. Wtfh.
Another syllabus. More directions. I'm tired and hungry and zoning out. I've seen only one of my friends all day, and I feel like hell, and my back and neck hurt from a summer of sitting at the computer at a slumped angle and then sleeping on a shitty mattress. The math room has no air conditioning, but the Latin room was so cold that I don't feel it, even in black longsleeves and black pants.
I draw more.
Timmy turns around and whispers something to make fun of me.
And for a second, the strangest thing happens. My pencil, dull as it is, suddenly feels like a weapon, and I clench it so hard that, within a matter of seconds, I can hear wood snapping, and for a second I am just so angry, so rawly furious at him, that the idea of driving the pencil into his eye is perfectly reasonable and deserved. Just for a second.
I drop the pencil and my hand shakes.
Timmy gives me a look and turns back around.
We get assigned seats alphabetically, and I'm in the back seat of the second to last row. It's awesome. She says that this will probably be our seat until the year is over. I have joy. The back of the class is where I like to sit so I can draw or read or even, on occasion, pay attention without having to hear the teacher yelling so the whole class hears. My parents always tell me Winners Sit in the Front. Which is total bullshit. The only people who are assigned to sit in the front are the ones who talk too much in class, or at least, that's how it is here :/
I sit in my seat and draw on the syllabus. (I've been drawing all day, as I do every day.) And when the bell rings, I eye my schedule, and I am suddenly tired in ways I did not figure were possible on a half day. (Perhaps it's because that, even though it is a half day, it is the end of the day, and therefor it is one's responsibility to feel a little exhausted.) Unlikely. (But I do.)
[ advanced art ]
To the left, forward, make another left, down the main stairways, past the pit, down the east mall main connecting hallway, down the English wing, to the right, into a classroom that looks much more different than my Art I classroom had. Ms. Lubienski's Advanced Art class. There is no eccentric Mr. Hilliard, there is not a number of students who really do not want to be there, in fact, there are a number of slightly familiar faces.
But I know by just looking around that I am the youngest in the class.
I sit in the table farthest away from the front, drop my stack of Syllabuses (-they are covered in doodles) on it's wooden support, and take a seat in the stool-chair. (The class is horribly off, because there is no Cassie and there is no Greg. They were my comic relief last year in Art class, and Cassie is experiencing her first day at Central High School all the way across town, and god knows where Greg is, I have no seen him all day.) It's awkward, and I sit there, mentally complementing myself for making my best time all day (-it only took six minutes) and rocking back in forth in the chair, hand lazily drawing yet another one of my versions of Tayuya.
I draw her more automatically than anything else.
A girl who used to be at my bus stop until - I assume from her sudden disappearance from it and counting up the years - she got her license, is standing there, in her tight emojeans and her scene shoes and her brown and blue hair in tiny pigtails, and her face is chalk white from when she slept with bleach soaked sponges on her face or something (-that, or she's wearing a ton of face powder.) And I do not think of her as rudely as I must sound now, I merely stare for a second, taking in her appearance before flicking to another person, a girl who was in my Creative Writing Club who used to be famous for her mohawk (she's growing it out now) and her boyfriend, and they sit at the table with me, attempting to make conversation as I tap my fingers together.
I don't acknowledge them until I utter, very quietly "-I'm a little quiet today."
She replies "Oh." and begins talking with her boyfriend, and he half listens, half stares at my drawings in awe.
I try to pretend it's not happening.
Ms. Lubienski is a young woman, thin and very pretty, something artistic about her one would be able to notice immediately, and she's utterly laid back as she discusses the syllabus, the coming research paper, and what we will be learning. I swing my feet like a child on a swing set until I am snapped out of a probably fandom revolved daydream and told to go to a certain table, my assigned table. It has been many hours since then, and I can only clearly remember one person at my table, which is justified considering I was looking so hard at the wood I could have split it in pieces with my stare. She had the kind of curly, hair-spray filled do that looks very greasy and feels very crunchy, one I have always had a distaste for among any other hairstyle, and she is loud and obnoxious and makes me shrink away more than I already am.
Next to all of these skinny, pretty girls, I feel so hideous.
(Because I know that when I don't eat, which is usually, it doesn't make a difference, which is not fair.)
The hunger I am feeling at this moment is dropping my blood sugar, and when my blood sugar drops too much I do get into a mood, and usually a mopey one at that. I sit around quietly, waiting for the bell to ring, counting the seconds until maybe I can see a friend on the way to the bus and feel ten times better.
15 seconds after twelve, the bell chimes.
[ bus ]
The first person I see walking outside toward the buses is Charlie. Adorable Charlie, who is so very very gay and sweet, and he launches himself on me and hugs me and tells me I smell good like he always does. He says I smell like this certain type of wood.. or something, and that it's my particular Morgan scent, because I do not wear perfume and I never will. :| And I hug him tight, smiling like a moron and telling him I have to go, but that we must get together as soon as humanly possible.
The next person I see is Frank.
This time, it is I who launches onto someone.
Frank is.. 6 something, 300 pounds, very nerdy, and with the deepest possible voice in the world. I adore him. And I hug him tight, one of his very few chick!friends, and promptly after seeing him do I see Greg, a friend from the 6th grade who I temporarily dated. (It wasn't dating. It was making out a lot. That's what it was. But-) Every time I think about making out, I think about how disgusting a kisser Kaleigh is. :( And I hug him too, inquiring as to where Ryan is only to find out he's on a BK Lounge escapade.
The bus pulls up, and it's bigger than usual, but with the huge Freshman class, kids in the back are standing up and the order of who sits where is disturbed by all of those who do not know where they are supposed to sit. It's mostly three to a seat, which sucks. I hate squeezing so close to people. I put in my iPod and listen, very loudly, to music to drown out the noise of everyone talking and the bus driver's yells, and after about half the bus is off, I turn down the music and begin to converse with a cute freshman with 12 ear piercings and a tongue ring. Her schedule sucks, and I give her advice, but mostly tell her how she's not going to like her freshman year much if her schedule was anything true.
After she gets off at some stop I almost fall asleep, and what keeps me awake is Frank's loud voice and the music I had turned back up after the girl left.
Eventually the bus pulls up to my stop and I'm finally home free.
First day of school :|
Mom's being a bitch again. She slapped me a couple times the other day and I didn't tell dad about it. Then today she had the guts to call me Immature. I'm getting tired of this.