My First Two Days of Being A Freshmen

I’ll make a confession. I’m a freshmen this year, and it’s scary. Yeah, you adults might be rolling your eyes and going, “Shut up, you don’t have bills to pay, a boss to please, kids to raise, and laundry to wash.”

True. True. I’ll hand that to you, but a part of me really just wants to hit a fast-forward button because my first little impressions with teachers have been major flops. It’s so cringe-worthy I want to hide my head underneath my sweater like Junie B. Jones does when she has a “bad day,” with Mr. Scary. (Isn’t she supposed to be in college by now?)

I find my first period class and get on time. No issue there. The teacher goes over what lunch we’re supposed to be at, and I write down on my schedule that I’m supposed to have second lunch at one.

Second period I bomb. I sit in the wrong section of the gym with the wrong coach, so when I do finally find my coach, she purses her lips like she has something sour in her mouth. My mother makes that same face, especially when she runs into my dad’s (her ex) family at the store. Anywho, the coach tells us, “If you have any suggestions of what you would like to do in this class, feel free to say it.” Then there was that silence that breezed over the locker room, and I immediately felt chills crawl up my shoulders. Some girls began to suggest a couple of things to break the deafening silence (a stupid one said she wanted to walk because “it’s fun.”) and I blurt out, “What about yoga?” Coach’s response? “Do I look like a yoga instructor? No!” I shrugged my shoulders and kept my thoughts to myself. I mean, she said we were going to do Insanity. If we’re going to do something that vigorous, I’m assuming everyone’s up for some yoga. There are yoga classes in L.A. for toddlers! Anyone. Can. Do. Yoga. Then she mentioned P90X, which I did for a while with my sister to motivate her. I blurt out again, “Karate!” She made that sour face again. It made me think that she didn’t stick to the P90X program far enough to reach the karate DVD.

The class bursts into laughter at her sour face cue.

So I headed off to lunch, a bit bummed. I found my favorite guy friend and his accomplice (the accomplice is annoying, a tad evil, and can push more of my buttons than Katie Couric ever could on her keyboard. And somehow, I still kind of enjoy his company.) We sat in the corner. I spilt apple sauce on the accomplice by accident, which I still feel very guilty about.

The bell rings, and I dash off to World Geography Honors. The bell rings again, signaling that I’m tardy. I show up, and of course, a PowerPoint is running and everyone has miraculously found their seat in the two minutes I spent looking for the class. “I got a bit lost,” I said.
“You’re forty-five minutes late.” A classmate whispers to me after I scurry to a seat.
“What?!” I exclaimed. “I just came from lunch! You have to be joking!”
“We have second lunch,” He replied.
I closed my eyes in disbelief. I did not just skip half a class period. I went to first lunch when I should’ve headed for third period. So much for first impressions, and I wasn’t going to erase it anytime soon considering that I already fail at geography worse than Anthony Weiner does at covering up his chit-chats.
I scrambled out for air as soon as the bell rang for fourth period. I kept sensing the geography teacher’s blue eyes just lasering through me; I half-expecting him to extend his hand and throw me out of the classroom in such a manner that Darth Vader and Simon Cowell would approve of.

Fourth period went well. My stomach kept growling and my mouth kept yawning, and I was just so out of focus mode, that all I remember is that the teacher had a bad tan and her blonde hair and blue eye combination wasn’t helping.

The next day, (my school goes by block schedule. You have four classes every day, one hour and a half each.), I sat down in Geometry. I’m a bit guilty, but I thought my teacher was awfully young and kind of good-looking. He’s 29 and married. Crap. So THIS is how Jacob reacted when he realized he was marrying Rebecca’s older sister, not Rebecca herself. I LOOKED WRONG!
I, finally blessed by the idea of alphabetical seating arrangements, was assigned to sit next to my crush. I caught him looking at me once, and maybe the rest of the times were my imagination, but that kid wasn’t entirely paying attention at Mr. I’m 29 even though I look like I’m 18 years old. I don’t know if I liked it or I started getting fairly uncomfortable.
Okay. I liked it.
I ran away from the good-looking, 29-year-old, and married man and darted into Spanish 1 Honors. I never felt so bored in my life. It was like watching a thriller with your friend, but YOU ALREADY KNOW HOW IT ENDS. You have to sit there, though, and just watch you friend go, “Oh my god! What if it’s the grandfather that did it, Selma? Do you think it’s the grandfather?” And your head is screaming, “IT’S HER SISTER’S BOYFRIEND’S BROTHER THAT DID IT!”, but, to prevent your friend’s suspicion from you watching the movie before them, you say, “Right? I mean, he did say he did a lot of things he regrets in his life.”
Why did I feel like this? Because I ALREADY SPEAK SPANISH AT HOME. And the teacher obviously learned her Spanish in college. She had that influent accent to her Spanish. I was just cringing at the poor gringos that would have to learn the incorrect pronunciation to everything. I just have to sit in that class and wait for the foreign language director to hand me a Spanish placement test so I can get to where I need to be and graduate distinguished.
Which means I might have a schedule change. And then maybe I won’t have Mr. Good Looking 29-year-old and Mr. Starry Eyes in the same room at the same time. Very depressing thought, since I already have to leave Mr. Starry Eyes alone in Spanish 1 once I get my placement test. But I refuse to be that chick that hinders her future for a boy. No. No. No.
Then came the class I got ridiculed for taking: dance. I actually kind of enjoyed it. It was mostly filled with boys, surprisingly. A good third of that room were boys. I raised my eyebrows, since I was told this was going to be a “preppy girl class.” But I respect any boy for actually taking a class to learn how to properly dance with a girl and not step on her delicate little feet that are already blistering in five-inch heels. Kiddos to you.
Principle Health Science came next. It was relatively boring, and I was sat in the middle of two right-handed people. I feel really bad for the Junior next to me. I elbowed him a couple of times when I was writing (I’m left-handed.) I don’t know how he held down his Freshie insults from exploding onto me.

Now that I look back on my first two days of being a freshmen, my first day was awful. Awful awful awful. But, my second day was much of an improvement. I went to the correct lunch, I found my classes, and I didn’t hit on my good-looking 29-year-old Geometry teacher like many of the other girls resorted to. You should’ve seen their faces when he said he wasn’t 18, but 29, and had a daughter and a pregnant wife at home. I cracked up to myself, even though I fell under the same error. I never acted on it, though. Mr. Starry Eyes would probably then be Mr. Starry Eyes with Permanently Raised Eyebrows.

So tell me…. what was your experience on your first day of high school? (Trust me, I don’t judge.)


Blurring Together

Photo by Michelle Weber.

 “Delaware, wake up.. We’ve got to get going.” 
 Delaware moaned and hid her head underneath the covers. It was her father’s voice that woke her up every morning for the past eight years. Many thought that she had her father home when she told them this, when in reality, his calls ceased to ring through the house as time went on. 
 She remembered that day where she wore her Hello Kitty pants, which she wore everywhere she went until Mama would chase her throughout the house with a laundry basket bouncing at her hip. Her parents took her to an ice cream parlor with smiles on their faces. 
 Their smiles were different that day. They stretched over their teeth forcibly, like a slinky straightened to its’ limits. She asked for two scoops, waiting for a pinch on her shoulder to just get one. It never came. She pointed excitedly to the gummy bears in the corner, and when the cashier asked if she wanted anything else, her parents displayed blank faces. Delaware decided to risk another pinch by saying yes and pointing to the cheesecake bits. The pinch never came. 
 She sat down across from her parents. “Where’s your ice cream, Mama?” She asked. 
 “Delaware, we have to tell you something.” Mama told her before hesitating and glancing at Dad. 
 “Your mother and I decided to split.” Dad said. 
 “Your mother and I?” Mama snapped. “Excuse me, but I wasn’t the one who got ‘bored’ on a Saturday night-” 
 “You left me first, Emmy!” Dad snapped. “You and your pathetic boss!” 
 “Oh, really? Who was the one who got caught with-” 
 “You’re not as innocent as you think you are! I bet Delaware isn’t even mine!” 
 “She is too! Do you really think I fabricated the results?” 
 “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Dad snapped right back. 
 They were yelling again. Delaware’s appetite for the two scoops of ice cream diminished. The smiling gummy bears seemed to taunt her with their happiness and her lack of it. 
 She slowly stood up and made sure to not let the bell at the door clank scandalously. Outside, a rusting carousel invited her to sit down next to its’ children. She leaned against a fleeting white horse and sighed.
  Splitting up. Again. For the third time in her life. She already knew how it was going to happen. She would go from house to house, car to car, and every time, Mama would have a message to pass on to Dad, and Dad would have a nasty reply to send back to Mama. They would sneer at each other when they had to pass her back and forth like a football. 
 But just like the carousel, the world kept spinning. Time kept going. Life passed along at its’ own place. The animal you’re on may seem stuck to the ground, but everything around you keeps spinning and spinning, changing and blurring together, until one day, it stops. Your ride on life is over. It’s time for you to step off and let a young, wide-eyed child take your seat on the carousel. You’ll lay your head on a soft pillow, and give watch the child spin until the warm darkness blinds you and the silence of the coffin deafens your ears. And the carousel, the world, and life will continue to spin on. May Delaware rest in peace, and never have to wake up and hear her father’s voice inside her head ever again.

I Wish You 72 Days of Happiness, Baby North West

  Right now it is Monday, August 19th, 2013, 11:35 a.m. I call this the first day of the rest of my life. I already made some drastic changes, but there’s something in the distance that makes me want to change. 
  Whatever. I’m supposed to be reading Isaac’s Storm to be able to get into English Honors. I don’t really feel like reading, but I know I have to get to it. I’m putting it off like God is with Armageddon. I know I’ll do it. Eventually. Sometimes I pray to Him to just make the world end before my mom realizes I came home way past my curfew. I think He assigned a cupid to listen to me. Stupid cupid. It doesn’t deliver my message. 
 Don’t you ever wonder what God thinks when He sees humans being stupid? I bet He was cringing when Kim Kardashian was leaning over a toilet puking out her silicon-filled butt. “Kanye! I’m pregnant!” Oh crap, here comes another one…
 I’m fine with babies coming into the world, but I’m against idiots having kids. I mean, Kim Kardashian having a kid? Is she going to get rid of this one after 72 days also? 
 Poor child. That poor child will be friends with Michael Jackson’s doctor by the time she’s two, popping pills into her mouth when Kim starts calling out for her to come eat dinner. I wish you 72 days of happiness and glee, Baby North West. Everything goes under after 72 days. Just ask Kris Humphries.