Leblouche's diary

3. Back to school (1)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: When Leblouche reads a paragraph from the journal, the text will be in italics, but when someone interacts within a narration from the journal's paragraph, the text will be in normal text.

The handwriting, despite its apparent age, was remarkably legible. I immersed myself in the written words with growing curiosity, discovering a glimpse of the past.

"Dear journal,

Today marked the end of the summer holidays, since it was back-to-school day. I still had a good day, but my nose could still smell the sea and the sand, not notebooks and books. Memories of the long summer break were still spinning in my head as I passed through the gates of our school." I read.

As I read this paragraph, my brain suddenly projected vague memories of summers I had spent back in middle school. Through this account, I also imagined my first day back in fifth grade.

I can't say I was complaining—I was excited about the idea of seeing my old friends again and meeting new classmates...

"Well, if it isn't the great Laurent!" I exclaimed when I spotted my childhood friend Laurent in the schoolyard.

"Hey Leblouche, it's been ages!" he greeted me warmly, before pulling me into a hug.

"So, how were your holidays in Martinique? I thought you were going to stay there forever," I replied with a hint of teasing.

"Disappearing for three months doesn't mean I planned to stay there for eternity. I mean, it was about... 45 degrees over there. Do you really think I could've survived?" he answered with a grin.

I was now entering fifth grade—just one small step higher to reach my floor—and I hoped the atmosphere would be more mature, maybe even more serious.

The morning went by calmly. As tradition dictated, we started the school year with the famous speeches from the principals. We endured the one from elementary school, middle school, high school... even the supervisors had their little speeches. Since kindergarten, I was used to it, but seriously... listening to people talk for almost an hour at eight in the morning, when you've barely opened your eyes, is exhausting.

I could only relate to what my younger self was thinking as I read the last line.

"...And that is why we encourage you to give the best of yourselves in your studies, whether you're in an exam year or not!" declared Mr. Picota, the head supervisor of the middle school, during his speech.

"Pff... how much longer until we can go to class?" I sighed impatiently.

"There's just him left, and then we're free. Be patient," Laurent replied jokingly.

Then we headed toward the buildings—each grade level went to its own building—and Laurent and I made our way to ours. On the ground floor, we stood glued for a few minutes in front of the large board where announcements were posted, but in reality, we were looking at this year's class lists, to see if we'd still be together.

"Normally, you're in 8th-1, so I should be too," Laurent said as we scanned the list together.

"Ah! There you are—I found you! We're even in the same class!" I exclaimed after spotting his name.

"Well, great then—the unbeatable duo isn't about to be split up!" he replied, giving me a fist bump.

The bell rang.

Our first class of the day—and of the year—was with Mr. Duclos, our French teacher. I'd had him the previous year, and it looked like he'd been promoted. He deserved it; he was one of the teachers I respected the most, thanks to his calm yet charming personality.

"All right, young people, choose your seats. Class is about to begin," Mr. Duclos announced. "Let's start with introductions. I'm Mr. Duclos, your homeroom and French teacher. I see more familiar faces here than new ones."

"He's not wrong—it's practically the same class as the year before last," I whispered to Laurent.

"I'm warning you now that this year will be serious, like all the others, of course. You only have one year left before taking the famous brevet, so get ready!" he lectured us.

The French class turned out to be cooler than expected. It seemed that Mr. Duclos had slightly changed his teaching style while keeping his usual sense of humor. As a result, the atmosphere was very calm, and everyone liked him.

"Mr. Duclos was really a good teacher. I still wonder why he changed schools, and whether he's still teaching..." I thought to myself.

I had learned back in middle school that, for unknown reasons, Mr. Duclos had left his position after fifteen years of service with us, without retiring, to move to another school.

Out of curiosity, I checked the time on my phone lying on the floor. It read:

"7 p.m.!? Already? So just turning a few pages took me all that time?" I exclaimed, shocked.

I had been so absorbed in reading my journal that I hadn't noticed the minutes passing—nor had I even put away the rest of the odds and ends from the destroyed box I had dropped earlier.

"Well, I'll have to continue reading later. I'm really exhausted," I said tiredly.

I picked up the remaining items, then headed to the kitchen to prepare a nice meal, reflecting on the past while getting ready to return to the present.

To be continued...