Pressures on my Head

      As soon as I’m about to reach destination math class, a big eleventh grader bumps into me, knocking me onto the dirty and disgusting grey hallway floor.  Jeez, as a ninth grader you have no status in high school.  Oh man, I hope no one noticed.

     “Oh, sorry ‘bout that,” he says in a deep voice.  He fixes his navy blue sweater and just walks away, stepping on my foot as he leaves.  Great, there goes my favourite pair of black converse.

     I stand up and straighten out the wrinkles on my Michael Kors jean skirt.  I do the same for my white blouse and navy blue cover-up.  In Beethoven High School, they make you wear school uniforms.  So instead of wearing the polyester clothes they give you, I bought my own uniform to make it totally uniform chic.

     I keep on walking trying to avoid any and all distractions.  I need to get to math class on time.  You see, the thing is I have study hall right before my math period.  The problem is that my study hall is all the way across the entire school!  Trust me; Beethoven High School is pretty big, especially when you are going against traffic. 

     This is the second week of the school year, and not have I once been to math class on time!  I tried talking to the secretary about my dilemma hoping that she would adjust my schedule, but she only cared about filing her nails and talking on the phone with either her boyfriend or husband.

     Suddenly, the tardy bell rings.  That means anyone who is in class after the tardy bell, well, get’s a tardy. 

     My math teacher, Mr. Brooke, is really mean. When someone is tardy in his class, it means an automatic demerit of three percent (totally unfair, right?).  The only people out in the hallways at this time are the bad kids who don’t really care about grades.  I care about grades!  I’m not planning to be one of the scruffy, old lady’s that are desperate for a job.  If I did become one, my parents would kill me.

     I finally reach my math class.  As soon as I open the door, everybody stares at me.

     “Ms. Graham, that’s another deduction of three percent,” he tells me as I sit down in the only empty seat in the class; front and centre (which is the wobbly desk no one wants to sit at).  He says the same thing every time I see him.  Technically, the only time I see him is in his classroom, so that’s what he says to me all the time.  Seeing him at the mall or something would just be disturbing.

     “I know Mr. Brooke,” I respond annoyed.       

     Mr. Brooke scratches his grey beard- it makes an itch noise.  He’s a pretty old man in his fifties, and he’s balding- except for his itchy beard that he scratches all the time.  I also know he’s old because he wears clothes that were meant to be worn in the 1970’s.  No one except old people still wear those kinds of clothes.  “Before you interrupted Ms. Graham, we were talking about the periodic table,” he says taking a piece of white chalk and writing a bunch of symbols on the chalkboard.

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     At the end of the day, I’m always at my locker putting my books away.  The loud chattering of the other students in the hallway always makes me feel a little annoyed.  In middle school, I had plenty of friends, but when it came to high school, they all went to another school.  I haven’t made any friends here for two reasons: 1. it’s only the second week since school started, and 2. I’m not exactly what you would call “popular”.  I’m genetically short for my age, so all the kids my age are way taller than me.  Also, I’m the kind of dork that tries too hard to get good marks.

     I grab my purple backpack and I sling it over my shoulder.  I shut my locker closed and head for the doors that lead to the outside of the noisy hallways.