Middle School: The Worst Years Of My Life

Chapter 2: The Middle School/Max Security Prison

-Rafe's P.O.V-

Okay, so imagine the day your great-great-grandmother was born. Got it? Now go back another hundred years or so. And then another hundred. That's about when they built Hills Village Middle School. Of course, I think it was a prison for Pilgrims back then, but not too much has changed. Now it's a prison for sixth, seventh, and eighth graders.

I've seen enough movies that I know when you first get to prison, you basically have two choices: (1) Pound the living daylights out of someone so that everyone else will you're insane and stay out of your way, or (2) keep your head down, try to blend in, and don't get on anyone's bad side. You've already seen what I look like, so you can probably guess which one I chose. As soon as I get to homeroom, I went straight for the back row and sat as far from the teachers desk as possible.

There was just one problem with that plan, and his name was Miller. Miller the Killer, to be exact. It's impossible to stay off this kids bad side, because it's the only one he's got.

But I didn't know any of that yet.

"Sitting in the back, huh?" he said.

"Yeah," I told him.

"Are you one of those troublemakers or something?" he said. I just shrugged. "I don't know. Not really."

"'Cause this is where all the juices sit," he said and took a step closer. "In fact, your in my seat."

"I don't see your name on it." I told him, and I was starting to think maybe that was the wrong thing to say when Miller put one of his XXXL paws around my neck and started lifting me like a hundred-pound dumbbell.

I usually like to keep my head attached to my body, so I went ahead and stood up like be wanted me to. "Let's try that again," he said. "This is my seat. Understand?"

I understood, all right. I'd been in sixth grade for about four and a half minutes, and I already had a fluorescent orange target on my back. So much for blending in.

And don't get me wrong. I'm not a total whimp. Give me a few more chapters, and I'll show you what I'm capable of. In the meantime, though, I decided to move to the other part of the room. Like maybe somewhere a little less hazardous to my health.

But then, when I went to sit down again, Miller called over. "Uh-huh," he said. "That one's mine too."

Can you see where this is going?

By the time our homeroom teacher, Mr. Rourke, rolled in, I was just standing there wondering what it might be like to spend the next nine months without sitting down.

Rourkek looked over the top of his glasses at me.

"Excuse me, Mr. khatch... Khatch-a... Khatch-a-dor-"

"Khatchadorian." I told him.

"Gesundheit!" someone shouted, and the entire class started laughing.

"Quiet!" Mr. Rourke snapped as he checked his attendance book for my name. "And how are you today, Rafe?" he said, smiling like there were cookies on the way. "Fine, thanks." I answered.

"Do you find our seating uncomfortable?" He asked me. "Not exactly," I said, because I couldn't really go into details.

"Then SIT. DOWN. NOW!"

Unlike Miller the Killer, Mr. Rourke definitely has two sides, and I'd already met both of them.

Since nobody else was stupid enough to sit right infront of Miller, that was the only seat left in the room.

And because I'm the world's biggest idiot sometimes, I didn't look back when I went to sit in my chair. Which is why I hit the first as I went down-all the way down-to the floor.

The good news? Given the way things had started off, I figured middle school could only get better from here.

The bad news? I was wrong about the good news.

* * *

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