Just One Voice

•Missing Him•

~1~

I catch myself subconsciously holding my breath as I wait. I know that I can't be the only one staring down the clock, counting each and every second as it painfully trudges past. The whole atmosphere seems as though it's fallen into a syrupy slow-motion. I subtly run my tongue over my lips, snagging a flake of dry skin and wishing desperately that I had chapstick. I could focus on anything at the moment besides the one thing I'm actually supposed to be accomplishing.

Three twenty-nine in the afternoon. Only one minute remaining, only sixty more sluggish seconds, until freedom is granted for us all. Until they let us out of this prison of a place, the very location where dreams are sacrificed in order to make room for algebra homework, people climb social ladders instead of Mt. Everest, and innocence is traded like playing cards for the mere excitement of it.

An overdramatized description for the living hell we know as high school? I think not.

Not that I am in any form against learning. No. In fact, I claim quite the opposite opinion. I just believe that the process of learning could be refigured, and better catered to each different individual. Everyone learns in different ways. So in reality, I don't dislike school, I just hate the concept of going to school.

Though I'll have to admit, as I sit here in my assigned desk of Comm 2, my last period of the school day, something pricks my at my emotions. Today could figuratively be my very last day at Manhattan's ordinary Eastman High. Not that I really believe it will end up coming to that, but there's a small chance that ignites a flame of sadness in the pit of my stomach.

Why? I couldn't explain even if I tried. I am undoubtedly sick of this place. Sick of the stress and sick of the judgement for being stressed. Above all else, I am sick of the label that I didn't create for myself, but have to wear every single day. In my imagination it is some sort of a gaudy crown stapled to my head, encrusted with blinding jewels that scream "rich girl" to everyone within the vicinity of five miles. I'm honestly just your average teenager, trying to somehow get past my awkward shyness and insecurities too. But is that how people choose to look at me? No, and I absolutely hate it.

So what if my mother is somewhat of a billionaire, minor detail.

Despite all of that, my silly brain plays pretend for a moment, accepting the fact that this could still be the last time I find myself in the classroom. I quickly begin absorbing small details that I hadn't paid much attention to in a long while. I read over the quotes on the white walls, and listen to the rhythmic tapping of uneven desk legs balancing out as students shift in their seats. The old, dirt-coated clock perched on the center wall has been an easy cushion for my eyes as I had waited for permission to leave each day. Yet I suppose I have never really closely studied the details engraved into its aged wooden frame.

This sentimental pondering is pierced when the glorious ring of the school's bell hits my eardrums. Chaos immediately fills the air and consumes my wandering thoughts. I can almost instantly feel the nerves relaxing and the minds freeing themselves from all responsibility for the school year.

Students make their way out of the classroom in record time, loudly chatting and laughing in almost an ecstatic sing-song melody as they go along. I gather my belongings more slowly, not in any kind of rush. Though even I can agree, summer is way over due.

I did it—I, Brooklynn Hope, survived my sophomore year. To even my dismay, I've now completed half of my highschool career. Crazy how fast it goes by, huh? One second you are an idiotic kid, making random irrelevant choices a day at a time. Which is great and all, until the moment when all those choices meet, intersecting and sculpting your future.