The Storms Of August

Chapter Two: Honey

If I had known what I know now about what this building would lead me - no, us - to, I would have shown up with a greater line of defense as to who was inside. But instead, I walked into Anton Wellneck High School with my hood up and my backpack lazily slung over my shoulder totally unaware this would become the scene of countless crimes.

To my defense, there were no signs or indicators saying your life changes now, so how was I to know that this large maze of a school contained a beautiful hazard? The building itself was mostly made of brick and window panes. A sign of the school's name was mounted proudly on a slab of concrete at the entrance beside a little metal rectangle with the list of championships they had won. However I did not need that to know they were thriving in their division two athletics. The road to get here was occupied by fields for various sports, each and every one of them was a Kardashian. Clean, cut, groomed, and edited until they were ready for action; and then the makeup and *insert body part*jobs began another cycle. I walked through the front doors and nearly had a heart attack from what I saw. Waves upon waves of student hustled and bustled their asses through and around each other like Times Square. I understand that to many this is similar to their high school experience, but to me this was basically plucking a fish from a tank at a store, tossing it into the ocean, and saying "go on little fella'". Thankfully, the main office was right beside the doors and I could delay having to swim on my own.

I made my way over to the open glass window next to a blonde on her computer. She was a slim woman in her late forties with glasses and a preppy blonde perm aligned with dark pink lipstick and purple nails. Needless to say, this is not where she saw her future going when she attended school. After a moment of hurriedly typing, many keyboard presses being the delete button, and her lips wiggling like they were stuck together before she hiked up her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "May I help you?".

"Yeah uh," I began, "I'm starting here today".

"Name".

"August Everett".

The woman types quickly into the system and with a few clicks of the mouse has my schedule printed out and hands it to me. "Alright Ms. Everett. Your first period is with Mr. Conway. He is also your homeroom teacher. If you are late to class more than three times a quarter it will be a detention each extra occurrence. My name is Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Dixon is our guidance counselor. He will be taking you to your class and will briefly show you the ropes". Clearly, not anyone's favorite teacher.

Mr. Dixon was a shrimp of a man, tall and lanky while sporting facial hair for what he lacks in muscle. His groomed black hair was slicked back onto his head to show off is hair line and bushy eyebrows. Today he wore a suit and a broad smile that gave off the wrong vibe that he was planning to kidnap you and found it cute you didn't know it. I was to learn he wore this attire every day, no matter who he was talking to. "August, welcome to Anton Wellneck High School. My name is Mr. Dixon, it's a pleasure to meet you". He stuck out his meaty man hand out to me and I lightly shook it. I appreciated the kindness, but loudness and excessive enthusiasm is always a shock before a certain hour.

"Likewise," I said shyly, doing the thing where you try to flash a smile and you know you look more constipated than anything.

He ushered me forward and talked me through the basics as follows: As a Senior, I had to haul my ass up to the fourth floor of the building to get to class. The school had a population of about two thousand, which amounted to five hundred students per grade on average. Due to this, the administration has dedicated each floor to one class. The only community areas where the auditorium, the cafeteria, the gym, and the main office. All but the office of which were large enough to house the population of a small country. If I needed anything else just shoot down to his office or ask a friend, which he assured me I would have plenty of. My locker number is 1074. The final thing Mr. Dixon did was gently open a blue door with MR. CONWAY: HISTORY scribbled lazily on a piece of paper in thick Sharpie and taped at eye level. He opened the door like a safe, cautious not to alert any students. Until it was decided in his mind that we were not going to let the new kid sneak into the back of the classroom without a word. "Excuse me, Mr. Conway," he stated boldly.