Roses in her hands

September

Yo, why's my old man so uptight about me hanging out with my SM? Like, dude. I just wanna finish growing up, only I wanna do it with her.

-Frustrated teen, Facebook

I haven't met anyone that I like, so far. I don't have any friends. Except for the ones back in Texas, like Danny. I still talk to them on this app for gamers called Discord. It's really cool because it has this thing called a voice channel where you can talk to one another like a phone call except your voice doesn't sound different.

The school I go to is Called Marshfield Senior High, and you can see it pretty much from any place where there's a clear view, meaning that there's no trees or buildings to get in the way. And it's not hard to spot, what with it being on top of a really huge hill, and it shines a bright off-white in the sunlight.

And then of course they have seven different buildings; the main building, the main gym, across from the main building is where the boys' locker room is, a tall three story that they call Pirate Hall (because they're the Marshfield Pirates) at the slope of the hill, a drama lounge, a woodshop, Pirate Radio, and the West Gym where the girls' locker room is.

And then there's a staircase made of stone and metal with wooden railings that lead down to the football stadium where the grass is actually plastic turf, and a separate building called Harding. Then there's the baseball field below Harding.

Yeah. Pretty easy to get lost if you're new and don't have any friends to show you around. I've made it to my first three classes fairly easy, though, so I think I should be okay.

There's a lot of stairs at this school. Three floors in Pirate, three sets of stairs for each side. Stairs leading to the West Gym, and at least seven main stairwells just in the main building. I overheard the conversation of two new underclassmen on the subject of stairs, actually.

"You wanna know what one of my teachers told our class about the stairs here?"

"Sure, what?"

"They said, 'If you don't lose weight or gain leg muscle in all of your time here going up and down those stairs, you're doing something wrong.'"

I guess that pretty much explains the stair thing. I know my calves burn every time I walk up the stairs.

Let's see. Fourth hour-College Prep English 11 with Mr. Paris in the main building. Top floor.

This could be interesting.

I walk into the classroom and there are about five or six tables along the edge of the room, with two tables pushed together to make a bigger one in the center. Everybody is sitting down and talking, or just coming in, like me. I sit by myself at a table closest to the door and wait for class to start.

The late bell rings and Mr. Paris stands up. He's rather tall, kinda slim with silver jaw length hair and oval glasses perched on his nose. He wears a black button up shirt and jeans with a plain black belt. The whole class quiets almost instantly without him having to say a word.

Must be one of those teachers. You know, the kind that everybody is afraid of and respects, even if they don't like them.

"Alright, we have a seating chart," he says and rolls his eyes at the groans of dismay that follow. "Stand up and wait for me to assign you to your seat."

"A seating chart?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"It's the first day!"

"Only Mr. Paris has a seating chart on the first damn day of school."

"Hush," Paris barks. "You sit where I say, Mr. Reeves," a pointed glance at a tall kid with a red mohawk. "And if you don't like it, go file a complaint."