Morning musings. New stuff is about to happen. New school. New... me? No one cares, I know... no one's reading this. I'll look back years from now, amazed at how much of a dimwit I still was in my last year of high school. (Valuable).
It isn't clear to me when exactly Mom stopped looking at me like I was special. But it's been on my mind lately. It might have been a few months after my eleventh birthday when, out of boredom, I ripped all the shingles off of our garage roof; she called me a "budding little criminal" upon discovery. Or maybe it was years later, when she found dirty pictures on my laptop and proceeded to educate me on the inherent sexism of pornography.
It also could have been more of a gradual shift in perception. After being the king of elementary school, I slid into questionable grades, insecurity and social anxiety, stopped hanging out with friends (who eventually lost interest in me); the sports I used to play no longer seemed fun; doing my homework felt like an impossible waste of time. Halfway through Grade Ten, I was spending most of my time alone and barely passing my classes. I understand not everyone's special, but not being the best anymore felt like being the worst.
I don't like feeling like a burden to her, so I try to make myself invisible when she's around: keep my head down and go up to my room as soon as I get home from school. If she catches me in a bad mood in the morning, asks questions I don't feel like answering, I raise my voice at her. Then I feel guilty about it all day; wish I could just go back in time and react calmly.
I think she might be scared of me.
Maybe she doesn't think I'm special anymore, but she still pays attention. At the end of the school year, she asked if I wanted to try switching schools. She could tell something was off. I said "Sure, ma! New school, hurrah!" Something like that. Loads of enthusiasm. I didn't know where to go, but she had a place in mind, somewhere a friend of hers had recommended: a smaller, more student-focused spot where kids who were different, who didn't fit into normal schools, could flourish. This was apparently called an alternative school.
Alternative to what? To NORMAL FRIGGIN' SCHOOL, that's what. The alternative to being normal and accepted and on the right track. Stuff like that.
After my super-privileged, undeserved annual summer vacation in Cape Cod, I get treated to back-to-school clothes and a haircut. Nobody knows me at this new school so I feel like I can be whatever I want. Maybe I can be tough. Wise. A tough, wise guy—a hand in organized crime.
My hair's short and clean; I have a crisp, white t-shirt, a black bomber jacket, fresh corduroy pants, and a backpack full of new notebooks and pencils. Ready to learn. Ready to engage. Ready to leave behind my dreary, depressed self who didn't go to parties, or talk to girls, or pay attention in class (or anywhere).
Get. Ready. World. (For another dumb teenager).
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Alternative
Teen FictionTim's public high school experience thus far has been characterized by bad grades and the total absence of a social life; he's listless and needs a change. So, after grade eleven ends, his mom decides to enrol him in a bizarre, little alternative sc...
