Painting a New Path

Chapter One

My story began with an ending, like most do. The school bell pierced through the sea of anxious seventh-grade students that Friday, droning out the sound of their whispers about summer plans. I slipped my blue backpack off the back of my chair, and swung it over one shoulder, then just realizing I had not packed a rain jacket. I pushed against the current of students heading to the busses as I checked to see if I left it in my locker. It wasn't. Even the teachers had fled by the time I closed my locker door.I was left to the barren hallways and parking lot where the school bus was on its way out. I think even the teachers were as excited for summer break as we were.
I walked down the front steps of Dickinson Middle School, the rain starting to fall, melting the dirt to mud. I pictured my route home in my head. It was three blocks- three blocks in the rain. Three blocks in the rain with no jacket. I sighed, and began to walk tiredly.
My hair turned from light brown to black as the rain pounded harder. My worn black converse were painted in mud. Yellow school busses passed by me, their windows fogged up with tic-tac-toe boards etched on them, and splatters of mud hugged the tires and bottom of the bus. I waved my hands frantically, shouting in a desperate tone. I was just as noticeable as the flies on the bus driver's windshield.
I reached Sycamore Street, which is the road where all the mansions in Harborville are. Mr.Masterson also lives there. His house is the biggest.I heard the money has made him cruel, like Scrooge from the book we read in English class in December. I stare at the ground like it's the most interesting thing known to mankind, avoiding eye contact with him, while he picks up his mail.
A few papers fly out of my backpack like doves fluttering their white wings. The wind lifts them up, then lets them drop as they loop in circles. I turn around, stopping in my tracks. My hand covers my face, as I slap myself in the forehead. I reach for them, only grasping thin air. I put my backpack down in the middle of the road. They weren't just any papers, these were my drawings. I chase after them as fast as I can, the voice in the back of my head pounding my skull, telling me it's impossible.

" Miss, this is private property!" Mr. Masterson screams, the mail in his clenched fist.
" I'm sorry, it's just th-that my papers flew out of my backpack and they're part of my art project and if I lose them I'll fail, oh and please forgive me because I'm just terribly sorry," I ramble on, only partially lying about the art project part, my palms sweating, my body shaking. He groans, his grey eyes holding me.

"What she means to say is that she was just helping to clean up your beautiful lawn because some papers flew onto it. She was helping you," pleads a voice that came out of nowhere, it's owner following. I mouth the words thank you, and the lady just nods, barely noticeable.

"Uh, fine then," spits Mr.Masterson. She helps me pick up all of my papers, and when I put them back in my backpack I remember to zip it this time.

So maybe The Last Day of Prison, Also Known as School, was not going as well as I had been picturing it for the last seven years, but it was still obviously the last day. The last day of Dickinson Middle School was here,well that is unless I do not get accepted to Drumlin Academy, the private art school I am applying to.