JIM
I placed my papers on the administration desk. "Jim Moriarty, hi" I said. I knew my voice, with it's lilting tone, would stick out here in this world of perfectly pronounced English words. But hey, they already knew I was Irish, so what the heck.
The woman looked up. She glanced at the papers, and handed me a folder. "Here is your information. Have a nice day." She said. I stared at her. No "don't bully", no "don't steal, and the classic "Don't use explosives to burn down the sports hall"?
She flapped her hands at me to leave and I was already in the disorganised chaos of the hallway.
Students chattered loudly and pushed past each other, fiddling with lockers and books. A few looked at me oddly, and I suppose my neatly ironed jeans and button up shirt did look a bit odd against the teenage plumage.
I walked to what was my locker, unlocking it deftly. The person on my right chewed gum as she giggled with her friend. Irritating, that would have to change. The person on my left, however, was silently packing his books into his bag with a scowl. I saw the gleam of what could only be a gun nestled against his books, and I smiled to myself. At least the school isn't totally boring.