It is September the tenth, the first day of school at Scarsdale High. The school day will commence at eight-twenty; it is now eight-thirteen. The clock is ticking swiftly, and with students scattered across the lawn and hallways, Mark Cohen is overwhelmed. He is one of many incoming freshman, lost and confused in this new place.
If anyone cared about rules at Scarsdale High, Mark would not have this problem. Last year, when he was in eighth grade, a group of students from the high school came and spoke to his class about a big brothers/big sisters program instated in Scarsdale High School. Each sophomore was to "sponsor" an incoming freshman. That meant that they were to arrange a meeting prior to the beginning of school on the first day, meet up between classes, and become best friends.
Unfortunately for Mark, who had thanked his lucky stars upon hearing about this program, nobody cares about the big brothers/big sisters program at Scarsdale High. At least, not the students. And so, Mark's sponsor, whose name he has forgotten and who failed to communicate with Mark as he was supposed to, has yet to make himself known to Mark. For all Mark knows, he might not even exist.
Alone, standing hesitantly on this new lawn, Mark cannot help but notice the many cigarette butts stamped into the ground. A student not too far away from him has a cigarette in her mouth, and is laughing, blowing smoke out into the air. Mark recoils. His parents have always preached against the dangers of smoking, and have assured Mark that if smoke ever comes out of his mouth, the same orifice will be sanitized – with soap.
Not knowing what else to do, Mark takes his first few steps toward the front door. As he hesitantly moves his leg, Mark is knocked off-course by another person, a boy, stronger and taller than he.
"Sorry," Mark mumbles, well aware that he is clumsy and that this was probably his fault. But the boy only laughs.
"My bad," he assures Mark, and offers an arm to the other boy to help him up.
Mark, startled, considers taking the proffered hand when he hears a bellowed name. "Roger!" someone howls from the distance. It is a boy with a football, and Mark makes the connection: obviously, this boy standing next to him is Roger, and he ran into Mark because he was trying to catch the football. Feeling rather pleased with himself for having surmised this, Mark decides to stop acting like an idiot and take Roger's hand already.
When he reaches up, however, the other boy is already gone, scampering back to meet his friends.
Mark sighs.
Curious, his eyes follow the boy who was just so close to him. He looks him up and down, taking in Roger's long blond hair and tall, athletic frame. He walks and is dressed with confidence, wearing beat-up sneakers that Mark would never dare wear in public for fear of being insulted. He does not walk; he saunters, his pace leisurely, as he presumably knows that people will wait for him, and he is young, and has all the time in the world. Even younger though Mark may be, he walks briskly, never wanting to be left behind.
There's no time to stare at people, Mark tells himself harshly, and he forces himself to walk away, adjusting his glasses with one hand, picking at his chapped lips with the other. He is nearly at the door when he spots a pair of teenagers, two or three years older than he is, pressed against the wall. It does not take Mark very long to figure out that their lips are on one another's for a reason, and with averted eyes, he continues walking. He has no interest in their love affairs, and reminds himself that he is here to learn, not to involve himself in drama. Friendships, interests, and even potential romance (he scoffs at the very thought) will take a backseat to his studies, and from here on in, he will no longer care what is going on outside of his classroom. These are the firm resolutions Mark makes to himself as he joins the crowd surrounding the front door.
"What time is it?" he hears someone ask.
The response from another student is "Eight-nineteen."
As if on cue, a loud buzzing noise sounds; Mark recognizes it as the bell, something that never existed in middle school but was certainly discussed when students listed the things that would make high school "sophisticated." He cannot see what is so sophisticated about this dull, repulsive sound, infiltrating his ears and threatening to add to the possibility of his developing a migraine. (Prone to headaches, Mark has a "migraine-o-meter in his head, and spends time considering whether or not a headache will come of any particular activity.)
The students begin to flow into the school, and Mark feels like a fish walking straight into the mouth of a hungry shark. He knows that this is suicide, is absurd, is a sure way to get him miserable in only – how long is the school day? Seven hours. But still, he walks, robotically, his feet moving before his brain can instruct that he do anything to the contrary.
Once inside the building, Mark thanks everything under the sun that he took the time to memorize the first room number his schedule lists that he go to. Monday, first period – English for grade eleven, since Mark is one of the rare students with enough proficiency in English to be permitted to take the class on a more advanced grade level. He shudders at the thought of what the other juniors' reactions will be upon discovering that their class is being infiltrated by a lowly freshman, a nerdy boy with glasses and button-down shirts.
The room number is three-oh-nine. He finds it without much difficulty; there are students behind him and to his left and right that move through the halls expertly, trained from their previous years in this school already. Mark merely glides along with them, eternally grateful for the fact that he has always been a fast walker. He is certain that, were he to walk more slowly, he would be trampled.
That would definitely not be an ideal way to begin his high school career.
As he comes to a halt inside the classroom, Mark looks around. Students lounge around the room, their bags and feet resting on desks, eagerly chattering. Mark quietly settles down at a chair near the back, pulls a book from his backpack (Fahrenheit 451, his absolute favorite book of all time), and begins to read.
Three minutes pass.
After those three minutes, just as Montag and Clarisse between the pages of the novel are starting to talk to each other, the class is called to attention. "Assigned seats," the teacher drones, and every student in the class simultaneously gets to his or her feet and begins shuffling to the nearest wall. Mark follows suit, feeling very lost and small. As he gets up to do this, the door swings open, and a boy walks in, accompanied by a girl immediately behind him.
Mark flinches.
Of course, fate would have it that Roger walks into the room.
"Roger," clucks the teacher. "Late."
Roger laughs. "By some standards," he cackles. "But why not address my peer?" he adds, gesturing at the student standing behind him. "Mo was late too."
"But I don't know their names," the teacher points out. "Now. As for your seats, students," she adds, addressing the entire class, "you will be seated alphabetically, according to your last names." She points at the first desk first and begins rattling off names, from Adams to Brooks. After those five names, she points at the first desk in the second row and declares, "Cohen. Welcome to eleventh grade English, freshman."
The class buzzes, and Mark, staring at his feet, walks to the seat in question. As he sits down, the teacher calls, "Davis," and the seat next to Mark is filled by none other than Roger.
Mark whimpers quietly, and Roger jerks his head up to look at his seatmate. The two desks are pushed together, as are the rest of the desks in the room; every two desks are shoved against each other, thus establishing pairs for any partner work that might be assigned in class. "You're a freshman," Roger declares flatly. "Why are you in this class?"
With a shrug, Mark mumbles, "I'm an okay writer."
"You're a freshman," Roger repeats. "That means you're in a class two grades higher than yours. You're obviously a pretty good one."
Again, Mark shrugs. "Not that good."
"Well, neither am I," Roger laughs, and to Mark it sounds like Roger is subtly trying to order him to do all his homework for the rest of the year. He sighs. It isn't as though he hasn't been asked this before, so Mark shrugs and mumbles some sort of assent. Roger looks at him oddly for a moment, then turns away, glancing two rows back to mouth something to his friend Maureen, who is sandwiched between a boy and girl that Mark saw kissing earlier. He shudders. That would be an awkward seating arrangement.
"Hey," says Roger, nudging Mark.
Mark looks up. "Yeah?"
Roger grins wickedly, holding up a folded piece of paper. "Pass this to Maureen?"
With nothing else to do, Mark does, and looks back to Roger for some sort of approval. He doesn't even know why he is doing it, just that he desperately craves Roger's attention. But all he sees in Roger's eyes is laughter, a smile tickling at his lips as he cranes his neck backwards to meet Maureen's eyes.
Mark wonders what his life would be like had he been born a girl.
With that alarming thought in his head, he hastily pulls out his book and begins rifling through the pages, perusing a passage in which he can lose himself so that he does not do the same in his own thoughts.
