Alexander Hamilton
Alexander Hamilton is not known for his sentimental thoughts. At least I hope I'm not, but honestly, what do I know about myself anymore? When could I ever have predicted that I would call myself an American despite having neither a green card nor a clue? But here I am, standing tall at the entrance to my new high school, marveling in its prestige. Yes, it is just another New Jersey high school, but it is my New Jersey high school. My cafeteria, my rambling teachers, my stereotypical high school drama. If that even happens in real life, which I doubt. Nevertheless, high school is my opportunity to prove myself even before the trials of college. I resolve to myself, eyes squeezed shut to halfway shield me from the busy atmosphere, that my last two years at high school will not go to waste.
The first thing I notice about the school is its smell. Goddamn, I'm sounding more and more like a fucking children's novel every day. Well, not quite the smell as much as my hunger for what's being cooked. The mini pancakes covered with sugary syrup are nothing like my late mother´s Caribbean meals, but they send a delightful smell wafting throughout the school this morning. Fingers clutching the strap of my messenger bag, I stare out into the abyss of chaos. It's a boarding school, not a public school, but the students seem to be held to no standards.
I don't really know what I was expecting. I wasn't left much time to imagine the first day between a flight to New York and then to New Jersey, so the school climate is entirely new to me. There are teenagers with colored hair, bad acne, and even a few, both male and female, who look like they belong in an Urban Outfitters ad more than a school. There are bodies streaming in from the doors all around me - some carrying books, some with fingers wrapped around handles of suitcases, and others somehow balancing enormous stacks of papers. If you look past the fist-bumps, massive groups of teen girls with long hair, and football jerseys, it would seem like a prestigious academy. I speculate that must say something significant about the workload, which would be a total letdown for most people, but I've been through tough shit.
I gingerly make my way from the front doors to the freshly waxed door of the main office. Yes, it is the first day of school for everyone, but I am starting in a school I have never been to before in a country I've never even lived in for more than a week. What a fucking recipe for disaster.
"Excuse me, Mrs…" I glance down at her green and tan laminated name tag. "Langdon?"
She looks up to shoot me a cold stare, leaving me wondering if her pet hamster drowned or if the coffee in the staff lounge was just especially bitter. Which gets me thinking about how she seems like the kind of person who would either drink coffee really sour and disgusting or super creamy and sugary. There is no in between. I imagine that my face must be mirroring my thoughtfulness or amusement because suddenly she's clearing her throat.
"Is there something you need, young man?"
"Yes, actually. I'm a new student here… Alexander Hamilton. I need my schedule."
Her scowl grows, but she leans over to print something and less than a minute later hands me a piece of paper. I give up on deciphering the room numbers after a moment, so I study the subjects and teachers' names. French first with Madame Bernard, followed by Biology and then Statistics. That's quite enough for my brain to handle during these first few hours of the school day. After that is lunch, also known as hellhole on earth, where clearly labeled cliques assemble at long plastic tables while they participate in their designated activity. Or so I heard from the Mean Girls movie I watched on the way to New Jersey.
I am able to exit the main office before Mrs. Bitter Coffee gets too pissed at me, find my French classroom, and take a seat in the middle of the room all before the bell rings. It's an accomplishment I would celebrate with a high-five with my tall, tan, muscular best friend who wears a T-shirt that advertises his summer break. That is, if I had such a best friend. I do not have any friends. None.
As one could infer from my friendless situation, I scan the room, evaluating each student. The first one that catches my eye is a long-legged, giggling African American girl. She seems to be the tallest girl in the class, and if she weren't wearing an olive green dress, I could vividly imagine her shooting a basketball into a hoop. She has her backside delicately perched on the edge of a chair as she chats animatedly with her friends. My eyes linger on her dimpled face for a moment before scouring the room once more for someone more remarkable. A male student with roughly the body type of a football player inches his fingers onto the desk of the person next to him, who smugly smirks at the teacher. The proud boy notices the fingers inhabiting his desk and glances up at their owner, whose eyes dart around once they make contact with his classmate's.
The second bell rings just as the teacher begins to speak, and she raises her voice above it instead of pausing. She speaks French quickly, informally, and without very good diction. I am able to pick up some words from her monologue, but other than the smug boy, the entire class seems fucking baffled. This is an 11th-grade class; you'd assume the students would have some understanding of the language. Apparently, in the United States of America, education starts from scratch every year.
John Laurens
From every high school movie I have seen, the teen narrating made it out to be living hell. Everything from "Clueless" to "Heathers" highlights the drama and stress and hormones raging out of control. They are all stories of girls trying to make each other's lives hell while all the miserable victim wants is love. Movies like this are horribly stereotyped and entirely untrue, at least to the best of my limited knowledge. But walking up the marble steps to the iron door of my boarding school, I reflect back on the movies. My mind conjures up the worst case scenarios: derogatory terms and foul language scrawled on the bathroom walls, teachers loading hours of homework on the first day, and shameless bullying throughout. I press my headphones closer and walk through the heavy doors.
French class is a madhouse. I recognize most of the faces from last year but either no one remembers me, or they don't care enough to take pity on the boy sitting alone at the back of the class. A tall girl in an olive green dress giggles with her friends and casts longing glances toward the door. Two boys suspiciously survey teens sitting in molded plastic chairs. A boy sitting close to the front stairs smugly at the teacher with a look on his face that makes me want to strut over and slap the smirk away. All of them I know but I can't place a name to.
The teacher clears her throat and raises her lilting voice over the announcements. I notice the tall girl straining to make out the crackling words and another brown haired boy blatantly ignoring them. The smug boy is still smirking. French has never been my best subject and it's a struggle to translate the monologue into something I can understand. Most students look hopelessly lost and their faces must reflect the confusion mirrored on my own. Madame Bernard looks at us expectantly and the smug boy's hand goes flying into the air. She waves him away and the crestfallen boy slumps back into his seat. She speaks again, in English this time.
"Get with a partner, before we continue." She sounds bored, and rightfully. I pity her if she has to deal with classes as shitty as us all day. It seems that the only student who had any idea what she is saying was the smug boy in front. He has a look on his face that plainly said, 'I don't need to be in this class but I am anyways' Friends begin to find each other and drift away from their mock-wooden desks. Two girls on the other side of the room squeal and clasp hands. And I find myself drifting as well. I did make friends last year, a few at least. But Hercules is already chatting with the smug boy and has a grin comparable only to the Cheshire Cat on his face. I approach a boy standing alone by a pair of kids looking longingly at them. His hair is long, almost shoulder length, and drawn back in a ponytail. I stand behind him for a moment and when he shows no sign of noticing me, I clear my throat. He turns slowly, leisurely, like he's bored just at the thought of me. I don't recognize him. His is one of the few faces that is entirely unfamiliar to me.
"It looked like you didn't have a partner." I smile warmly, hoping to make a good first impression.
"I hadn't noticed," the boy responds, his mouth in a half-smirk.
"Erm…" I examine his face closely. He has pretty eyes. Eyes that make me want to keep looking. I must look like a fool, red-faced, searching in vain for a response that doesn't sound as dippy as I feel.
"I'm Alex," His smirk hasn't disappeared.
"John," I introduce myself. "Are you-"
My question is cut short by the teacher striving to draw our attention back to her. She begins talking rapidly but upon seeing the student's looks of confusion she slows her pace and overemphasizes syllables. An inaudible whisper from my right alerts me once again to Alex's presence.
What? I mouth. He whispers again, louder, translating her directions into English.
"Tell your partner three things you did over the summer. Don't forget to conjugate. Some other bullshit no one really cares about." My eyes waver from Alex to Madame Bernard then back again. I smile at him and nods as if to say, It's no problem.
"Hmm… Je suis venu ici des Antilles. J'ai pris l'avion pour la première fois. Et… J'ai bu beaucoup plus de café que je n'aurais dû."
I listen carefully, picking out the words I know and translating them as best as I can with my limited knowledge of the language. My translation is faulty, but I do manage to get the gist of his sentences.
"Interesting! I've ne- I mean… Je n'ai jamais vraiment aimé le café. Three things... Visité a mis abuelos en Carolina del Sur," I begin. The corners of my mouth twitch up a bit in the pride I've salvaged from translating a sentence into French.
"John. That's Spanish," Alex says, staring at me with no compassion.
"Shit, sorry, J'ai visité mes grands-parents en Caroline du Sud…"
Madame Bernard claps her hands twice. "Very good, although I did hear some espagnol." My eyes flick toward Alex and I see him looking at me, suppressing laughter. It takes only seconds for the two of us to burst into hysterics.
"Boys!" Her voice is shrill and chastising and it only makes Alex laugh harder. Other students begin to join us with nervous little giggles.
The classroom door opens and we snap to attention, the lingering giggles slowly dying out. A petite girl with perfectly straight hair peeks her head around the edge of the polished oak wood. Madame Bernard catches a glimpse a folded list in her hand and her face brightens. She must know this girl, for she looks ecstatic to see her.
"Ms. Schuyler!" The girl cautiously steps into view her eyes are locked on a face close to me. Alex is smiling radiantly at her and she seems to enjoy it. To enjoy him. Her eyes are blue, the bluest I've ever seen. Like the color of a cloudless summer sky. And her dark hair frames her face almost perfectly. She takes the seat next to Alex, two desks away from me, and his eyes follow her.
She picks up the lesson, speaking in perspicuous french. The blue-eyed girl, although lacking the confident smirk of the smug boy, clearly discerns Madame Bernard's words. And Alex has yet to look away from her.