Having been the new kid thirteen times in the past three years, I can honestly tell you that it is always the same. High school is probably the most cliche thing to ever exist in the history of existence. And I mean that with utmost sincerity and not one trace of sarcasm- really. - only stating a mere fact of life.
Every "misled youth" action from the football players picking on the band geeks to sex after prom. Every adult that dishes out the same tacky sayings like how it's "the best time of your lives" or "it is the mouse race to prepare you for the rat race". God, I'm even cliche for saying high school is cliche. It's that overdone. It's like, everybody has got this script, you know? And nobody deviates from that script. Not one. And no matter how original you think you are- it's been done before. Trust me; I should know.
And while I still maintain that the fate of a highschool-er is either doomed to be self-conscious and miserable or revered and, for lack of a better word: "cool", even I have to admit, roaming the halls of La Push High has me a little thrown. I mean, everyone looks the same. I kid you not and exaggerations be damned, I have yet to see one single student here who isn't... well... brown. I mean, some are shorter than others or fatter than others and I guess their hair cuts might be a little different, and I probably should have expected as much when they said the school would be on a reservation, but even with thirteen high schools alone under my belt, I did not see this coming. Being somewhat tan myself, you might suggest that finding myself in this situation could be a good thing, help to blend me into the crowd a little. I might even be presumptuous enough to agree with you in this theory, if only there wasn't one minor flaw to this notion- that being the substantial absence of crowd, which also threw me. Though thinking about it, it does makes sense. I mean, they didn't call it the Trail of Tears for nothing now did they?
So to say the least, besides the serious lack of consideration as far as how a high school's population may vary on a small reservation in a small town, things were all going according to plan. Everyone was following their scripts exactly. Some turned to gawk curiously while simultaneously trying to be discrete, but ultimately failing miserably(they always do) while others stuck to the full figure eye sweep before mentally deeming me unworthy of further acknowledgment. Remembering afore mentioned population issue, my presents did turn a few more heads in general, but not so many that made me doubt the script. Everyone notices the new kid, makes no difference what you wear or how practicedly impassive your body language. You can never hide- especially in a place so minuscule where one can only assume the word stranger probably doesn't even exist.
Ah-ha, room number one hundred fifty six, just where the principal and her helpfully highlighted map said it would be. There may have been a few encouraging words thrown around there too, something along the lines of "Don't be nervous," or maybe an encouraging smile. I don't know- I couldn't really muster up the decency to pay attention. Besides, I've heard it all before- not even faculty play around with the script. I'm telling you, it's like, law.
Just as I'm reaching for the door knob, the thing suddenly swings open at me. I'm hardly allotted enough time to let out a surprise appropriate gasp, let alone get out of the way, only I do- sort of. It's like I'm moving with the door, I am one with the door, and we both strain to reach the middle of the hall to allow whatever force of nature is compelling us both forward for one urgent reason or another. But, alas, it would seem it only takes a millisecond of a difference for a person to either remain completely unscathed or to receive the painful THWACK of a doorknob to the bicep. Shit. Oh yeah, that's gonna bruise.
A girl runs past me half hunched over with both hands covering her mouth and in such a haste that she doesn't even seem to register that fact that I'm standing about a foot from her- what's that smell?- forget that she just rammed me in the arm with a door- but in that instant I feel a sudden fondness for this smelly hunchback girl. Attempted murder and probable mental illness aside, she treated me like every other nameless face you pass by on a daily basis. And let me tell you, after being shoved under spotlight after spotlight for as long as I can remember, you can bet it felt damn good to be invisible.
The sound of laughter makes me remember where I am and I stop staring after smelly hunchback to turn and face my fate. The door still having been held open by my now throbbing limb, the eyes of an irate teacher lock on mine instantly. "Mr. Chavez, I presume?" he asks through gritted teeth, his chest rising and falling rapid fire.
And cue spotlight. Ah well, back to the script.
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A/N: No, that is not a typo and yes, Rory is, indeed, a boy. Any opinions? Questions? Love me? Hate me? Think I write the worst crap you have ever had the misfortune to stumble upon? Lemme know... REVIEW! x)