School Daze

I think the people who planned Gateway Regional High School are messing with our heads. They’ve taken kids from four different towns and thrown us all together in one building in some kind of bizarre science experiment. I feel like a lab rat in a maze, passing hundreds of strangers and every once in a while I see a familiar face but I can’t stop to say hi, I’ve got to keep moving and find the next classroom before the bell rings. Every hour or so it’s a race against time, rush-rush-rush, and don’t be late-don’t stop or take a time out to pee.
There are a few teachers I recognize. There’s Mr. Harvey and Mr. Culbertson from Woodbury Heights. I would have had them in Seventh or Eighth Grade if we had stayed in our old elementary school, but here I just see them going by me in the hall. Sometimes they smile and nod, acknowledging my existence. Fate has been kind to me as far as Language Arts and Social Studies. I get Mrs. Oglesby. Mrs. Oglesby lives six houses down from me on Walnut Avenue. She’s my neighbor! I passed her house every day on the way to school, and she knows my Mom and every Halloween I’ve stood in her living room while she tried to guess who I was. It’s good to have at least one familiar person as one of my teachers. There seem to be teachers from all four towns sprinkled in among us. I see some kids know Mrs. Conaway, my Homeroom and Reading class teacher. There are just enough teachers that we know to keep us all from getting too nervous about this place.
I and my classmates in 7C are expected to learn French. Why French, I wonder? How practical is French going to be for me? Who I am going to speak French to after school? German might be good, seeing as how my grandmother came from Austria, but French? Maybe if I lived near Canada or New Orleans French might be a good thing to know, but I live in South Jersey. There’s a lot of Italians in South Jersey, and Puerto Ricans, too, so maybe French isn’t the right way for us to go.
We spend a lot of time asking each other where the library is and introducing ourselves in French class. Miss Viola is our teacher, and she’s nice enough and pretty young and all, but maybe she could teach us more practical things to say. How about, “Where’s the bathroom?” or “Do you like the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?” Instead we practice introductions and tell each other we’re having sausages to eat, and how many times do we have to ask where the library is anyway? What is it with all these different ways to say the? Masculine, feminine and neuter? I never knew words could have a gender! Different endings for the same word, and there’s a formal way and an informal way to talk to each other. Hey, I’ve been speaking English for all my life, how do they expect me to understand all of this?
Miss Viola gives everyone the French equivalent of their first name. Except me. There is no French word for James, and John Camp already got Jean, which is the only thing close. Jack Wiler gets Jacques, the next best thing, so I have to settle for Pierre. Pierre? Why can’t she call me Louis? Louis is French, and that’s my middle name, but no, I have to settle for Pierre. If you ask me, this French class is a lot of merd.
Gym class is really tough. Mr. Williamson drills us like soldiers and then makes us do exercises until I feel like my veins are going to pop. Squats until my legs feel like over-stretched rubber bands. I’m in the push-up position, holding myself on my arms and toes as my arms wobble and the sweat is pouring into my eyes. Jumping jacks that last forever and we touch our toes until I feel like I’m going to pass out. Every once in a while somebody forgets their white socks or their jock strap, and Mr. Williamson reams them out in front of everybody like they’ve just committed some sort of mortal sin or something. The guys you feel most sorry for are the ones who forget to bring their gym suit to school that day. Mr. Williamson yells at them and makes them sit on the sidelines and watch us exercise, and ridicules them all throughout the period. I’m beginning to hate gym class.
I’m making some new friends in Gateway, but how friendly can you get with kids that live miles away and can only get here by bus? The guys from Wenonah are the closest, but it’s complicated if you want to hang out together. Your Mom has to drive you back and forth, or you can ride your bike, but you can’t be too close ‘cause you’re just so far away from each other.
Classes aren’t the same either. You don’t spend all day with the same teacher teaching you everything, and you don’t feel close to any of them. I like some of my teachers, and there's some I don’t care for. I guess I’m like everyone else, just muddling through, just trying to make it through the day.
I never used to watch the clock too much in Woodbury Heights Elementary School, but I stare at it every last period now. I can’t wait for the final bell. I’ve got a short walk home, so I’m there faster than anyone else.
Every day I take a quick nap after school. I rush upstairs and collapse on my bed and drift away. Thirty to forty minutes of bliss.
Free to let my muscles and my mind relax
Free to forget where the library is in France.