Fifteen
“Take a deep breath and walk through the doors; it’s the morning of
your very first day…”
The halls of Vroncourt High School were bustling.
There were students excited for their graduating
year, students excited because this year was going to be “their year”, students
moping about complaining about having to spend another year in a place they hated
students happy to see their friends again and students excited for their first
day.
Then there was me – a mix between the first and the
last thing.
This was my first day at Vroncourt, but also my last
year in high school.
I moved from Marrick Academy which was all the way
in Orainville. Montrose Court, where Vroncourt is, is about 300 km away –
practically 8 hours by car. Both were small towns, though. I had to say goodbye
to all the people I knew.
So why did we have to move so far? My father’s
company offered him a much higher level position and the office was in Montrose
Court. Well, as long as he’s out of the house often enough for me to throw enough
parties to become popular…
Just kidding.
Seriously.
Who actually enjoys those things?
I mean, your house gets super dirty. Everything gets
broken. Everyone has sex everywhere; the only safest precautionary measure
would be to disinfect the ENTIRE household.
Anyway, from the first minute I stepped into
Vroncourt I noticed several major differences between the students here and the
ones back in Marrick.
First, Vroncourt requires uniforms while Marrick
does not. I assumed that Vroncourt also comes with some strict policies about
overall appearance since nobody had any noticeable tattoos, piercings,
attention-drawing haircuts and etc. Back over at Marrick my eyes were exposed
to a myriad of different styles and fashion senses.
Second, Vroncourt was much cleaner. The walls were
so pristinely white. The lockers all looked exactly the same. I walked into the
bathroom to check my hair, and it was so super clean. Toilet paper in every
cubical, water coming out of every faucet and soap dispensers everywhere (yeah,
I checked). In Marrick, you best go to the bathroom before you get picked up by
the school bus and once you get home, instead. And there was always graffiti on
at least on locker in each row.
Third, the books were fancy. You had to buy copies.
Clean, unused copies. Back in Marrick, books circulated. Often times you didn’t
need to highlight a single thing. Sometimes, if you were lucky enough, you’d
get a book that had all the answers written down.
Everything about Vroncourt screamed “money, money,
money, money… MOOONEY~” (that was supposed to be the theme song to “The
Apprentice”). This was clearly a school for rich people, and I was sure I stuck
out like a sore thumb.
My dad wasn’t rich. He worked hard doing the work of
people higher up in the company without the credit or the pay. My dad was a
pushover. He always talked about how much he was learning and experiencing, but
every time I thought about it, it just made me mad.
Anyway, it didn’t matter that I wore the uniform (white
three-quarter sleeve polo, red tie, black pleated above-knee-length skirt,
knee-length white socks, black shoes and blue blazer). As I walked down the
hall, people were looking at me. I guess it was my fault; all of them were
wearing their blazers. I found it a little too hot wearing it on the walk to
school so I’d just hung it on my shoulder while my backpack hung on the other
by one
“Take a deep breath and walk through the doors; it’s the morning of
your very first day…”
The halls of Vroncourt High School were bustling.
There were students excited for their graduating
year, students excited because this year was going to be “their year”, students
moping about complaining about having to spend another year in a place they hated
students happy to see their friends again and students excited for their first
day.
Then there was me – a mix between the first and the
last thing.
This was my first day at Vroncourt, but also my last
year in high school.
I moved from Marrick Academy which was all the way
in Orainville. Montrose Court, where Vroncourt is, is about 300 km away –
practically 8 hours by car. Both were small towns, though. I had to say goodbye
to all the people I knew.
So why did we have to move so far? My father’s
company offered him a much higher level position and the office was in Montrose
Court. Well, as long as he’s out of the house often enough for me to throw enough
parties to become popular…
Just kidding.
Seriously.
Who actually enjoys those things?
I mean, your house gets super dirty. Everything gets
broken. Everyone has sex everywhere; the only safest precautionary measure
would be to disinfect the ENTIRE household.
Anyway, from the first minute I stepped into
Vroncourt I noticed several major differences between the students here and the
ones back in Marrick.
First, Vroncourt requires uniforms while Marrick
does not. I assumed that Vroncourt also comes with some strict policies about
overall appearance since nobody had any noticeable tattoos, piercings,
attention-drawing haircuts and etc. Back over at Marrick my eyes were exposed
to a myriad of different styles and fashion senses.
Second, Vroncourt was much cleaner. The walls were
so pristinely white. The lockers all looked exactly the same. I walked into the
bathroom to check my hair, and it was so super clean. Toilet paper in every
cubical, water coming out of every faucet and soap dispensers everywhere (yeah,
I checked). In Marrick, you best go to the bathroom before you get picked up by
the school bus and once you get home, instead. And there was always graffiti on
at least on locker in each row.
Third, the books were fancy. You had to buy copies.
Clean, unused copies. Back in Marrick, books circulated. Often times you didn’t
need to highlight a single thing. Sometimes, if you were lucky enough, you’d
get a book that had all the answers written down.
Everything about Vroncourt screamed “money, money,
money, money… MOOONEY~” (that was supposed to be the theme song to “The
Apprentice”). This was clearly a school for rich people, and I was sure I stuck
out like a sore thumb.
My dad wasn’t rich. He worked hard doing the work of
people higher up in the company without the credit or the pay. My dad was a
pushover. He always talked about how much he was learning and experiencing, but
every time I thought about it, it just made me mad.
Anyway, it didn’t matter that I wore the uniform (white
three-quarter sleeve polo, red tie, black pleated above-knee-length skirt,
knee-length white socks, black shoes and blue blazer). As I walked down the
hall, people were looking at me. I guess it was my fault; all of them were
wearing their blazers. I found it a little too hot wearing it on the walk to
school so I’d just hung it on my shoulder while my backpack hung on the other
by one
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