With the first completed term of High School behind me, I feel a certain sense of belonging now then I did at the beginning of the year. But, escape as I might from the word, I am still a freshman. Bustled along in the halls by kids much older and most likely stronger then I. Having to curse those kids standing in front of my locker into oblivion because they won't move no matter how politely I ask them. Oh, but how could I forget the part of every school day that tests the survival skills of every freshman in the High School? Class-switching times.
The clock strikes 2:10, class if over, but the teacher doesn't notice. He is in the middle of explaining something about biodiversity, whilst you listen with half an ear; itching to get to your next class before it's too late. Too late to stop that red mark on your attendance record. Finally, some brave soul raises her hand and tells the teacher it is time to change classes. You sit in agony as the teacher slowly makes the decision to set you free or keep you for a lecture. The red mark is looming. You can hear that pen scratching away.
And then you are free. You hastily pack up and rush out, two and a half minutes before the next period begins. Perhaps you -the reader- have never seen a High School student run of their own free will? Well, it happens. If very rarely. Then, as you are sprinting through the hoard of chattering eighth graders -who have also just been released- it hits you: you don't have your Comparative Cultures book.
There is no time to say 'hello'� to your friends who have congregated in the hall. Instead you dash wildly to your locker. But lo! There is a vicious group of juniors standing in front of your locker. I say vicious and I mean it, these guys are stressed and ready to lash out at unsuspecting lower-classmen. They are in the midst of SATs, APs and college applications. There is indeed a dark cloud hanging over your locker.
But there is no time, one and a half minutes left. You dart over, between the juniors whose feet seem to be cemented to the floor as they are not moving. Do they not notice you? Most don't, but there is someone whose eyes do not pass over you, and thankfully they move to let you by.
You thank them profusely, but are then consumed with the task of opening your locker. Fumbling with your lock, you think to yourself -you wonder why- your fingers are moving so slowly. Finally the door swings open and you can almost hear the chorus singing blessed songs when you spy your wrapping paper covered Comparative Cultures text book. You reach out with shaking hands and clutch your book to you as if it is your very life-blood. Forty-five seconds left.
The locker door slams shut and now it is just the home stretch, but there is competition. When is there no someone competing against you at this school?
You scuttle through the halls, dodging arrogant sophomores, superior -and extremely tall- seniors, and yet more vicious juniors. Thirty seconds left as you turn the corner. There it is, the glowing door, the haven, your classroom.
Hurtling at the speed of light, half-asleep students wonder if that blur that just passed them was indeed a fellow student. It was you, and you got to your classroom with fifteen seconds to spare. You breathe a sigh of relief and sink down into you chair.
Something compels you to glance at the cloak, you realize it was your teacher. You gaze up at her -red pen in hand, to your horror- and then up at the cloak. It is 2:16, you are one minute late. The clocks in this school are not synchronized.
Your face disappears into your palms as you listen to the fatal sound of the red pen scribbling away on your fate. Jail bars rise around you as the teacher writes the four letters that can make any student cringe inside -LATE.

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