Glitteroid

Do you know that the walls of seventy five point nine of public schools are painted the exact same mixture of beige, imitation yellow and puke green?

That is exactly the first thing I noticed when my foot collided with the doors. My throat squeezed itself shut mercifully. Why, dear readers, why is there such a lack of originality in educational facilities this day and age?

I mean, honestly.

Do they want us to grow up to be one of those corporate Frankensteins, those work-a-holic lawyers or business people that are completely dead inside due to the sheer lack of anything that sparkles during childhood? I should really hope not. Maybe I’ll have Perdue join the PTA - NO, she’ll riot outside the school for a better learning atmosphere. She’ll be glamorously dressed in jeans and a stained shirt, armed with 1,000 other fabulous petitioners.

I’m daydreaming about that as I aimlessly wander through the halls of Jefferson Public High School. Destination: Student Registration. It’s six minutes into the school year and I’m lost beyond comprehension. I’ve got this undeniable urge to ask someone for directions, then I remember the thing about directions: it’s better to be hopelessly lost than admit it and ask directions. So I don’t.

However, I snap out of the daydream as soon as I realize that it seems as though I am stuck in a Toys R ’Us aisle. Each student, as I saw all too clearly in the parking lot, was a doll. I wanted to scream in horror as they all ran to each other, blowing air-kisses and squealing about their summers. I want to slap their faces until the plastic begins to fade into a shade of pink.

Instead, I high-tail it directly to the office. Now, now. I know what you all are thinking - if he can find his way all the way over to the office, then why the hell can’t he find the registration? Well, let me answer that for you. It’s because, my dears, I just so happened to have overheard a conversation between a freshmen and a senior.

Freshmen: Uh, do you know where the main office is?

Senior: It’s in wing B.

And that is exactly how that rather compelling talk-a-thon went, and right after the freshmen scurried out of my vision and the thuggish senior began to mine is nostrils. Lovely.

Now, I was never a fan of violence, but I must admit I think I pushed a cheerleader down the stairs (Unintentionally!) during my completely dramatic and hardcore journey to the office. There was literally ten dozen people loitering the stairwell, and not one of them looked like a future companion.

However, as I made my way through the mass of Barbie and Ken dolls, I start to think of Perdue. What was she doing at the moment? Probably phoning mum or better yet, curled up by the fireplace with The Phantom of the Opera playing softly in the background whilst she reads one of those Stephen King novels she adores so much.

I decide on her phoning mum.

As I finally make my way to the office, a lady with salt-n-pepper hair gives me a perplexed smile. She asks politely if she could assist me. I smile and say I needed a routine sheet. After a minute of digging through Jefferson High’s desk drawers, she handed one to me. I smiled again and left.

Easy, easy lemon squeezie.

I looked at the paper carefully. Homeroom, it said, wing B, room 124. Nodding to the paper, I continued to room 124, seeing happily as I was already in wing B. (I’m still dumbfounded by the fact that they had ‘wings.’ I mean, really! Is that a Harry Potter knockoff or what?!)

I found my homeroom with impeccable ease. (Truth? It was seven doors down from the office) And I touched the metal doorknob almost shakily. My fingers twitched like a severed lizard’s tail. Why in the world was I so afraid? It was, after all, just another high school. Just another place filled with unoriginal people.

Well, I opened the door.
Everyone stopped talking.
I panicked.