A Love Like War

It was Monday. My first day of school in America.

It was the middle of the second semester of eighth grade for me, and apparently eighth grade is the last year of middle school in America. So I’d be in the oldest grade at the school, which meant more people would be paying attention to me, which meant there was no way I could just scoot through the year unnoticed.

Alex and I walked to school together that morning. We wanted to make sure we didn’t have to walk around by ourselves the first few days. To be honest, I was hoping he and I could keep up this friendship. When Alex was being nice, I really liked him. He was cool. And hey, since he makes friends so easily, maybe I’d make friends, too, if I hung out with him more. Eh, whatever.

“I’m actually kinda nervous,” Alex said to me as we approached the school campus.

“Understandably,” I laughed.

“I don’t know, like . . . What if I never make friends here?” he wondered out loud, and I scoffed at the idea.

“You were Mr. Popular back in London, there’s no reason you won’t be Mr. Popular in America. Just give it a week or two and you’ll have a ton of friends. Me, on the other hand . . . Eh.”

He looked over at me. “You’ll make friends. You just need to be more social. You could make so many friends if you’d just talk to people,” he said, and I chuckled at how cheesy the whole conversation was.

And then we were walking on campus.

Since Baltimore wasn’t a big city, most of the kids at the school knew each other, especially since it was basically halfway through the school year. So naturally, Alex and I were the center of attention as we walked into the school building.

“We have to get our schedules from the office first,” I told Alex, and we walked together to the office.

We picked up our schedules, and unfortunately for me, we didn’t have any classes together. I really was going to have to make friends.

My first class was English. Thank the Lord. English was my favorite subject, and it was easy for me, so I was glad I got to have that class first every day instead of maths or biology or something dreadful like that.

I walked into the classroom and all eyes were on me. I ran a hand through my hair nervously and walked to the teacher’s desk.

The woman at the desk looked to be in her mid to late forties, and her bleached blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She looked up at me through the thick lenses of her glasses.

“Hello. Are you new?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, not sure what I was supposed to say to her.

“Alright. Welcome to Baltimore. I’m Mrs. Williams. Class rules are simple, don’t chew gum, don’t curse, don’t talk back, do your work. You can sit in the front next to Jack,” she said, then pointed to an empty seat in the front row next to a skinny boy with dark hair and a big nose.

I sat down in my seat and threw my pack on my desk. I opened my cell phone inside my pack to check if Michelle had texted me back yet. Nothing.

“Hey!” the boy named Jack said to me.

I looked at him for a second, then replied, “Hello.”

“I’m Jack. Jack Barakat. What’s your name?” I could tell he was going to annoy me.

“Kristin,” I told him.

“Nice to meet you! Where are you from? You’re new, right?”

I looked at the boy again to see if he was serious or not, but his big eyes and goofy smile looked like he actually wanted to know.

“London.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, wait, wait, wait, wait wait. You’re /British/?!” he exclaimed, a bit louder than I would’ve appreciated.

I laughed. “Yes.”

“Say more words.”

“What?”

“Say. More. Words.”

“I’m not exactly sure what you want me to say,” I said, chuckling.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Your accent is fabulous.”

So yeah, I lied. The kid was starting to grow on me.

“Fabulous, huh?” I asked him.

“Definitely. Can we be friends?” he asked me, grinning happily.

I laughed. “Sure, why not?”

“Yes! I have a British friend!” He exclaimed. By that time, Mrs. Williams had stood and walked to the center of the classroom.

“Alright, class, settle down. We’re going to be beginning our poetry unit today. But first, I’d like to know what you all know about poetry. Keep it appropriate,” she told us, and a few kids raised their hands, including Jack.

“Kendra?” Mrs. Williams said.

“Uh, the book Beowolf is all one big poem, right?” a small dark haired girl from the back of the room said.

“Good! That’s a great book, by the way, I recommend you all read it at some point. Anyone else?”

Jack waved his hand around in the air and he looked about like he was about to have a baby if he didn’t get called on in the next few seconds.

“Jack? Before you explode,” Mrs. Williams said, and a few kids giggled.

“Rap is poetry,” Jack blurted out. The whole class laughed, and I wasn’t sure what was funnier; what he actually said, or the fact that he wanted to say it so badly.

Mrs. Williams rolled her eyes. “I suppose rap can be considered poetry, but it’s definitely not good poetry. Anyone else?” Nobody showed any sign of life. “Well, let’s get started.”

Jack leaned over to my desk and whispered in my ear, “Rap is definitely good poetry.”

Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought.