Prelude to Destruction

It was the first day of my freshman year at Huntington Beach High School. I stood at the edge of the campus, trembling in my denim mini skirt and flowery pink tank top, trying –and evidently failing, to look like a ‘real high schooler.’ I had dreamed of this day for the longest time, and I’d had this outfit picked out all summer. But once glance around campus left me feeling insecure. No one was dressed like I was. I racked my brain through every teen movie I’d seen, trying to remember if it was good or bad to stand out.

As I nervously surveyed the grassy areas outside the buildings, I caught sight of Matthew Sanders, then a senior, immediately. I’d say he stood out like a sore thumb, but that’d be untrue; sore thumbs don’t look as good as he did that day. He was walking around, parting the way through the sea of kids like he owned the place –a stance I would later become accustomed to.

“Jules,” I hissed, tugging on my senior sister’s sleeve hard, not once taking my eyes off the boy.

Julia whirled around to face me, cell phone securely attached to her ear. I didn’t understand that. Weren’t her friends here already? “What, Ro?” she snapped.

“Who’s that?” I asked, ignorant to the harsh bite in her voice. I gestured to the boy on the other side of the yard. “The one in the green sports shirt.”

I saw Jules roll her eyes out of the corner of my own. “That’s Matthew Sanders. He’s a senior, little girl. Out of your league. Besides, Alyssa told me that this is the third school he’s been to in four years.”

I sighed to myself. Alyssa was Julia’s only friend. We’d only moved to Orange County at the beginning of summer holiday, so neither of us had many friends just yet. She never shuts up about Alyssa.

“He’s bad news, Ro,” Julia was still saying. “Now, I’m busy. Why don’t you go make friends with someone from your own level,” she suggested, giving me a little shove in the opposite direction she was walking.

I tried my best to roll my eyes at her and appear unfazed, even though her dismissal left me feeling terrifed. What if nobody liked me?

“Okay,” I whispered to myself.

You know the movie “Forrest Gump,” when little Forrest gets on the school bus for the first time, and everyone rejects him? That’s exactly what it was like for me too, except I didn’t have any Jenny waiting to save me. I was a fish out of water. I thought it was cool to be homeschooled; I had something different about me, something new. But it seems different is the worst possible thing to be in high school, as I was quickly realizing.

Not one person said a word as I crossed campus and entered the main building, even though I smiled and attempted to make eye contact with most of them. I couldn’t decidewhich was worse –the curious, sometimes condescending, stares I received from some, or the sheer unacknowledgement from others.

As I entered the surprisingly cool, air-conditioned building, I glanced at my schedule, holding it between my two hands for dear life. This school was pretty big. Julia told me there were about 500 kids in the Class of 2003 –my class. I studied the schedule. First period, I had Pre-calculus with Mr. Billowe in Room A202. Most kids in my grade should be in Algebra 1, but I’m really good at math and passed the test to be put into the senior level class. Mom used to be a math teacher, and she says I got my brain from her side of the family. She says under her breath so I’m not supposed to hear, though, that I unfortunately got my social genes from her side of the family as well.

I walked into the room quietly. Besides the teacher, Mr. Billowe, I assumed, I was the first person in the class. I quietly made my way to the back of the room in the left corner and sat down. My bookbag made a muffled ‘thump’ as it hit the ground and the instructor glanced up.

“Oh, hello,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t hear you come in. …This is Pre-calculus, m’dear. Are you in the right room?” he asked, looking at me. “I’ll look at your schedule, tell you where to go.”

I couldn’t fault his fine observation skills. I did look like the freshman that I was. “U-uhm, no,” I replied, silently cursing my quaking voice. “I-I’m really good at math; my mom used to be a math teacher.”

“Alright then,” he replied. “Warm-up is on the board. Get out a piece of paper and get to work whenever you’re ready. The bell for start of school rings in five minutes.”

I nodded and glanced at the board. My heart sank. Shit. It didn’t look like this teacher, at least, wasted any time getting back into the swing of things after a long summer. Sitting down, I let out a sigh and got to work. At least the problem wasn’t really difficult; it was just logarhythms, a review from last year’s math, Algebra 2. I finished before the bell rang.

When it did, about thirty upperclassmen flooded into A202, groaning loudly when they saw the math problems already on the board. I watched them flood in from my corner quietly. I smiled when someone made eye contact with me, but I didn’t say a word. These kids were 17 and 18 years old and confident; I was a shy freshman.

Just as the tardy bell rang, I caught a glimpse of the green-shirted boy stride into the room.

My heart did a flip-flop and leaped into my throat.

“Mr. Sanders, late already?” Mr. Billowe said, raising a brow at the boy.

His mouth split into a wide open grin and he said, “You expect me to be on time after I’ve been sleeping for two straight months, Mr. Billowe?” he retorted good-naturedly, as he started to look for a place to sit down.

“Don’t bother to sit, Mr. Sanders,” Mr. Billowe said, placing a seating chart on the overheard projector. “Find your seats class.”

I spotted my name and hauled my already heavy backpack (I weighed it later that night; it was 32 pounds I’d be carting around all that day), to the fourth row and sat down.

And guess who sat right in front of me?