A short and poorly prepared saga of my high school experience
On the first day of freshman year, my whole outfit was from American Eagle. I walked to band every day with Susie and Parker. We walked outside from the modulars, along the length of the old building, until we arrived at the new building. We did this all through the winter. Susie and Parker liked the fresh air, but I hated walking outside. I wanted to walk inside, a route that took approximately four additional minutes. It was cold in the winter and I often wore my winter jacket during band because I was still cold from the walk. One day Susie and Parker were both sick so I had to walk alone. Mark Hecox caught up with me and talked to me. I remember it must have been spring because he was talking about the band officer elections for the next year. I must admit I had somewhat of a crush on Mark Hecox, but this was only because he was a senior boy. Very little seniors talked to me, and even less boys. When I told Susie about the day she missed in an email, I told her not that I walked with Mark Hecox, but with Mark Peacocks.
When I returned for Sophomore Year I had started wearing mascara every other day. Liz and I shared a locker. She was neat and I was messy. It is still like this today, only Liz has grown messier. One day my mom packed a plum in my lunch but I didn't have time to eat it. I put my plastic lunch bag, in which my plum was stored for later consumption, on the top shelf of my locker, on top of my French notebook. Then I forgot about it for about one month. After that, we noticed small clusters of fruit flies that escaped from our locker. Then came an bitterly acidic smell. It took me longer than it should have to realize that the process of decomposition had taken place right there, on our very own top shelf. Embarrassed, I didn't want anyone to know about the rotten fruit I had been storing, so I could only complete Operation Remove Plum when no one else was watching. One day during math with Mrs. Redford, I asked to go to the bathroom, walked to my locker, held my nose, removed the bag, carried it outside, and threw it in a large dumpster. I still couldn't use my French notebook though, because black plum juice had soaked a rather large "O" through all the pages.
In Junior Year, I made more friends and was introduced to the concept of group hugs. I maintained a C average throughout first semester of Topics in College Math Honors, a class that I found incredibly difficult despite the obnoxious ease of my peers. During third term, I suffered a downfall during a gruesome batch of game theory tests. Mrs. Miller, my pregnant teacher, wrote "See Me" under a particularly shocking test score, an action I had previously thought only occurred in movies. I stayed after class to talk to her. I expected her to reprimand me for my embarrassingly poor performance, but instead, she commended me on my continual effort. She said, "Phoebe, I know you can do this. You are smart, and I can see that. You just freak out when you take tests." Mrs. Miller's unexpected kindness made me weepy. She offered me a box of tissues and made me promise not to equate grades with self-worth. The next day, Mrs. Miller wrote everyone's class averages down on slips of notebook paper. On mine she simply scrawled, "Not important." Mrs. Miller taught me a lot about life.
On Halloween during Senior Year, I dressed up like a zombie and ran around in Holden's oldest cemetery. I had conversations about the Velvet Underground with two teachers, and one of the conversations was in French.