First day. I've always hated beginnings. Not because I'm pessimistic or negative. It's in our nature to have expectations, and the greatest hopes are tied to new things, those that are just beginning, immaculate, untouched, and unused. Unfortunately, expectations are always higher than what reality manages to serve us.
I just glance at the large mirror in the hallway before leaving the house. A thin brunette with green eyes stares back at me. A shadow, my dad calls me. I didn't dress up for the first day. Jeans, a soft and loose white cotton t-shirt, Converse. And my hair left loose.
What can the first day offer? The same classmates, the same cliques. The snobs, meaning the three graces always inseparable like Siamese twins. Prematurely developed physically, intoxicated with TV commercials and glossy magazine articles, they only think about fashion. They are everything our society produces at its worst, nothing authentic. Then there are the aces, the four straight-A students, selfish and introverted, probably tormented by the demands of disturbed parents. The biggest catastrophe for them is a grade eight, a grade that almost makes it impossible to maintain a perfect ten average. Then there are the two brainless, the two boys who oppose in absolutely every situation, always having something to comment on, they're against. They were amusing at first, but now they're just two predictable idiots. And then there's us, the rest.
I've only been here for a year, transferred from another school, and I've only managed to make one friend. Misha sits next to me and she's the only one I can talk to about anything without being judged or making faces. I hate those who don't judge you with words but do it with their expressions. I imagine them at home, in front of the mirror practicing 3D, that is, contempt, disgust, and disappointment. Not Misha. She's straightforward and cheerful. She has the ability to brush off problems with a simple shrug, something like, "that's just the way it is, can't do anything about it," while the same problem would give me a headache. I analyze the problem from every angle. I agonize over it, trying to find the best solution. Sometimes I analyze the problem until it's no longer relevant.
St. Stephen's School is a closed one. I ended up here by chance, but in the eyes of my classmates, I seemed like an intruder. It had never happened before that someone transferred from an ordinary neighborhood school like mine. Admission to St. Stephen's is done, I don't know on what criteria, in the first grade. Then students progress up to the twelfth grade. In principle, no one comes, no one goes. So you can imagine how I was looked at when, in a group of students who had been together for ten years, I appeared like a little flower. At first, I made great efforts to integrate, but when I saw that I was hitting walls, I gave up. Love by force is not possible. Only Misha opened up to me and accepted me as I am. Over time, I managed to shake off the intruder label.
However, the first day of the new year was to bring a double surprise.
We were all seated when the homeroom teacher entered. And right after her, two students, a girl and a boy. I hadn't seen them before today, and from the way they stood quite far from each other, I assumed they didn't know each other. The class chatter ceased abruptly, phones were set aside, and absolutely all eyes turned to them.
I saw the girl for the first time. Blonde, incredibly blonde, porcelain white skin, slightly wavy hair, probably its natural state.
The snobs have competition.
Her outfit was impeccable. Black flat shoes, skin-colored stockings, a short black skirt above the knees, a white long-sleeved shirt with black buttons. No jewelry except for a medium-sized watch hanging on her left wrist.
Who wears a watch nowadays?
- Everyone, this is Anna, the homeroom teacher began.
Her voice exuded warmth and excitement.
