to the office, I see the shine of thin strands of metal laced through the glass, promising security, but from what? A bunch of high school students?
The heavy wooden door into the front office opens soundlessly, but still draws the attention of the middle-aged woman shuffling papers at a high counter.
Her lips thin, as do her eyes, when she spots me.
Quickly, she glances at a large circular clock that is caged behind rusted metal before looking back down to me. Her gaze is aggravated and assessing. I'm sure she thought she'd have at least ten more minutes before having to deal with the student body.
With a sigh she lifts the few papers she's still clutching and packs them onto the counter before her, keeping them hoisted, and forming a useless barrier between us.
“Yes?” she utters the word in exasperation more than anything else, and it is the only greeting I get. My gaze falls to her hands, still grasping the loose sheets of paper.
“Laura Fallen. New registration, ” I mutter, still focusing on her hands and avoiding eye contact. My words are soft, not overly polite nor rude, forgettable. Her thick fingers drop the small stack of papers, ruining all the straightening she'd done, and she paws at an upright filing system. I'm handed a well-worn manila envelope.
As I reach forward, one of the paperstucked inside slips free and swirls down to the brown industrial carpet below. I grasp the file tightly before crouching down to retrieve the fallen document.
“Your transcripts came over incomplete. There's no record of yearly pictures or testing scores.” Her eyes scour over me as I stand again. I don't tell her that I've always been conveniently absent on picture days and most days any school wide tests were taken. I say nothing but lift my shoulders in a small move of innocence.
“Sorry?” I warble back. I see her hair sway as she shakes her head in annoyance.
“Wish I didn't need to do everyone's job!” she complains, then adds, “I'll be needing that folder back. Your locker assignment and schedule are yours to keep.”
When I leave the office, I notice there's a stillness in the halls as I journey up to the second floor. Most of the classroom doors are open, with tall gray trash bins left empty adjacent to the entrances. My locker is tucked away at the end of hallway, right next to a rear stairwell. Intrigued by the possibilities of where they lead, I open my locker quickly just to make sure the combination works then close it back up, keeping my backpack with me.
When I reach the bottom of the back stairway, it spills to the lower level and an exit. This will definitely be a quicker route, which I file away for later.
As I make my way to my homeroom, the halls slowly start to fill. I manage to successfully filter through groups of kids with no one pointing out that a new student has joined their ranks. Cautiously, I linger on the fringes until I feel an acceptable amount of time has passed so I won't be the first or last student to enter the room.
I place the half sheet of paper with empty columns on my teacher’s desk for his initials. I've been to several schools where they require new students to return similar forms after the first day of school, whether they think the kids will skip or are too inept to find their classes, I don't know, but it's a silly practice.
The older man behind the desk looks at me before scribbling his initials in the appropriate column.
“Alphabetic assigned seating Miss Fallen, but with late enrollment I'm afraid I'll have to stick you in the back.” From the corner of my eye I notice his eyes narrow on me, wondering and assessing if I'll cause trouble back there.
I give a nod and walk over to the last row of five and sit in the desk farthest from the front. A few students peer at me as I pass, but my hair is still secured limply over my shoulders, the loose hold of a rubber band offering some anonymity from the curious stares of my classmates.
Thankfully the homeroom teacher doesn't acknowledge me again throughout the short period. I know at some point today at least one teacher will address me and my newness, thinking they're somehow being helpful instead recognizing it for the embarrassment it actually is. I'm grateful to Mr. Wilber for not doing that.