Hello Monday

Part 1; 2:00 pm

A river of bodies clad in green uniforms flows all around me as an ear-splitting wail shakes the entire ground–or was that just my brain? The siren that basically screams Attention, get out! leaps out from the corners, echoing everywhere. The corridor is illuminated only by the red lights that are flickering on the walls and the occasional sunlight that comes through the windows. Stuck in the river, I have no choice but to be swept out of the building by the strong current of students. Once outside, like programmed robots, we stand in our designated areas.

"One, two... five, six... ten, eleven... fifteen... twenty... forty... fifty-three, fifty-four... sixty... sixty-seven. Great, all here!" the teacher says to no one in particular. Just by looking at her face, I can tell that she wishes to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. If I look at myself in the mirror right now, I would probably see a similar expression. Eyebrows drawn together, eyes shooting daggers, mouth slightly curved down. That, my friends, is the face of utter annoyance.

Don't get me wrong. I love school, but it is this that brings me very, very close to hatred. It's true what they say: there is a very thin line between love and hate. Every week, they ring shrieks in our ears. Every week, they force us to drop everything we're doing just to stand outside for a solid ten minutes. Every. week. Just to what? See if the fire alarm works? I can testify to the fact that it works firsthand because my ears can't make out anything else but that constant ringing. I think it's permanent damage. No, it's definitely permanent damage. I would rather light myself on fire than hear the alarm ring one more time for no valid reason.

Lucky juniors who get to keep their ears.

While us seniors are getting our ears broken, the juniors are valuing their lives by trying not to be eaten by snakes or God knows what exists out there in the woods. Ah, camping. As strange as it sounds, we would rather go to school—minus the fire drills—than go camping. Call it natural instinct. We have our laboratories to blame, one of the very few things I like about being in a school with geniuses for students. The school motto is basically 'A school for geniuses supplies facilities for geniuses.' Literally. That was the first thing I saw in the brochure for admissions.

When I say this school houses geniuses, I'm talking real geniuses. In our school, it's just not possible to have a GPA that is less than 3.9. I'm saying it's actually not possible. Take Sharon Gerber as an example. She once had a 3.87 GPA for her first semester of junior year and when we all returned to school from our breaks, she did not. Fortunately, she is still walking on this earth to this very day, however, unfortunately, she wasn't allowed to continue her studies in our high school. And trust me, nothing screams humiliation more than getting kicked out of a prestigious school. Yes, it is that scary and that demanding. Getting admitted to this school was one thing. Graduating from this school is another. We all have an unseen pledge that looms over our heads: I solemnly swear that I will not have anything lower than a 3.9.

But all scares aside, we, the seniors, are truly the lucky ones (again, besides the fire drill) because we get to stay in our little heaven that is school. All praises go to our advanced laboratories, those that are similar—if not better—to government-owned labs. Parents, mine included, to my dismay, are desperate to have their children enrolled in this school just for the sake of these really cool labs. They go above and beyond to get their children here at Haggard High School. Although unsaid, according to them, there is a certain satisfaction that comes from the ability to boast about having a child who has access to these labs. They go absolutely crazy when they fail to land a spot—sorry, I mean when their offspring fails to land a spot.

I remember the day I received my acceptance letter like it was yesterday. Unfortunately, an owl didn't come to deliver the letter to me. Instead, like every other normal letter, it came in the mailbox.

"Dear Ms. Martel, we are delighted to offer you a place at Haggard High School. Sincerely, James Hubert, Principal."

That was all that was in the letter. What a waste of paper. I can't lie, I was a little excited to attend this new school, but the moment the phone rang, I knew my mother was up to no good.

"My daughter is going to Haggard High School," she said to whoever was on the line as soon as she answered the call. I eventually became sick of hearing her say 'my daughter' this, 'my daughter' that. Before this, I was probably not even worth the mention to her precious friends. But after she did enough boasting to satisfy herself, she packed all my bags and was more than ready to send me off to the school's dorms. This was a year ago.

"Linette," a voice called out, shaking me out of my reverie. I stare at Mrs. Taylors for a good five seconds, giving the vice principal a tight-lipped smile. Feeling sweat trickle down my stiflingly hot neck, I gather my frizzy hair (courtesy of the sun) and tie it in a high ponytail, sighing when I feel a light breeze graze my neck. Then, I start for the entrance to the school building. Looking at the clock that is posted on the wall of the hallway, I read 2:09 pm. I sigh. Three more hours until I can get my much-needed sleep.

Climbing up the stairs one step at a time, I look around for a familiar mop of black hair I know like the back of my hand. Spotting him a few steps ahead of me, I run up the steps two at a time to stand next to him.

"Hi," I say to him, breathless from ascending the stairs. My chest heaves as I struggle to control my breath.

"Hey, Linette," he replies with the dashing smile that makes my heart beat even faster than humanly possible.

Anthony Elwin Miles.

The man who stole my heart when he told me he liked me on Valentine's Day with a bouquet of chocolate-covered strawberries. Three months together and I still can't grasp the fact that this gentleman likes me for me—just the way I am. He doesn't care that I struggle in school, he doesn't care that I don't have that many friends (okay maybe even only one), and he surely doesn't care that I am anything but an open book. I push my hands into the pockets of my uniform's vest, showing him my million dollar smile. Then we make our way up in comfortable silence.

Before I know it, we arrive on the seventh floor. I turn to look at him, but he is already ahead of me, running towards his friends. I shake my head with a smile on my face. Boys.

Grabbing my bag that is by the classroom door, I stop as I realize that it feels a few pounds lighter than it should be. Call me paranoid but I can't afford to lose anything because the closest shopping center is at least four hours away. Our school is practically in the middle of nowhere, something about smart heads needing silence for concentration.

True to my feeling, as far as my eyes can see inside the bag, I can't find a yellow pouch that holds my collection of colorful pens and markers. Not seeing it in my bag only means one thing: I had left my pencil case in my previous classroom—the biology lab.

Heaving a sigh, I drop my bag to the floor and make my way back to the staircase. Skipping down a floor, I head straight and stop in front of a door that reads Molecular Biology Laboratory.

It is a simple get in, get the pencil case, get out mission, but of course, drama always lies ahead of me, waiting to dig its claws into me. I push the door open just a crack, making sure I will not accidentally stumble into an ongoing class. When I see no one, I push the door to open it wider.

My jaw drops to the floor as I witness the full horror of the room that was spotless ten minutes ago, with no speck of dust in sight.

What I am looking at now is the complete opposite. Papers lay strewn across the tables and on the floor. It doesn't look like a fight nor a robbery had occurred in this room because all the equipment is untouched. Unless... 

I gasp.

Dr. Sanders!