I become attached to everything: things, people, places, and even ideas; and once I get attached, it’s extremely hard for me to say goodbye. I’ll never forget that time I almost lost a friend over a chair in my Algebra class. I feel like if the seat was something special, my resistance to giving it up would have been more justifiable, but it wasn’t. There wasn’t a cushion on the chair, unlike some of the others in the class, and Alexandra, the tallest girl in the grade, sat right in front of it, so I couldn’t even see the board that well. While giving my friend a hard time, I was fully conscious of the fact that it wasn’t even about the chair. It was just that I was attached to the idea of sitting in that particular spot, and I didn’t want to alter any small detail about anything in my life, even if it was only just a chair. 

I think that my internal struggle with things being different is probably why my last day at my middle school was so difficult for me. Even though I was stoked about going to a new, better school, I was really anxious about the transition to high school. I felt like I was abandoning my home— flying the coop, some might say.  8th grade year had been what felt like the best year of my life, but it had gone by way too quickly. I wasn’t ready to leave— but I don’t know if I would have ever felt “ready”.

I didn’t even want to get dressed that morning. If I did that, it would mean that this was all real. The day had actually come, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.  I felt sick to my stomach just thinking about that possibility. I had been putting off thinking about it, instead pretending that come Monday morning at 6:05 AM, I would be rolling off my bed, putting on the stiff uniform, getting ready, and then I would go to school. And that would be the rest of my life.

After what felt like hours, I swallowed the lump in my throat, got up from my freshly-made bed, and  stepped into my closet. My fingers ran across the not-even-that-soft baby blue cotton shirt and the pleated plaid skirt, and for the last time, I put on my uniform.

After I finished my extensive morning beauty routine, I went downstairs for breakfast. As soon as my mom was close enough to grab me, she did. She wrapped her arms over my shoulders and gave me one of the warmest hugs I think I’ve ever received. The feeling of her fingertips running over my back instantly calmed my nerves.  I knew that she was so proud that her little girl was going to be going off to high school in August.

Even though I knew this was so, I also knew that she was sad. My middle school hadn’t only become my home; it had become hers too. All of her best friends were also moms of students from the school, so it was going to be hard for her to transition too
After my mom released me from the hug that she needed as much as I did, I gazed down at the glossy kitchen island. Staring back at me, looking me right in the eye, were my bare thank-you notes for my teachers. Where would I even begin? These were the people that had dedicated their lives to me and my education for the past three years. And why did I think it would be a good idea to wait until the morning of my last day, when I’m going to be the most emotional, to write them? I grabbed a chocolate mocha protein shake out of the refrigerator, picked up my thank-you notes, and walked upstairs. I plopped back down on my bed and organized the order of my cards from the ones I was least likely to cry about, to the ones I knew I would cry about. I scribbled quick, but meaningful “Thank you for everything”’s on six of my seven cards. Then it was time for Mr. Maddock, the teacher who had become like a father to me.

By the time I had finished writing his note, my hand ached, and my face was puffy, red, and wet. I slipped into the bathroom, touched up on my concealer, and then I walked down the stairs. Mom drove me to school and we didn’t talk much on the ride. She knew that if we started talking, I’d probably start crying again. When I arrived at school, as I walked to my tiny homeroom, I put on a bittersweet smile so everyone would know that this was tearing me up inside.

I went into my homeroom, which was also Mr. Maddock’s classroom, and I saw my witty English teacher, the man himself, Mr. Maddock.  A feeling of comfort washed over me. I walked over to him to give him my yearbook to sign. Clearly he must have seen the sad look on my face because the first thing he did was take the yearbook from my hands.

“Awh, Syd,” he said, smiling sympathetically.

He then gave me a giant bear hug. I could feel myself shaking and my stomach twisting with the awful, stabbing pain of sadness. I gently pulled away, afraid that I would stain his dress shirt with my hot tears. I once again felt the sickening lump in my throat and the soaking tears came down. Mr. Maddock put his hands on my shoulders and smiled at me. He was sad, too. I stepped away after a moment, scared that I would break down, and he went to sign my yearbook. I sat down on a wobbly desk and  my friends gathered around me, also struggling to hold back their salty drops—no thanks to me. We sat and talked and laughed about how emotional we all were.

“Shut up, Sydney,” Kelsey, one of my best friends that year, laughed, wiping her eyes, “You’re making me cry.”

But I knew that it wasn’t just me that was prompting everyone else to cry; they were already crying. We were all in this together.

After Mr. Maddock had scribbled in my yearbook with a lengthy, even-more-tear-inducing note and given me another hug, Kelsey and Kendall, my other best friend, walked with me to every class to deliver my thank-you notes to my other teachers and to say my goodbyes. It’s not even an exaggeration to say that I was tasting salt every five minutes of that morning.

After I gave my final thank-you card to Señora Thompson, we rushed to our weekly mass. I felt numb and sick the whole time, mostly because I knew I’d probably never come back to the Church. But it wasn’t because I was going to miss being forced to say prayers or stand for twenty minutes at a time; it was the community. I’d likely never be in a situation like this again, where I’d be surrounded by this particular group of people, all of us knowing and loving each other. The hot tears came down yet again, so Kendall held my hand.

After Mass ended, I said goodbye to everyone, sobbing a couple thousand more times. I said goodbye to my best friends, I said goodbye to my acquaintances, I said goodbye to my teachers, and I even said goodbye to my locker. It was at this time in particular that I felt like chaining myself to the trophy case at the end of our middle school hallway so that I’d never have to leave. I think I was seriously considering it when my mom met me there.

She picked up my bursting paper bags, filled with books that I’d throw out when I got home, and  we walked to her white Lexus together. As I left the school, I tried to pretend that this wasn’t the end, but it proved to be impossible. I was leaving, and I wasn’t coming back. My mom would never again drop me off at 7:45 AM in the disorganized carpool line behind the little school. I would again never groan in the hallway with Taylor and Eve about our impending doom—also known as Mr. Short’s science tests. I would never again leave school at 2:55, only to come back at 6:00 for basketball practice in our tiny, sweaty gym. I would never again be forced to stand outside on the blacktop in the freezing cold for fifteen minutes after lunch. These are the things you’d think I wouldn’t miss, but in this moment, I would kill to have to deal with that stuff if it meant I didn’t have to leave.

As our white Lexus pulled out of the school’s parking lot, I could feel the warm feeling of familiarity slipping away. It was happening. I was actually being forced to face my fear of change head-on. My heart longed for my friends, my teachers, and the comfort of it all. My home was no longer my home, and this day was simply proof of that.

I honestly still miss my old school,even though I couldn’t be happier at my current school.  I can’t help but feel like I will never have that same tight-knit community of friends and teachers that I had there, and I can’t imagine feeling more comfortable anywhere else. Facing my struggle with change at this time was a very hard thing for me to do, and that was mostly because I had never had to do it before. My teachers had always told me that they knew that I was so grown up and ready for high school even when I was only a little baby 6th grader, but I think that the truth is that I couldn’t grow up and be ready for high school until I faced my fear and left the safety of middle school.