A green sign reads
“High school: half mile.”
The beige sidewalk scrapes
the sneakers beneath my feet.
I nearly trip
over a crack
onto the pavement,
but I save myself.
Palms scratched from the hard ground,
I continue walking.

My mind races.
My heart pulses.
My muscles tighten.
My fingers fidget.
You could say
I was nervous.

A green sign reads
“High school: quarter mile.”
A bundled up woman
strolls by, a dog leash in hand.
Behind her follows
a small dog, a beagle.
It barks at me
while its master restrains it.
My foot steps into a puddle.
With my feet freezing,
I continue walking.

I came from a school
that was private.
Graduation was held
in a small room
the size of a suburban bedroom.
Sixteen kids and I
stood in the front
with our blue gowns
and blue caps
and wide smiles.

A green signs reads
“High school: next right.”
A yellow bus passes by
with open windows.
The laughter of children echoes.
Through the glass I see running.
The side has the words
“Elementary School” in red paint.
I take a right turn.
Another bus comes
with its windows closed.
No talking, no moving.
The people just sit straight
and look forward.
Under the windows read the words
“High School” in a black font.

My best friends
from my old school
warned me.
They said that
people from my school
are rude.
They said that
people from my school
are bullies.
They said that
people from my school
are brats.
They said that
people from their school
are better.

A green sign reads
“Welcome to High School.”
Palms scratched,
feet soaked,
I never break stride.
A cement path guides me
to the main doors.
Not a single person
stops to merely say
hello.
Involuntarily,
I breathe in
and I breathe out,
and I walk in.