Algebra Equation: A Short Story

The transition from Grady High School had become a starting point of a new life. Slowly but surely, it found its way into adulthood. Where I embraced a new sense of responsibility and maturity. At this given time and day, I was responsible for following the rules and regulations. These set of rules was being enforced by the principal named Dr.Bockman. Students did not appreciate her position as being principal, yet her job was to support the Grady community. She had a very strict job and she took it very seriously. Nevertheless, I made my first entrance into the steps of being in high school. I walked into Grady High School with an overwhelming fear of anxiety and depression. I had no idea what the expectations was gonna be. So, I knew that

I came home one day to see both of my parents sad. As a third grader, I didn’t completely understand at the time, but my father had been laid off from the job he’d had since his teenage years. My father had started at the age of eighteen as a student worker at Southern Miss, and after years of hard work he had been promoted to the manager of shipping and receiving on campus. When the recession struck, the need to save money resulted in his position being terminated. My father was without a job. My father loved that job and when he lost it, he changed. He found a new love, alcohol. He let his love for alcohol become an addiction. He would do anything for alcohol; he even had secret stashes when my mom had removed all the prior alcohol from the house. Quickly my father became a violent drunk and began to routinely beat my mother and me. He became unstoppable; no person could get him back on track so my mother, in an attempt to keep me safe, removed him from the house. Even my mother’s best efforts weren’t always enough, as my father constantly broke into our house. One day my mother and I came home and my father was waiting in our den with a gun. We walked in, he pointed the gun at us, and then back at himself. He couldn’t decide to kill my mother, himself, or just all of us. He had more hatred in his eyes

Being a freshman, in a new school, a new city, even a new state, frightened me going into my first day of school as a high school attendee. Chaparral High School in Phoenix, Arizona was considered to be the top high school in the state of Arizona, however it sure was not for me. There was an ample amount of kids who believed they were better than the kid next to them because of the money their parents possessed. This characteristic began to grow on me; without my own awareness. Furthermore, I began to talk back to my parents, acted as a terrible brother to both my two younger brothers who looked up to me, as well as, my friends back in El Paso, Texas did not even want to talk to me. I had become a monster in all my friend’s eyes.

The students drew near as I reluctantly scurried towards the young mens bathroom where I could finally be alone. At the time, I lived in the snowy areas of northern New York, and while attending the infamous middle school, all of my worries in the world were heightened by 200%. From the first day of school, I wanted to fit in. While not even knowing what “fitting in” was, I was determined to do it. I desired to be liked by everyone around me with no worries in the world. I didn’t know that ironically, you couldn’t have both. As I tried to fit in, I noticed that others would flee from me in the halls as if I had an odor of a thousand pounds of garbage. I was confused why others would shy away from me in projects and hallways until the hints

The first year, the time to prove myself had arrived. Classes, rooms, teachers, and some students were unfamiliar. Eventually, minutes melted into hours, hours to days, and days to weeks. It didn’t take long before my schedule was routine, something of second nature. Humor and happiness were found in the form of my advisory family, where school was transformed into something more than going through the same motions of day to day activity. By the closing point of sixth grade, I was having a hard time letting go of what I’d adapted to. “What’s wrong?” my dad asked when I was getting into the car after being picked up early on the last day. I explained how distressed I was that my first year of middle school exceeded my expectations, and that it had to come to an end. Although his outlook viewed my reason for sorrow as trivial, I didn’t.

I breathed in the after rain smell. It must have rained the night before but I hadn’t seen it so I wasn’t aware that it would be wet. As I strolled onto the sidewalk and began my route to school I stomped on the wet, fallen leaves. I walked about a half mile each day to get to Florence Nightingale High school , or as I liked to call it, my daily prison. It was a good high school but it was still a high school. The usual American high school is full of people who are unsure of themselves and because of their un-surety, they feel the need to others down. Now take those people and add in an over-confident deaf girl into the mix and that's my every day. I am extra isolated but that’s fine by me. I really don’t care what they say about me. It's not like I can hear it

I never thought I would be labeled an outsider, a misfit even. As I trudged my way through the halls of my small town high school, I would endure the gazing pairs of eyes, that belonged to my peers, followed by whispering and often times some laughter. I always used zone out during those repetitive speeches and commercials about the effects of gossiping and rumors; never did I imagine that one day I would be on the receiving end of of the everyday potshot. Growing up I was always the center of attention, the one everyone yearned to be friends with, never was I the antisocial child in the corner with nowhere to turn… not until high school. They say high school changes you. They say high school accounts for some of the greatest years of

I was upstairs in this bamboo dorm that was on top of a steep hill next to another village of refugees separated by a long wood fence. Downstairs was a large room with wooden benches and tables. I could hear my mother teaching a class full of high school students who were reciting some verses from a textbook. I killed time by daydreaming, drawing, and playing with a rhinoceros beetle. After a few hours, I could hear the students’ footsteps hitting the dirt floor; they’re going back to their dorms, I thought.

People sometimes forget that not everyone is capable of a high school environment. Sometimes to be successful, you have to fail. I had just moved in with my mom therefore I was going to be the new kid at Lake Gibson High. I was nervous, but I tried my best to hide it behind a smile. My mom has always been able to see past the fake smile, although to everyone else, I was just another happy nobody. I knew that I wouldn't fit in. My anxiety made me breathe heavy. I got off the bus, still no one noticed me. I was hiding behind my black hoodie with my hair covering my face. “Breathe” I mumbled before stepping into my 1st period English class. I took a seat in the back, and all except the teacher ignored me.

As the story goes, it was my first day as a freshman at Poplar Bluff High School. As I stepped off the bus to my new school, I found myself unfamiliar and nervous. My first instinct was to find my friends on such a wide campus, but, class would be starting soon so I wouldn’t have time. “Guess I will just get to my first class early”, I thought to myself while walking in the shivering, cold weather.

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

Soon enough, I started to believe them; by the conclusion of fourth grade, I felt worthless. When I learned that I would be transferring schools, I saw redemption. That summer, I exchanged novels for magazines; I went on extreme diets to lose weight as if cutting pounds could cut the memories of abuse from my head. Going into fifth grade, I found myself googling “How to be Normal” in an attempt to abandon my identity; fifteen pounds and a miniskirt later, I had all but done so.

I dreaded coming home, it was the worst thing I could imagine and as i grew the feeling didn’t change. I would get out of bed quietly not wanting to wake up my mother, my bruises are still healing from yesterday’s beatings. I go to my closet and put on a black, long-sleeved shirt to cover up the scars, a pair of jeans to cover the hurt and a pair of hand-me-down sneakers. I quickly tip-toe past my mom’s room, only to see her lying there, sound asleep with an empty wine glass slowly slipping out of her hand. I grab my book bag and walk out the door and to the bus stop. I walked through the hallways, to each class and I hear the nasty comments and the rumors, secretly believing every word they say. I walked to lunch a sit alone as people pull

Girls perch on the tables like exotic birds gossiping and giggling, a football fly’s above their heads between two jocks in varsity jackets parading their toned muscles. Groups of high schoolers sit around the room laughing. Weekend has arrived and the hallways of the school were filled with tons of kids ready to go home. Every ear filled with the sound of multiple conversations going off at once, lockers opening and closing, music blasting without. I had managed to push past the constant stream of children and to the school field. The grass was damp and covered in a thin layer of frost. As I walked my footprints were embedded, leaving a piece of me in the cold ground. I saw my friends faraway chattering and fooling around. I was stuck in the wrong crowd; they are nothing like me but somehow I am still friends with them. I slowly made my way up to my “so called friends”.

Red lights, traffic lines, students walking or dragging, I could hardly tell. Today marks the day of my first day of high school without my best friend who may not connect to me blood-relatively but a family in my heart. I thought to myself, what if I can’t find any of my friends? What if I can’t find any of my classes? What if everything doesn’t turn out the way I want it to? Anxiety and panic roll in my body as soon as my mom stopped the car. I hesitated to open the car door, making little movements to even try to get out the car. I waved goodbye and shut the door closed so lightly that I think my mom had to properly shut it again. As I make my way to the front entrance with the gated black fence that shines so dimly, I looked up randomly at the sky, noticing that the clouds appeared very cloudy and immediately assumed that the rain will start sprinkling