I close the door to my mom’s car. I see everyone with their backpacks and depressed faces. It’s the first day back from Thanksgiving break. The only good thing I think of is seeing Amelia after break. I don’t just think of her; I see her.
“Hi, Amelia!” I say.
“Hi, Nessa,” she replies. Nessa is a nickname my mom made up. Only Amelia and my family calls me Nessa. RING, RING. That’s the bell. We walk inside, almost jamming each other in the door since it’s still cold outside. I see the little sixth graders behind us. I wonder if I was once as annoying as them. When I get to my locker, I stuff my backpack inside and take out my English textbook. Amelia is right behind me since her locker is across the hall. “Come on.” I signal to her that I’m ready. “I hate English.”
As if she hasn’t told me this a million times.
“Same here!”
I tell her know every time she says I hate English. We both hate English. “At least Mr. White is kind of nice, I guess.”
“Welcome back!” Mr. White says as we walk through the door.
“Hi,” Amelia and I say at the same time.
We take our seats right next to each other.
“So what did you do over break?” I ask her.
“Same thing, go to Wisconsin,” she tells me as if she’s annoyed.
We couldn’t text over break since we live in Utah and the internet in Wisconsin is horrible. So we have to catch up in between classes.
“Guess what I did?”
I really didn’t do anything; I just didn’t want her to feel bored.
“Nothing,” she tells me.
“How’d you know?” I ask her.
“You say that every time when you do nothing other than Thanksgiving itself.”
She’s not wrong. RING, RING. That’s the second bell and Mr. White gathers everyone’s attention.
“Everyone stop talking. I know that you guys are all eager to share but we have stuff to do.”
He goes on to talk about world problem essays. This is why I hate English. Why do we have to write about solving problems, even though this essay won’t solve them? Anyway, my mom tells me to pay more attention in English because I have a seventy-two percent in it. I really try to, but it’s hard; I always have to ask Amelia what we are doing, then we get in trouble for talking, then I am told to pay attention more by Mr. White, but how?! He’s literally asking for people not to pay attention. His class is so boring.
“It’s 8:40, everyone can leave.” Finally! I’ve been typing the “E” so many times to see how long it would take to fill five pages. I grab my books and leave. “Bye, Amelia!” I say and head to art class. Art is the only class that’s actually worth my time. When I get to the door, I see Eliana, the same Eliana that came over to my house last week. I can’t believe that she’s my mom’s best friend’s daughter! “Hi!” I walked up to Eliana.
“Hi, Venessa,” Eliana says as she opens the door.
“I didn’t know our moms were friends!” I say to try to move the conversion along.
“I know right!” she tells me as we take our seats right next to each other. Ms. Arts—the irony lying in the fact that our art teacher is named Ms. Arts—lets us sit wherever we want. Also, whenever there is a sub teacher, she lets us draw. I wonder where the sub is, now that I think about it. That door opens and I hear a high-pitched voice: “Sorry guys I had to use the restroom.” I hate subs. She goes on to take attendance and after all the kids who think they are funny by saying “Not here” when she calls names, we finally get free time. For the whole 45 minutes, Eliana and I just talk about everything; honestly, it feels nice to have a friend other than Amelia. I still like it here though. I have two more classes before lunch. I can’t wait to tell Amelia about our connection. Eliana and I walk to math since we have the same math class. I see Amelia walking to art. I try to say hi but Eliana keeps on talking. After math and science, it’s lunch time. I sit at the table we always sit at. Just us. I wonder where Eliana sits. I try not to worry about it too much. I see Amelia and call her over and start telling her about Eliana.
