When All Was Lost

I was fourteen, and it was my first week of freshman year. I was a nervous little freshman. I was taller than many of the seniors, making me stand out in a crowd, which was even more frightening in a way. In this strange place known as high school, I heard that anything could happen. From soccer practice, which began the week before our first day, I seemed to be alright. Yet, apprehension overcame me when stepping through those mile wide front doors, and I breathed for the first time as a high school freshman in a place that would become my secondary home, if you will. I had some of my good friends along with me, such as Daryl, Mike, and Seby, but I still felt uneasy. At soccer practice, everyone seemed at ease, yet it was after entering that building that new characters crafted out of sheer stress would unveil themselves. Petrified of leaving that building with a very dense bag, I felt relieved that we freshmen got a reprieve of a mere orientation.
The next day, some of my biggest fears began to show their faces. My first class at high school was the A period Algebra 1 class taught by Ms. Sinitski. I was horrified when I found myself pick up a pencil and open that agenda and write, “In a paragraph, tell how I used math this summer.” Down below in the basement was the stage set for my next class. After fiddling with my locker for the entirety of the four minutes granted to us in the halls between classes, I arrived to my first class, the only thing, I was locked out. I felt as if I had been letting down everyone I knew by arriving late, with the kindly Biology teacher, Ms. Osborne, taking time out of class to let my pitiful self in. I heard that those who got late to classes failed, and I was vehement with myself that I might be failing a class because of my inefficiency with my locker. Distraught, I decided never to get late to another class, and began to literally carry my locker all over the place. After that first day, I found myself with a light and intimidating load of homework, and with arms that felt like they had grown a few inches from carrying all those books.
Syllabus is a word that I found much absurdity in from the start. Never had I ever heard such an unusual word, and it is not surprising that I discovered it in high school, where everyone seemed to be geniuses. From my D period English Writing class, I had received a scant assignment of getting a parent/guardian to sign the syllabus. It seemed to be a joke when the sound waves hit my eardrums that a homework assignment would be to get a sheet of paper signed. Hoping that this was as far as high school homework went, I decided to take my time with it. My first week of high school had concluded, and it was quite an accomplishing feeling that I came out of it in one piece, without an F, without a detention, and without a fight. That weekend, it was high time that I took to the basement and squandered my time with the Nintendo 64, to put out that stress felt in those first few and harsh days. In my relaxation, I lost all sight of my one responsibility, that of the syllabus. When Monday came along and I approached my D period English Writing class, I went blank. Something was wrong, but what? I took to my seat and thrusted those books under my desk, with my arms feeling as if they were almost like elastics. Ms. Walter, my teacher for that class, kicked off the class by ordering that we pass up our signed syllabi. I felt an awkward emptiness, perhaps this was that sinking feeling I felt. I opened my folder, and took out the syllabus, with the line labeled “parent/guardian signature” blank. I reached a state of panic. My first grade in this class, and looked like I was going to blow it. Would I be trapped in the infinite vortex of that dreaded AMS session? Would I fail off the soccer team? Would my parents feed me at all if they saw this? It seemed as if all were lost.