I don't really understand the point of the wing even though everyone can't shut up about it. My dad started a non-denominational church here and the wing is a popular topic of discussion after church ends every Sunday. I'm roped into conversations with church people that seem dumb.
"So Erin, what do you think about that wing them there built?"
"I don't know. I heard it will be a longer walk, like for the cafeteria and stuff."
"Well God bless ya. The whole family. Your dad there's a good fella!"
I'm not sure I like this town, and I can't put up a fuss because my dad has his hands full with his new job, and my little sister is painting some psychotic red mural on her wall and playing loud obnoxious music, and occasionally screaming out, "I hate my life!"
God. My life sucks too, but not as much as hers. My mom wants to spend time with me, but I'm not done punishing her for something that happened before we moved. She refused to let me go to a middle school dance. My dad is to blame too, but somehow it's easier to punish my mother.
It wasn't just any old middle school dance. It was a very important, year-end dance for the seventh graders only. And I would be moving away the following week! This dance was the last big fun thing I could do with my friends. I imagined that they would secretly organize a farewell surprise party for me at the dance, with a film presentation depicting pictures from my childhood, and a farewell cake too. I envisioned a special slow dance to Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" with my crush at the time, Kris Casler, and maybe a second kiss with him. Our first was in second-grade.
I had good friends and memories at that school, and yet the last day of seventh-grade came and went like any other. My parents again said no to the dance, I packed up my belongings, and moved to the new town, just a thirty-minute ride away. I spent all summer giving my parents the silent treatment, and thinking about the dance I missed. That, and this new middle school wing I'd be a part of.
I don't know what the big fuss was. The wing supposedly does nothing other than contain the seventh and eighth graders. I liked the idea of my classmates being separated from their older peers, because it would force them to make new friends. New friends like me.
I collect my mostly pessimistic thoughts, shower and get ready to go face the day and the wing. I try on a few outfits and hate them all. I return to the bathroom to blow-dry my hair with extra care. It takes about forty-five minutes. My curls are so big and frizzy, it takes a diffuser and lots of Dep gel to tame them. Then I pull a dangerously hot curling iron down my unruly cowlicky bangs.
I put on some brown lipstick, and sneak some eye liner and mascara into my backpack just in case. Just in case I get to school and realize I'm the only girl in the whole school not wearing any. I pack a really unhealthy lunch, and go outside to wait for the bus.
At the bus stop there is a mentally challenged boy named Tedo. He's a few years older than me and wears thick coke bottle glasses. I am very polite and friendly to him, and we have an awkward conversation. Then out of the blue, Tedo leans down to kiss me, his mouth parted, and I can smell eggs. I back away and put my arm out to decline his kiss.
About two hundred years later, the bus finally comes. I find a seat by myself toward the back and watch for kids that look my age. Here comes one: thin, blonde, quiet, safe. Who else? The Whelan kids from our church. There are so many. But no one quite my age. And the little ones stay behind with their mom and wave. Cute. And at the next stop, it's a hot boy! Wow he lives right down the road from me, and he looks like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wow. I'm in heaven. I have to find out his name.
The bus driver's name is Chip. He picks up a few more kids, and drives us to school, talking over the loud speaker on the way, introducing himself and talking about bus safety. A smart alec kid named Bobby quietly echoes Chip, mocking him. The other kids laugh but I find it childish. Bobby is a moron.
When the bus pulls into the school, I get butterflies in my stomach. I get off and stand around watching others for a cue of when to go inside and what door to use. I'm hoping nobody looks at me. I stare at my class schedule, pretending to be preoccupied. Truthfully, it shouldn't be that hard to find my classes. After all, they are mostly contained in the wing.
Finally a bell rings and kids split up and enter two different ways. The older kids use the plain old main staircase at the front of the building. But everyone my age walks toward the side entrance, which at first consists of a very wide wheelchair ramp with concrete walls on either side and one sharp turn in the middle. Like cattle, we walk slowly up the ramp, elbow to elbow, turn, walk some more, and then we're at the door to the wing, all the seventh and eighth graders.
Inside the wing there's a smell of newness. New concrete, chemicals, and paint. The teachers are standing in the hall next to their allotted classrooms, smiling. I ask one to help me find my locker, which she does, and then assigns a student to help me throughout the day. She introduces me to another new student, Amanda Larabie, and I feel relieved and not so alone anymore.
My first class is social studies, with Mr. Peroza. He seems alright. A little goofy and unknowable, but decent enough. He gets right to the point and goes over an agenda he's printed up for us. We sign out textbooks for the year. My book is so big and heavy, I hope I never have to carry it home.
Then I go to English, which is right next door. The teacher is old and she has so many things in her room that I feel claustrophobic. The walls are covered in posters with quotes I don't understand, as well as a combination of differently sized dry erase boards and a chalk board. There are separate work tables in the back and way too many filing cabinets spread all over.
The rest of the day is fairly uneventful, but I do make new friends. Everyone is really friendly and curious about me. The friendliest kids of all happen to be cute twin boys in my afternoon science class. I'm already looking forward to science class everyday because of them. I am super excited about Spanish class too, because I took Spanish last year at my old school but Spanish starts in eighth grade here. This will be easy. Senora Pescado (Mrs. Fish) gives me a Spanish name I dislike, Elena. I tell her I already have a Spanish name, given by my former Spanish teacher Senora Collier, and that name is Maria. Senora Pescado approves of the name and lets me keep it.
My last class of the day is math. I'm proud to be in the advanced section after scoring so high on a state test last year. The teacher is short and pleasant, and looks like the type of guy who should know a lot about math. I've always done well in math. This class should be a breeze.
The bell rings and I take the bus home and eat a bag of potato chips and watch t.v. all afternoon. The Baker Wing is a mystery no more. It wasn't a big deal to begin with. Really what concerns me is this "Tuesday/Thursday/Monday" vs. "Wednesday/Friday/Monday" weekly changing schedule. When people explain it to me, I get more confused. Hopefully I'll figure it out soon.
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