The first day of school is always a big event in the mind of a teenager, especially when the day marks a new era of upperclassman status. Seeing the way I prepare for such a day however, you would think the world was coming to an end the next day and I’d been tipped off.


Once all of my school supplies are purchased, they immediately enter my backpack. My backpack, by the way, looks like it was organized by a member of the Army. Equal amounts of lined paper grace the three rings of each of my class-coded binders, pencils are stuck in the little cylindrical pockets designed for such a purpose, and just enough space is left for the inclusion of my home-made lunch.

After this task is finished, having consumed two hours of my evening, I simply pace around my room. My footprints are imprinted in my carpet as surely as the symbols belonging to the caves of Neanderthals. I can’t tell you why I do this, but it has always remained a part of my compulsive back-to-school routine.

Getting to bed is the worst part. In hopes that my four thousand paces have worn me down, I snuggle into my sheets at just about 12 a.m. Sleep is the last thing that happens though, of course. Any and every sequence of events that could possibly push themselves together the next day runs through my mind—I’m not kidding. ‘What if I step on the wrong bus and I get taken to an elementary school? What will I do if school actually started a week ago? What if I get sucked into another dimension while I’m sleeping?’ This goes on for at least another hour until my behavior has worn down my body so much it ceases to function.

I never make it until the sound of my alarm at six o’clock either. I get up at least a half an hour before that happens. When I stumble into the bathroom, I look into the mirror at my flaming red eyes that contrast perfectly with the pitch black circles underneath them. After looking in amazement at the monster I’ve created, I get into the shower where somehow I finally can close my eyes and fall asleep. My wake-up is followed by me running out of the bathroom and quickly putting on the outfit I had picked out the night before, neatly folded, laying at the foot of my bed.

Of course when I get to school, it’s the same as it ever was. I enter a room of people telling their summer adventures and get “come here” motions from all of my friends. At this time I always regret what I put myself through the night before. Nobody has turned into an alien, and I’m not in another dimension. But when I reach into my backpack come noon and my lunch is missing, I start to second guess myself.