There's a Million Voices Out There (Part 1)
By Dhvani, age 15, Oman
Sweet Designs Featured Writer
If people don't understand, they usually walk off, but really ... If you gave someone with a different way of thinking a chance, you might just like them and start thinking like them too. It's not always what people think about, it is also about who they really are. The outer face does matter, but not as much as the inner one.
Mariah Jane Classy, yep, that's my name. Being 15 and switching to a new school is not an easy thing, especially if you're going to be one of the youngest in the grade. I was in Singapore before I moved to New York, but I am originally an American from Florida. I had all I wanted when I was in Singapore; it was more of a hometown to me than any other place in the world, including my actual home town. I had been there for 12 years. I had friends who loved me and we were a perfect group of 13 people. We were all from different countries but gave everyone a chance to be in the group.
International School of New York is where I study - ISNY for short. I was meant to be in grade 10, but the school thought I was too much of a competition for them so they moved me up a grade. I was proud of myself and so were my parents; all the hard work is finally paying off. My school back in Singapore was an international school, therefore it was expensive. My dad's company paid the school fees. In fact, almost everyone is my grade's dads worked in the same company.
Since this school was an international school too, it was crazy expensive, and again, the company paid the fees. If my dad were to send me to school, I'd probably be sent to a normal high school, but my parents wanted me to have the best possible education. They thought I wouldn't be able to make the best of my brain in a normal school.
A normal school means a normal life - no mansions, no dinner at a five-star hotel every weekend with family and friends. I'm not rich, but most of the kids in my new school are. Most of their parents paid their class fees. First impressions are the hardest ones to make for people to appreciate you. I guess I passed the test on the first day, but during the week, when the popular kids found out that I wasn't really as rich as they were, they laughed at me whenever they saw me around. This got me really upset and I didn't even want to go to school. I forced myself to puke all the food out of my mouth. I begged my parents to get my admission to the normal school changed, but they didn't agree to that. Now I cry myself to sleep every night.
*After One Week*
"Morning, Mariah!" my mother says as I walk into the kitchen, "Sleep well, honey?"
"Morning!" I say on a bright sunny Monday morning. "Yeah sure, I'm super excited to go to school today!"
"OH! That's brilliant to know." Mum says again, but this time smiling at me.
"MUM! That was pure sarcasm!" I say back grinning.
"Um, okay," she says, placing a plate in front of me which has toast and baked beans. And right then, in walks my dad.
My dad greets me and my mum, Jacelynn (Jacy for short), with a big smile on his face. And, of course, I reply, but in a bad mood.
I was so not excited for school today, even though it was a brand new week and maybe the start of something new. This weekend I had done nothing but talk to my best friends back in Singapore, and I cried when we all had a video chat session.
The sound of the stupid yellow school bus always made me cover my ears when the driver pressed the horn button. My dad and I walked out of the house together. Yeah, it was a simple house with five bedrooms, four bathrooms, one large living room, a kitchen and a study.
My dad says goodbye to me and I watch him walk to his brand new red Chevrolet. I enter the bus, walk halfway down and take seat on one of the sides, where I sit alone. The ride to school is about 15 minutes long.
I finally reach school, get off the bus, walk closer to the big black gates. I am standing right there, staring at the big white building, then look down to see some of the kids of grade 11 (my grade) staring and laughing at me.
To be continued