Our Little School
By Danielle, age 17, South Carolina
I, little me, just sit in the corner typing away, trying to keep my face hidden by passing visitors. No one dares speak to me for when they pass I do not smile or wave, just a quick stare and then proceed on my computer. There's something within these grounds I hear every day from under the passing cars. Sometimes as low as a whisper, but mostly a yell with the force of a punch in the stomach. I look around to make sure no one is around, but when I when turn to see there's nothing, but old autumn leaves brushing over the ground.
Our little school lives on the highway to oversee the passing cars. I sometimes wonder if this was the location of the overseer during the slave days. Its broad, beautiful brick buildings stand mountainous to me and the surrounding trees. Cars feel every parking space and yet you never see that many students. Something about this school drove kids to corners to remain in books until their minds would no longer deal with the sizzling of their brains. I never imagined we would all look the same: dressed for success, but alone and scared. Everyone seems so withdrawn, like children of abuse. I move silently and swiftly to my next class where those four white walls once again surround my vision. I'm early to class or maybe too late, but you never know, with no bells or hoards of students coming and going.
Finally, another student enters, and my fears vanish until he walks into the room. Short, white haired, and without a word he begins to write on the board. We copy until our hands cramp, but all he does is erase and begin again. Will this college misery ever end? Two weeks until Spring Break. Hopefully I'll live.
