Topitytopitytopity top. Ya, you just heard that.

Eddie

~

If I look unfocused in class, it's because I'm bored out of my mind.

Seventh grade English has to be the most tedious, slow class in the history of the world. The course material is reused from the third and fifth grade curriculums, as if repeating the same concepts every two years in slightly more advanced vocabulary is an effective way to teach.

I sit upright at my desk, trying to maintain appearances, staring with glazed eyes at my electric blue Nikes. Alliteration. Fascinating. In my boredom, I find myself fingering trumpet scales. Concert Bb major. Concert Bb blues. Harmonic minor, melodic minor, natural minor...

"Eddie?"

I look up, hiding my shock. This is easy. I know how to do this. I scan the board. "The rhyme scheme is ABAB CDCD."

The teacher nods. I grin.

No one I know is in my English class. I glance around the classroom. I do have that new girl Miya was talking to; she's sitting two rows over, looking nervous. There's another new kid, too, a blonde girl.

Last year I got an A- in English. My father flipped out on me, taking away my phone for two weeks until I brought my grade up to an A. I was left with the distinct impression that grades were all that mattered. Did he care about all my friends in jazz band? Or how we got to hang out at a jazz club together, and we got root beer floats afterward? No. Why would he? He cared about my perfect straight As. He liked my trumpet playing because I once won a first place trophy in a music competition.

My mother and father named me Edward. I styled myself Eddie. Eddie, the trumpeter. That sounded good. Not Edward, the concert violinist.

The bell rings. English is over. So, for the moment, are my contemplations. I sling the strap of my three-ring binder over my shoulder, shove my hands in my pockets, and stroll into the hallway. 

~Mia

I walk through the hall, my fast paced feet heading for the orchestra room. But suddenly I bump into a band kid, and I drop my orchestra binder, music spreading everywhere. 

I yell on the inside but quickly pick my things up, the other trying to help me. I look up, and realize that it's the Chinese trumpet player that won last year at Solo and Ensemble. 

"Bach Cello Suite No.1 in G Major? That's a mouthful," he mutters.

I roll my eyes to myself but again remember social skills. "Sure," I offer. "You okay the trumpet?"

"Yep. The name's Eddie," he says.

"Mia," I reply, standing up to shake hands.

I pick up my orchestra binder when I catch him looking at me confused.

"Mia? Do you have a twin-"

"Nope," I interrupt. "I'm Korean, she's Japanese, and our names are spelled differently. Anyway, I have to go because of solo practice. Catch you later."

I walk away quickly, effectively ending the conversation.  

Elena~

The bus rumbles jarringly as it pulls away from my stop. Inside, my stomach is doing the same thing as I draw closer and closer towards my new school. My American school. The kids around me are all chatting to each other, in English, and none of them come to sit next to me. I don't mind though. Being alone gives me time to think.

The school, la escuala, is huge, bigger than any school that I had seen in Argentina, and there are so many people there. Mostly I understand what they are saying, but there are some phrases that I do not get. They keep using the word... elowell? Elouel? Sometimes people are confusing.

When the teacher calls my name, she asks me to introduce myself. "Hola... hello... my name is Elena, I am from Argentina, and I play futbol y el gitarra," I say, stumbling over my pronunciation, aware from the start of the way I accent different things, the way I say the g in Argentina like they would an h, and call things by their Spanish names if I don't know what they are.

My first class is math, which is easy because we are starting with a review of whatever they did last year. Even so, I take careful notes and pay close attention. I have to prove that can be not only as good as the American students, but better. By the end of class I have covered a page and a half of my notebook.

I have a bit of trouble getting my locker open, and by the time I put my stuff away and get out mi guitarra I have to rush to get to band on time. I almost run into past two people who had just crashed into each other and were trying to fit a bunch of paper back into a binder. "Lo sientos," I call back to them. I slip into the band classroom just in time.

@Dandelion

Sure!

Also, maybe can there be a ballet class somewhere, either at the school, or outside of it, that Linnéa could go to? Maybe some other Charries would sign up too. Idk, just a thought.  

I'm not feeling super inspired, so I'll throw this out here and hope for some interaction.

Kendall~

"Addio, mamma," I say, stepping out of the car and kissing her on the cheek. It is the first day of school, and I will not lie and say I am not nervous. Being the new girl in elementary school seems so much easier now.

I moved with my family from Italy when I was seven. I do not tell anyone that, though. I think it is quite enough that people do not like me because I am gender fluid; throw immigration on top, and why would anyone even come close? Instead, I say that my nonni, my grandparents, immigrated; which is not a lie. They moved back to Italia after a few years. 

I am very good at English, though, considering I did not grow up speaking it. I say I was one of the children who was raised in both English and Italian from the start; but I really started learning when I was six, and my parents decided they were going to immigrate. My speech is a little formal, and I have trouble reading certain words, but I am proud of my achievements. Especially because I only speak English in public; my parents do not speak it much themselves, and we converse in Italian at home.

The first day of high school is a big day, and I am very nervous. I do know the building, though, because it is the same as the one for junior high, but I will be following unknown paths this year. I do not know what to expect.

There is one comfort. I have signed up for band this year. I have wanted to for a while, but I miei genitori-- my parents-- did not have enough money to rent an instrument until now. I will play the clarinet with the younger students. To follow familiar hallways! That is all I wish.

I open up my locker and store my books, gathering only the ones I will need for my first class. I enter, choosing a seat in the middle of the room. In the back you are obviously avoiding the teacher; in the front, you are over eager. The center is just right.

The teacher tells us to, when she calls our name, stand and talk about ourselves a bit. When I hear Milo, I stand.

"Please call me Kendall," I say. "My grandparents were Italian immigrants, and I speak the language fluently. I love surfing, and I am an only child."

The class passes without much excitement, though I am met by someone outside, fidgiting and being awkward. "Kendall," she says, "Are you . . . y'know, a boy or a girl?"

I smile. It is not an unreasonable question. I have been asked it before, and will be asked it again, many times. "Neither. Or both. Whichever you prefer. Please call me a he unless I specify otherwise, though."

I check my schedule. Next is beginning band-- exciting! I grab my binder, knowing I will recieve my instrument there. Hopefully there will be people I can speak more easily to . . . 

@Admins:

I posted something yesterday that doesn't seem to be up yet. Is this because you've decided it's not appropriate for posting, or because you're still looking it over? 

Everything in our queue is up now. Please try again. ~Admin 

Ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttooooooooooooooooooooooooooppppppppppppppppppppppppp

Spirit-rain says veor. Are you vetoing something, Spirit-rain?

*Yes. I'm vetoing you.*