My dormitory is on the top floor so when the Mercedes pulls up through the long and winding driveway I know that my time is up. The difference here, at school, is that all the parents drive a Mercedes. My parents model just happens to be a few years older than everyone else’s. This is the only way I’m able to tell the difference at this distance.
I swear you can hear the clapping teachers as my parents car parks in front of my building. A student that gets straight A’s; you’d think they’d mourn my leaving each year. It should be a privilege to teach me.
Instead I’m avoided like a plague. Except you can’t really avoid a plague. It’s always there, festering, trying to get under your skin or into any free orifice. Surely I can’t be that bad.
Mostly I’m told that I’m “awkward” or “hard to be around”. I hate it say it – though I don’t really – but these goons operate on an inferior intellect. This was the best my parents could do when they shipped me off.