My parents car sits there – god forbid they should actually be outside of the car to greet me – with the trunk popped waiting for my trunk like it was a treasure they’d earned. They’ve done none of the work but reap all the rewards.
It amazes me that through all my tribulations that the attendants haven’t beaten me to my parents car. Standing at the back of the car so that I can close the trunk after its depositing I feel something running down my arm. My first thought is, BUG! as I slap at my arm. I turns out to only be a trickle of blood that smears across my arm and hand. I lick the blood off; it tastes brightly of metal.
“Today Simon!” yells my mother as though I have something to do with the delay of my trunk. Just then the attendants wheel my trunk down the main walkway and pop it into the trunk. I slam the trunk shut and hop into the back seat (careful not to hit my head on the low roof of the back seat). I press my face up against the glass, savoring the cool feeling against my cheek, to take one last look at the school buildings. The art deco facade looks out of place in time; a time where I might feel more comfortable. Suddenly I don’t want to leave. At thirteen I’m feeling more torn than most adults do.