High School Memories
My four years of high school followed an upward trend.
I had friends going into freshman year, as my middle school and high school were connected by a single, oblong hallway in which short seventh graders would get trampled by upperclassmen.
You would assume I began on good footing, as I didn’t have to meet many new people, but I wasn’t a social butterfly; I had barely grown three inches since my five-foot days of seventh grade and had a goofy ‘fro that I refused to cut because I thought it was cool. I didn’t fit into the exclusive, ever-roaming packs of lacrosse players who were six-foot-one and testosterone-addled by fourteen.
Rather than party in rowdy mansions hosted by wealthy classmates, I spent most of my time home, playing Grand Theft Auto and firing airsoft guns at coke cans in my backyard, accompanied by a friend or two.
It wasn’t until junior year that I lost interest in my usual activities, as even my closest friends began to do different things. So I cut my hair and began to talk to more people. I made a few new friends, some of whom were athletes (not lacrosse players, of course), and developed a taste for small-town adventure.
At two in the morning, friends and I would drive aimlessly around Main Street and sometimes head to the next town over to devour steaming bowls of pho noodles at a cozy, perpetually-open restaurant called Shabu-Shabu. After, we would speed in parking lots, trying and failing to do donuts with my thoroughly underperforming Volvo S60.
By the time senior year came, we had increased my car’s mileage from 20,000 to 35,000. It’s since become a pleasure of mine to glance at the ever-propelling odometer and smirk, remembering all the early-morning nights I would go to bed with a grin stuck to my face as if by suture.