I stand, rocking my heels back and forth on the orange plastic bleachers of the Thunderdome. Other freshmen are pressed against my shoulders. I am elated, overjoyed, gleeful. Isn’t this just the best thing in the world?
The homecoming assembly; something every little freshman dreams about during the summer before high school. I hear the voice over the microphone, “Freshmen! Let us know you’re here! Stand up and yell your year!”
My time has come. This is the moment that will define the rest of my high school career.
Everyone jumps, I jump. I land back on the balls of my feet, pins and needles tingling in my toes. The tingle parallels my adrenaline rush. Wow, isn’t this exciting?
I scream.
But I’m one of the few who does.
Our voices scarcely echo through the Thunderdome.
Barely louder than the microphone that called us.
Where is the synchronization?
We sound scattered and weak. I’m not the only one who knows it.
The sound booms over the bleachers, reverberating back and forth in a chorus of discontent: “BOOOOOOO! BOOOooooooo! Booooooooo!”
It’s a slap in the face.
A punch in the gut.
A dagger to the heart.
Why don’t the upperclassmen love us? Why are they so mean? I feel hurt and degraded. It feels personally directed, as if the boos are chipping away little pieces of my soul—pieces that will forever linger in that Thunderdome. Pieces I can never get back. Pieces the upperclassmen stole.
I will forever be resentful and broken because of the upperclassmen’s boos. I will never live this down. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.
