“It’ll all be over soon,” I told myself as Watson shoved me into the school locker after third period. Tomorrow, my life would end, along with the endless torture that this red-brick school has been giving me for the past year. High school is no joke. Especially if you’re the one, incongruous, East Asian kid in a room full of people who don’t even know what chopsticks are. There isn’t a day in which someone doesn’t question whether I’m a master of kung fu or ping pong. But sometimes, my life isn’t so bad. I’m always the first picked for math project groups, where I’m the only one who does any work. I wish I could say the same for the sports teams in physical education, but I always come in last, even after that one kid who puts chocolate syrup on his bagels for breakfast. This is what I get for being Korean—a world full of hate and images that I have no choice but to live up to.

In the dark abyss of this educational hole, I smiled. “Thank you!” I yelled towards the bully who I owed nothing to. Then, I frantically started banging against the steel door, waiting for my homeroom teacher and guardian angel Mr. Johnson to come and save me again. I heard a rustling of keys, and light flooded my pathetic little cave. Crouched in the 24 by 18-inch locker, I pitifully stared into the blue eyes of my teacher.

“Got yourself in a pickle again today? Who was it this time, DeShon or Watson?”

I looked at him timidly, “Watson,” I replied.

“Well get out of there and dust yourself off. Class starts in five.”

I scrambled out of the cramped prison, and stood up, stretching my back like my father did after fixing our leaking sink for the third time that day. Grinning, I picked up my disheveled backpack and books that Watson kindly waterlogged for me, utilizing my water bottle. As I walked into the bathroom and drained my backpack in the toilet, I felt an unnatural sense of satisfaction erupting from the inside of my chest. Tomorrow, I would leave this horrid prison and start anew. Joyfully, I marched to my math class, eager to learn. 

As the only ninth grader in the 11th-grade calculus class, I drew suspicious glances from my peers, shuffling in with my soaking bag and textbooks. Lazily falling into my seat, I looked out the window, the cold winter breeze meeting the slightly warm windows and blocking my view of the football field with gray condensation. Today we were supposed to learn about integrals, but as the teacher droned on about differentiation and inverse functions, my mind wandered off to the brown boxes in my bedroom. 

All my models and toys were to be left behind when I left this cruel continent. Only one suitcase was allowed for me and my younger brother to put our belongings and anything we deemed worthy in. Of course, my brother put everything that he owned inside, leaving absolutely no room for any of my valuables.

“Jonathan!”

I jumped up startled.

“Just because you know everything already doesn’t mean you can daydream in class!” Mrs. Reiny yelled.

I quickly muttered my apology and started paying attention to the lecture. However, my mind continued to wander. Ever since my father announced a few months ago that he received a job in Japan, our whole family has been giddy with excitement. Tomorrow, I will fly to a new country where no one knows me. Where I could start a new life. Embrace a new personality, and make new friends. I knew my brother was in the same position, and desperately needed a clean slate on which he could write his own story however he desired.

Fourth period ended pretty quickly and I packed up my still-soaking equipment and high-tailed it out of there. My last class of the day was the one I dreaded the most. P.E. However, today was different. Confidently, I walked towards the gym like a metronome, water bottle swinging in my hand at 55 beats per minute. I stopped at a water fountain to refill my bottle and get a quick drink before heading down the long, gray hallway with the outdated student council posters on the brick walls still advertising the winter dance that happened three months ago.

I pushed on the gray door handles and stepped onto the slick gym floor. A few minutes later, the coach appeared before our class and addressed us, “Today we are going to be playing dodgeball, everyone line up. Max and Joseph are team captains.”

I knew what was about to happen. I would be picked last with no reservation. Just a shadow in the bleachers, barely noticeable, but there. Apparently, Joseph won the coin toss and chose his first and second players. Max went next and selected another two. I sat on my knees, smiling at the day ahead of me. 

“Jonathan!” Joseph called. 

I looked up. Surely he was talking about another Jonathan.

“Jonathan Choi! Get up here!”

Stunned, I looked at Joseph who was smiling at me, his wide face beckoning me to join his group. Slowly I stood up and trudged down the bleachers, everyone’s eyes on me. I wasn’t last, for the first time ever, I wasn’t last. As soon as I got down, I ran over to Joseph and looked questionly at him. Suspiciously, I queried in a low whisper, “Why in the world did you pick me?”

“You looked like you needed a friend, you’re always picked last. Also, I heard you were leaving tomorrow,” he whispered back.

Joseph was my next-door neighbor, and while we never talked to each other, we considered each other acquaintances. As the dodgeball game commenced, I could only think of one thing. Was this an unnatural act of friendship, or just a pity play utilized to gain my appreciation? Either way, I was extremely grateful to the first person at this school I could officially call my friend. Joseph and I were both hit pretty quickly and as we waited in the “dead-line,” Joseph began his feeble attempt to begin a conversation.

“I heard you were leaving tomorrow,” he repeated.

“Yeah, my dad found a job in Japan,” I replied feebly.

“That’s a shame,” Joseph nodded, “Oh, yeah! Did you see that new Studio Ghibli film?”

As we continued talking, Joseph and I noticed we had a lot in common. We both enjoyed video games, cooking, reading, and watching football. That’s when Joseph, a 14-year-old half-italian boy, reached out his hand a pulled me out of my dark abyss into a unique friendship. And as soon as it started, my last school day came to an end.

Walking out of my red-bricked solitary confinement, I wasn’t cheerful or happy. The steel doors that once blocked me from a connection with the outside world crumbled at my feet and I cried. I had never shed tears before. Not after Watson punched me in the gut a few weeks ago, after DeShon stole my lunch money, or even after I got a 76% on my science test, my lowest grade ever. I looked at the brick building with the eyes of a prisoner, finally released, but still retaining precious memories that he would carry around forever. Fights, ideas, events, and even a new friend. I stood at the steps of the place I once called a prison and looked at it like a home. Strict, but manageable while harboring the capacity to make one an upstanding citizen of society. My face still wet and my eyes red, I stepped into my parent's car and was swept away from the comfort of a new life. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. It was like I buried those lemons in the ground, expecting lemonade to come spurting out when in reality all I had to do was cut into them and give a small squeeze. But, the question that I asked myself while running to my terminal was, do I really want new lemons to work with?