The cool September winds swept across the streets of San Francisco signifying to many children across the United States that it was the beginning of the school year. The time for running around and playing sports came to a steaming halt for many students as Washington High School opened its doors for the first time in two months on September 7, 2016. The academic powerhouse was home to just over 1200, including one Samuel Stevenson.

Sam was a genuinely academic student and talented flutist who also enjoyed playing for various soccer teams as he grew up. Although, he never quite had the speed, touch, and athleticism it took to play on a competitive level. Therefore, he kept his playing to himself and other small teams around his area.

As the doors of Washington High School flew open with incoming freshman and returning upperclassman, Sam was left by himself. No friends to talk to, no siblings to contact. Sam was left to make his way through the ups and downs of Washington all by his lonesome.

His first class of the day was Honors Chemistry with Mr. Jones. Sam had heard of him before, all negative things, yet he was optimistic about this class, as science was his favorite subject.

“Alright class,” called out Mr. Jones as the incessant ringing of the bell came to a conclusion. “Today we will start right off by going over the steps of the scientific method. Now, who can remember from middle school what the order is… Anyone?”

The silence and deadness of the classroom could be heard for the next town over. Regardless of the class’s shyness, Sam was not afraid to shoot his hand up in a second.

“The order is observing an occurrence or asking a question, researching the topic, forming a hypothesis, designing and conducting an experiment, analyzing results, drawing a conclusion, and reporting results!” hollered Sam.

“Very good Mr. Stevenson” called our Mr. Jones. Sam could sense the jealousy and anger towards him by the dirty looks and snide remarks made by his classmates. He slumped down into his seat, glanced at the clock, and waited for the next period to begin.

The following classes for Sam included Algebra, English, and History, all of which he despised but managed to sustain an A average in each all throughout middle school. As 5th period rolled around, it was the start of what would keep Sam elated yet placid throughout the day. It was band class!

With enthusiasm, Sam jolted through the double wooden doors of Mr. Wilkes’s classroom. The air smelt of new brass. The snare drums were tightened to the pitch perfect point. The trombones were tuned to the ideal note. Sam sprinted to the front seat of the classroom, fumbling with his flute in hand, barely carrying himself as he was trembling with excitement.

Sam pried open his flute case and began tuning his instrument. At that moment, Mr. Wilkes walked through his office doors to the front of the classroom. He walked with a swagger about him as he sauntered to the podium, reaching for his class plans.

“Why hello class, I am your teacher, Mr. Wilkes or Mr. W for short. As I can see you all seemed to have already tuned your instruments so we will get right into playing” uttered Mr. Wilkes as he lifted up his baton, issuing the start of our play. On count, the snare drums roared in the back, the tubas hollered from the left side near the exit, the trombones sounded softly and silently in the front. It was a perfect symphony of sound on display.

As the time slowly dwindled away, Sam’s bliss went along with it, as he had to face the fact that it was time for lunch, one period where he knew was going to be amiss.

The bell sounded which alarmed the 26 students in Mr. Wilkes’ class that it was time to go from the harmonious sounds of the trumpets and tubas, to the chatter and cacophony of the lunchroom.

Sam stepped into the large, beige colored room, which many refer to as “The Caf” and gazed deeply at the 200 kids that sat before him, conversing with one another, partaking in childish games, and spreading secrets that would ruin days of many of their own classmates.

The cafeteria was filled with 30 gray tables, lined up evenly with one another. The hot lunch line was on one side of the cafeteria while the sandwich line was adjacent to it. Sam dashed to the sandwich line to reserve a good spot just three people behind the counter. Before he knew it, a group of no more than 6 seniors stepped right in front of him, not even looking him in the eye and uttered, “Get to the back freshman!” Sam, only standing at 5’4, did not want to get into an altercation with an older kid.

The thought of standing up to the 6’2 quarterback of the football team did not even cross his mind. Like he had done all his life, he let the kids bully him into not even buying his lunch. Instead, he trudged to an empty, square table in the back corner of the lunchroom, near the garbage can, and sat by himself for the next 42 minutes. Periodically, Sam would hear a whisper from one kid to another, and then subsequently, a French fry would be hurled across from one table to another, landing on Sam while the other kids would all giggle.

Period 7 slowly jaunted around the corner and it was time for Sam to go to gym class. Although he was athletic and capable of performing in various sports, he had dreaded this class the most. Mainly because of the fact that he knew he would be paired up with other kids from his soccer team who had made fun of him all throughout the summer practices and training sessions.

“All right, let’s go over attendance first,” called out coach Michaels. He had a slight grin about him. He was roughly 6’0, burly, broad-shouldered, and had skin as pale as a fresh shirt right out of the wash. “I will call out your last name, and you will just say here, easy enough? Adams... Carol… Clarke…” Coach Michaels went along soundly, going through the alphabet carefully. Soon enough, he stumbled onto the name “Stevenson?” The whole class turned as one, almost as clockwork, looking backwards at Sam and waited for his reply. Sam gently and faintly let the word, “Here” fall out of his mouth. He hastily looked away from everyone to hide his embarrassment as the rest of class returned with their eyes returned to coach Michaels.

As period 8 came along, Sam trekked from the gymnasium in one corner of the school all the way across to the other side almost as far away and isolated as Alaska. Room 604, was separated and distant from all other parts of the school. Sam gloomily walked through the doors of the Computer Science room to witness a well-sized engineer building a computer from scratch. He plopped down in a seat towards the back of the classroom wishing to be unseen. He leisurely awaited the final ring of the bell at 3:00 pm to conclude that the first day of school had ceased. All leading up to one final activity at the end of the day, soccer practice.

He quickly scurried to the locker room before any other kids could get there. He rummaged through his bag to find his gym clothes, his shin guards, and most importantly, his soccer cleats that he had believed brought him exceptional luck. Sam scampered out of the locker and made his way to the field.

Sam eagerly jogged down to the field with a joyfully sorrowful grin across his face, reflecting on his opening day of school. Yeah, yeah, chemistry was fun and all but what about all the kids with their fearsome stares, and gym class too. Although band was all right.

He eventually made it onto the field to meet the rest of his teammates ignored him at first. Coach Collins came down to the field to address the boys’. In a thick British accent, he uttered, “All right lads, today, it is your time to prove to me who I should be starting, who I should be taking to tournaments, who deserves a spot on this team. We will play an 11-a-side scrimmage. Show me you can play. If you are skilled on defence, don’t try to play up. Play to your strength! Good luck out there!”

Sam laced up his cleats for the first time on well over 8 months. This time, when he stepped on to the field, he had a vengeance, almost as if he felt he had something to prove not only to the coach, but also to everyone around him.

His first touch of the ball was done with finesse and elegance like a swan in a river. It was magisterial, almost like it was something out of a storybook. It was something he never felt capable of. His teammates found it implausible how he had the touch of a professional after all that the doubted him.

After 90 minutes of brutal, attacking, physical soccer, Coach Collins called it game and debriefed the boys about the performance.

“It was a great showing from all of you today, especially you Sam. You stepped up above everyone else and definitely deserve a place on this team. Good work”

All 22 boys walked home congratulating Sam on his performance. He felt, revived from an old version of him to a brand new, superior one.

The next day, Sam bursted through the doors of Washington High School with his head held high, his back straight, apt to face whatever challenges came his way.

In Chemistry, Sam marched to the front of the room, took a seat, hitting on any curveballs Mr. Jones threw at him. The next five classes were more of the same as Samuel Nichols Stevenson faced his problems head on, instead of running from them like he had done his whole life. Sam was now ready for high school.