Goodbye, High School!
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I am completely finished with high school. My hands are clean, my slate is clear, my plate is empty, etc., and I am free.
My class is the last year to enjoy the luxury of the OAC (Ontario Academic Credit) year, the fifth year of high school available to graduates for courses necessary for acceptance into university. I've stayed for one extra semester after graduation; I am way too good for college, pshaw. This year is the last this curriculum is available, so next year Ontario, Canada will get with the rest of the world's program. There will be two classes waiting for acceptance letters this spring; throats will be slit.
On my last day, I sat in an empty classroom before classes started and clasped my flat hands together just like a diva (almost poking myself in the eye with my fake nails) and spoke to the spirit of my favourite guidance counsellor, Mr. Johnson, who passed away the summer before, feeling his presence in the stuffy air.
"My four-and-a-half academic years have been a grand, flabbergasting success, but I have grown too good for that life," I confessed to Mr. Johnson. "I am ready to let go of the lockers, the cliques, the lunch hour, the crowd of slobbering young boys and humongously sexy jocks following me around wherever I go and begging for their turn to carry my books or hold up the mirror when I need an emergency hair-fix when someone has the audacity to jostle me in the hallway and displace my perfect tresses. I'm sure there'll be no shortage of males in university, and of course, inevitably, they'll find me, but it won't be quite the same thing."
Mr. Johnson's spirit chose not to comment, so I concluded, "I can't wait to get out of this fucking place," and went on with my day.
I spent the day spinning, everyone flocking and fluttering to me for fear that it was to be the last time they saw me. If only I were so lucky. I had to assure them over and over again that of course I'd see them again, of course I'd never let us lose contact, of course I wouldn't let a relationship like ours just fade away. I didn't mean a word of it.
At noon hour, I had one last marvellous go with the English teacher. I think he cried. I promised to email him when I get a novel published so he can jerk off to my literary genius, but he said it just wouldn't be the same. But what could I do? There's only so much of me to spread.
In the afternoon, notes came at me left right and centre. Declarations of love, professions of desperate desire, confessions of conversions to lesbianism for my sake, begging requests for one final meeting before I disappear forever and move on to a world full of their betters. I read everyone of them as I pretended to work diligently on my exam reviews, but I responded to none. Although I've been confronted with this sort of problem many a time over the course of my life, I still have not been able to find a satisfactory solution. So I just ignore the problem and move on and disappoint millions.
At the end of the day, I made sure to be the last to descend from the second floor to the main entrance. I knew everyone would be downstairs in the lobby saying temporary goodbyes to their friends--most of them would see each other again in the second semester, if not during exams--and secretly hoping with all their hearts to catch one last glimpse of me.
And then there I was at the top of the stairs--was it just the lighting or was I actually emitting glitters of gold?--and they all turned their adored eyes upon me, their hearts filled with a fatal mixture of helpless love and helpless sadness.
I slowly descended the staircase to blaringly sultry trumpets, indeed showering sparkles of gold with each step, and began to sing:
Goodbye, lockers
Well, goodbye, noon hour
It's so nice to leave this place
Where I don't belong
You are looking sad, Ryan
I can tell, Justin
You're going to miss me
Like you've never missed a girl before
I feel the room crying
For I'm finally leaving
This hellhole of a high school
God, this couldn't get better
So dry your tears, fellas
Get used to your peers, fellas
Laura's never coming back again!
Goodbye, dirty hallways
Goodbye, incompetent teachers
Laura doesn't want to see you ever again!
And they sang back about a million times over:
Goodbye, Laura
Well, goodbye, Laura
Laura will never
Come back here again!
It went on forever, but they loved it. They cried, and I pretended to be sad. But I wasn't about to let them repeat the chorus enough times to extend the song to almost eight minutes; I didn't have that kind of time to waste. So I made like I really had to go and waved gaily and air-smooched and ran with my arms high in the air out of my prison of the past four-and-a-half years and into the wide world as they just kept on singing behind me.
Finally I was alone; my breathing was heavy as I leaned against the brick wall and held a dramatic hand against my forehead. Oh, the stress of it all! But oh, the happiness! I sang to myself, to Mr. Johnson, to my very liberation:
Goodbye, high school
Well, goodbye, high school
Laura's sure as hell
Never coming back here again!
Laura Joldersma is all growned up now.