Sam tapped her pencil on the desk. She glanced at the clock. Did she really just pass a sanctuary in order to reach her school building? She scanned the classroom. Twenty-five kids, all swimming in a sea of hunter green and navy blue plaid. She was glad she found a cute navy cardigan to distinguish herself; but when she arrived, she spotted three other girls in the same shade. The polyester skirt was murder on her bare, dry knees. She tried to slide it up a smidge, but each time her teacher would shake her head and tap her eraser gently on the desk- a reminder to lower it again. Tomorrow she would have to remember to lotion.The bell rang and the teacher rose to greet the last of the students drifting inside then closed the door.
"Good morning everybody." She smiled and clapped- hoping the class would join in her enthusiasm.
"Welcome back!"
The students varied in reply.
"Most of you already know, but we are suppose to say it anyway. I am Mrs. Marcham. I am very excited about this school year. I hope you are too. 9th Grade is a big step for you. Not just because you jumped the 20 yards from the Jr. High building to this one." She smiled "But, because your high school years are a wonderful training ground for college...
Sam looked around the room. It was quite obvious the students got to choose their own seats in homeroom. Aside from all of the kids being in 'modest apparel' and the lack of opportunity for many cliques to form, the feel was about the same. Some beautiful, some awkward, some immature, some cocky... it was really not that different. After all, a teenager is a teenager.
"So I have an assignment for you." Mrs. Marcham lifted a stack of journals-25.
The kids moaned.
"Not that kind of an assignment. In fact this one is going to take your whole high school career to complete."
Sam's brow lowered in curiosity.
"Just as those before you, you are assigned to contribute your part of the 'The Lavalette Christian Academy Survivor's guide'". She began to count out the notebooks for each row.
Sam took hers from the red head before her and passed the rest along.
"These are simply journals."
She pulled a fallen piece of blonde hair behind her ear as she flipped through the blank, cream colored pages.
"You would be amazed to find out how many people are-or have- passed through this school who are extremely similar to you. Some are scared, some worried, some too careful, and some too careless."
Sam listened to Mrs. Marcham, suddenly very intrigued.
"You need to think, really think about how much you will experience in these next few years- things that could be a help to someone coming behind you. No one is going to see these journals for a long time. Please be honest. Feel free to express yourself- fears, thrills, hopes, disappointments. Every human finds these emotions in life, especially in their teen years. There is a truth in God's Word to correspond with each human emotion we experience. We need to seek these truths out each time we have a loss or a victory. Many behind you will face what you are facing each day. Help them. "
She grabbed another stack of notebooks.
"Which brings me to the most enjoyable part of our assignment."
She lifted a book.
"You will be reading a book that was completed by a senior this past year. Kind of like a give-take situation. They have no names so don't try to get one from the girl you had a crush on last year."
She pointed to a boy on the second row. He blushed as his friend whistled and gave him a shove.
Sam smiled.
"Alright. Take a book and quickly pass them down."
As the books were shoved into their bags the bell rang.
"We will start these journals in our English class later. So keep them with you. You're dismissed."
Sam watched the students pile out before her- not comfortable with the idea of shoving herself through the door.
"Oh, and Sam..." Mrs. Marcham sent her a soft smile. "Welcome to Lavalette"
Sam smiled. "Thank you Mrs. Marcham."
She gave her a nod and went back to her desk. Sam took a deep breath and left the room, reminding herself that the first day is always the most awkward.
