A NARRATIVE ESSAY ON THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
My sneakers squeaked against the polished linoleum, a sound that seemed to echo like a siren
down the otherwise empty hallway. It was 7:45 a.m., fifteen minutes before the morning bell, and I
was already entirely convinced that fifth grade was going to be a disaster. We had moved to this
suburb just three weeks prior, which meant I was entering Maplewood Elementary not just as a
student, but as the dreaded "new kid."
My mother had dropped me off at the front loop with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder and a
promise that everyone would be friendly. Parents have to say things like that. As I clutched my
rigidly stiff new backpack, filled with freshly sharpened Ticonderoga pencils and completely blank
notebooks, I felt anything but reassured. I missed my old school, where I knew exactly which water
fountain had the coldest water and where my best friend sat at lunch. Here, I didn't even know
where the bathroom was.
I found Room 12 at the end of the second-floor corridor. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the heavy
wooden door open. The classroom was already buzzing. Desks were clustered in groups of four, a
setup that practically screamed for established friendships. Kids were catching up on their
summers, showing off new haircuts, and laughing at inside jokes I had no context for. The smell of
floor wax and vanilla hand sanitizer hung heavy in the air.
Mr. Harrison, a tall man with a kind, tired face and chalk dust already on his slacks, stood at the
front. He looked down at his clipboard, then up at me.
"You must be our new addition. Welcome. Go ahead and take the empty seat in the back group
by the window," he said, gesturing with a dry-erase marker.
I kept my head down as I navigated the maze of backpacks and chairs. I slid into the plastic blue
seat, hyper-aware of the fact that the other three kids at my cluster had stopped talking to evaluate
me. I unzipped my bag with trembling fingers, desperate to look busy. In my rush to pull out my
pencil box, I snagged the zipper. I yanked it, and the plastic box flew out of my hand, popping open
upon impact with the floor.
A cascade of colored pencils, erasers, and a rogue glue stick scattered across the linoleum, rolling
under the adjacent desks. My face burned hot. I could feel a heavy flush creeping up my neck. On
the very first day
before the bell had even officially rung
I had made a spectacle of myself
Narrative Essays | Student Experiences
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