Everyday when I go to school I look forward to my third period class, Choir. I walk from the second floor, curving my way around crowds to drop my French books in my red locker that practically gags as I unload my educational items into it. If it could speak, it wouldn’t even be able to.
I grab my choir journal and kick my locker shut. Then I excitedly turn and begin what I like to call a “brisk walk.”
It always takes longer than I would like- not because the school goes over a large distance, but because I have to dodge half the school population as I speed toward my destination. Passing through clouds of chokingly strong and cheap perfume, I go boldly where every teenager must go.
Finally I ascend the ramp and the crowd clears for a bit, as I pass the auditorium. Here I sometimes pause to exchange a sentance or two and blow one more vanilla-mint flavored bubble from my gum.
Then I enter the most sacred, holy area of the school:
The music wing, my personal heaven.