Finding comfort in the pop

I was herded into the room with a few hundred others of my kind, my new uniform draping over my jeans. The psychotic screams of my captors rang in the air, and they chanted and howled as we entered.
They had formed a sort of human tunnel around us, and they reached out to us, clawing and poking with cruel curiosity. I shielded my head with my forearms, placidly following the mob, and simply did as they asked, wishing only for a moment of my former solitude.
They forced us onto bleachers, cheering wildly, before commanding us to salute their leader. I was all but frozen with terror, despising this nightmarish new world.
This place of horror is not a prison, nor a concentration camp. I am not held because of my beliefs, nor my culture.
The leader of their clan isn’t a dictator – rather, he is seen as an inspirational, benevolent man, who has touched the lives of many.
I speak of our own Granite Bay High School.
Now, I may be a newbie, a greenhorn, naught but a lowly freshman. But even I know that I am attending an exceptional school. Awards and plaques seem commonplace on classroom walls, and, for the first time in my life, I am not ashamed to admit, ‘Why, yes, I do go to Granite Bay.’
Dare I say it? I may actually have school spirit.
Things are different at the innocuously-named Grizzly Retreat.
I was torn abruptly from my summer (which consisted of Japanese classes, video games, and a shameless addiction to Diet Coke) and left to fend for myself, mingling with six hundred of my peers after adjusting to endless solitude.
I was scared, and lost, my few friends vanishing amongst the predatory upperclassmen.
And I was going to spend the majority of the next four years of my life in Granite Bay’s cavernous passageways, just barely surviving.
By the end of the pep rally, which consisted of a lot of hand-raising and applause, I was ready to smother myself with my new Grizzly Retreat T-shirt.
Then I met my tour guide, Erin Salinas, sister to my best friend, and through association, an ally. She, along with a companion named Jordan Schultz, let a pleasant, if low-intensity tour. I was sleepy by that point, already suffering from caffeine withdrawals, but salvation was in sight.
Pizza arrived. With Diet Coke.
I could live through this four-year horror, I decided, my favorite beverage now icy and crisp in my hand. I was ready to face all challenges, conquer all that opposed me. I was ready for high school. I could succeed.
But, as became apparent only minutes later, I will never, ever, ever be able to dance.
I was quickly thrown to the sides of the amoebic clot of close-dancing freshman, left to shuffle awkwardly in step with my friends. Dances, for me, were better ideas on paper than in practice.
That said, the evening concluded well enough. What had begun as a crazed onslaught of information and pep ended like any other school dance before it: with a vague and unearned sense of accomplishment.
Though I am still just barely keeping my head above water, things have worked out far better than I expected. The fact that you’re even reading my words is testament to that. I’ve at least somewhat recovered from the shellshock of week one and have yet to make a public idiot of myself. So far, I’m a success.
And, as for my dancing ability (or lack thereof)? Well, I figure that I have four long years to improve.