Yours truly, Elanah

My name is Anya Madeline Milton, and I was starting my senior year at Saint Michaels NHS. Just saying the name felt like a betrayal, a bitter taste on my tongue. Saint Michaels NHS. The Red Wolves. Our sworn enemy. My old high school, the one that felt like home, was Sta. Helena NHS. The Green Guardians. I bled green. Every pep rally, every sports event, every academic competition – it was Green versus Red. A rivalry woven into the very fabric of our town. And then, because Sta. Helena didn't offer the specific Humanities strand I needed for the universities I was targeting, I was forced to transfer. To Saint Michaels. For my junior year. It was supposed to be a temporary exile, a necessary evil. One year, I told myself. Survive junior year, graduate, and escape back into the green-tinged memories of Sta. Helena. But here I was, a year later, still trapped behind the red brick walls of Saint Michaels for my senior year. The final countdown. My stomach was a knot of dread this morning, a familiar feeling that had been my constant companion since I first stepped onto these enemy grounds. It was 7 AM, and the bus rumbled its way through the pre-dawn quiet. School started at 7:50 AM, a timeframe that usually meant a leisurely ride, but today, every clatter and jolt of the bus amplified the anxiety churning inside me. I stared out the window at the blurring trees and houses, repeating the mantra that had gotten me through junior year: This will be the last year I'm staying here. Just one more year. I wasn't built for this place. Sta. Helena felt... softer. Maybe it was just nostalgia, but I remembered sun-drenched quad lunches and teachers who felt like mentors, not just instructors. Saint Michaels felt colder, more competitive in a way that went beyond academics. It was cutthroat, loud, and aggressively red. Red banners in the hallways, red trim on the lockers, even the school uniforms had an unfortunate amount of red. It felt like being constantly wrapped in a color that represented everything I wasn't. My naturally quiet disposition, which was seen as 'chill' or 'thoughtful' back at Sta. Helena, seemed to translate to 'mysterious' or 'aloof' here. I didn't go out of my way to make friends. Why bother, when my time here was finite? I had a few acquaintances, people I could tolerate group projects with, and one actual friend, Renzo Paters. He was one of the few constants that made Saint Michaels slightly less unbearable. The bus pulled up to the front of the school. Saint Michaels NHS. The polished brass plaque seemed to glare in the morning sun. I took a deep breath, tasting the stale bus air, and joined the stream of students spilling out. Same old faces, for the most part. The juniors were now seniors, strutting with a new, slightly terrifying confidence. The previous seniors were gone, vanished into the post-graduation abyss. Now I was one of the seniors. It felt wrong. Like an imposter wearing a borrowed jersey in the wrong colors. I navigated the main hall, a cavernous space echoing with the sounds of greetings, laughter, and slamming locker doors. The displays were already aggressively red – posters for upcoming student council elections, sports sign-ups, welcome back messages plastered over red paper. I kept my gaze steady, not meeting anyone's eyes unless absolutely necessary, my worn backpack slung over one shoulder like a shield. My new classroom was on the second floor. I found the room number and pushed the door open. The chatter inside quieted for a split second as I entered, then resumed. Same ol' people, indeed. Most of my Humanities core class from last year seemed to be here. Familiar faces, yes, but not necessarily friendly ones. I scanned for Renzo. He was already there, slumped in a seat near the window, beaming like he'd just won the lottery. His excitement was a stark contrast to the lead weight in my own chest. He spotted me and waved enthusiastically. "Anya! Yo, senior year! Can you believe it?" he practically shouted across the room. I offered a small, tight smile as I made my way towards a vacant seat a few rows behind him. "Hey, Renzo," I murmured, sliding into the chair. It was near the back, offering a good vantage point for observation, my preferred mode of interaction. "Girl, Last year! We gotta make it count, right?" Renzo bounced in his seat, his energy practically vibrating. "Right," I said dryly, pulling out my notebook. Making it count in my head meant surviving it with minimal interaction and maximum efficiency. The room slowly filled. The buzzing anticipation of a new year, even at a school I loathed, was palpable. Then, the door at the front opened, and our adviser walked in. Mrs. Corolla. Recognition flickered through the room. She'd been our Earth and Life Science teacher last year. She was... fine. Competent, a little stern, but not overly memorable. Her face was usually set in a serious expression, framed by her long , chocolate brown hair. "Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice calm but firm. "Welcome to 12-Humanities A. I'm Mrs. Corolla, your adviser for this academic year." The introductions began. Student after student stood up, mumbled their name, maybe a hobby or two. I watched, my turn getting closer, feeling that familiar prickle of nerves. Introductions were always awkward for me. How much do you reveal? How do you sound approachable but not overly eager? It was my turn. I stood up, feeling the weight of the room's attention, however brief. "Hi, I'm Anya Madeline Milton," I started, planning to mention my interest in writing or history, something tied to my Humanities path, but also something neutral. But I didn't get to finish. Mid-sentence, Mrs. Corolla's phone, which was sitting on her desk, vibrated loudly. Her eyes flicked down to the screen, and in an instant, her face transformed. The stern lines softened, her eyes widened slightly, and a genuine, radiant smile broke across her features. It was like someone had flipped a switch, illuminating her from within. The change was so dramatic, so unexpected, that it almost made me smile too. "Excuse me," she said, her voice softer than before. She picked up the phone and practically hurried out of the room, the door swishing shut behind her. The class buzzed instantly. "Whoa, did you see that?" someone whispered. "Never seen her smile like that." Renzo leaned back in his chair. "Must be important," he commented, oblivious to the fact that my introduction had been unceremoniously cut off. I sat back down, feeling a mix of anticlimax and curiosity. What could possibly make stone-faced Mrs. Corolla light up like that? She was gone for about five minutes. The low murmur of conversations filled the room. When she returned, her smile was gone, but a faint, lingering softness remained around her eyes. She looked slightly flustered. "Apologies for that interruption," she said, regaining her composure. "Right. Where were we?" She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on me. "Anya, was it? Welcome, Anya. I believe we had you in Earth and Life last year, correct?" "Yes, Mrs. Corolla," I replied, relieved to just sit down fully. She nodded, then pivoted. "Alright class. Now that introductions are... mostly done, let's go over expectations and rules for the year." And so it began. Rule after rule. Tardy policies, dress code reminders, submission deadlines, behavior standards. It was a torrent of regulations delivered with practiced efficiency. I tuned in and out, taking notes on the things that seemed genuinely important (like due dates) and letting the rest wash over me. It was typical first-day stuff, but coming from Mrs. Corolla, who seemed to have a switch between radiating warmth and professional sternness, it felt a little unsettling. The rest of the school day unfolded in a blur of new schedules, locating unfamiliar classrooms, and enduring the forced interactions of icebreaker activities. History felt promising – the teacher, Mr. Diaz, seemed genuinely passionate. English was... English. Math was a necessary evil. Through it all, I maintained my quiet, observant presence, participating minimally, taking everything in. I felt like an anthropologist studying a foreign tribe, documenting their strange customs and rituals (like the excessive use of the color red). Renzo tried to draw me into conversations during breaks, chatting excitedly about classmates, teachers, and his hopes for the year. I mostly listened, offering non-committal hums and occasional brief responses. He was easy to be around because he didn't push, just accepted my quietness as part of who I was. I appreciated that. He was a little pocket of green in this overwhelming sea of red. Finally, the dismissal bell rang, a chaotic symphony of ringing phones, zipping backpacks, and eager footsteps rushing for the exits. Freedom. For now. I headed for the bus stop, joining the throng of students spilling out of the school gates. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. The air felt cooler, a welcome change from the stuffy classrooms. My bus arrived, the same one that had brought me here this morning. I climbed aboard, relieved to find a seat near the back, by the window again. I just wanted to put in my earphones, stare out the window, and mentally decompress, washing away the red of Saint Michaels. Then I saw her. Mrs. Corolla. Sitting a few rows ahead of me. Oh, great. Another reason to loathe this commute. It wasn't that I disliked her. I didn't particularly like her either. She was just... a teacher. And having a teacher on your bus felt like an extension of the school day, like being under surveillance even during my supposed downtime. It shattered the illusion of escape. I slunk lower in my seat, hoping she wouldn't notice me. I pulled out my phone and scrolled aimlessly, pretending to be engrossed. The bus pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic. I kept my eyes averted, focusing on the passing scenery. Familiar landmarks appeared – the convenience store where Renzo once bought a ridiculously oversized candy bar, the park where Sta. Helena held their annual summer fair. Each green spot was a tiny pang of homesickness. Mrs. Corolla shifted in her seat. I tensed, bracing myself for her to turn around, maybe make small talk about the first day. I hated small talk. Especially with teachers outside of school. My stop was coming up. I gathered my things, the red and black Saint Michaels logo on my backpack feeling heavier than usual. I stood up and made my way down the aisle. I had to pass her. I kept my head down. "Excuse me," I mumbled as I reached her row. "Leaving us, Anya?" she said quietly, her voice surprising me. She looked up, not with the professional gaze of the classroom, but something softer. "Yes, Mrs. Corolla. My stop," I replied, wishing the bus would just stop already. "Have a good evening," she said, offering another small, genuine smile. Not the radiant one from the morning, but a pleasant one nonetheless. "You too," I mumbled, quickly moving towards the door. I stepped off the bus and the doors hissed shut behind me. I watched it pull away, the red tail lights receding down the street, carrying Mrs. Corolla and the last remnants of the school day with it. I started walking towards my house, the familiar street a welcome sight. The air felt different here, safer. Freer. Saint Michaels. Day one. Survived. It didn't change how I felt about the school. The loathing was still there, a dull ache beneath the surface. It was still the enemy territory I longed to escape.