CHAPTER ONE: A NEW BEGINNING
1014 Words
The first time I transferred schools wasn't because I failed academically or got into a fight. It wasn't because my parents were searching for a better education either.
It all started because of two harmless items.
School textbooks.
And a bottle of disinfectant.
Those two things earned me one of the most embarrassing punishments of my life.
At my boarding school, students weren't allowed to keep certain items in the hostel without permission. Unfortunately for me, my books and disinfectant were discovered during one of the school's surprise inspections.
I remember watching the teachers pull item after item from students' lockers like detectives uncovering hidden evidence. Some girls had phones cleverly hidden beneath mattresses. Others had foodstuffs, prohibited cosmetics, electrical appliances, perfumes, and countless other contraband items.
Compared to everyone else, my offence seemed almost laughable.
Yet, when punishment was assigned, it didn't feel that way.
Because despite being surrounded by girls whose offences were far worse than mine, I somehow ended up doing most of the work.
What hurt wasn't the physical punishment.
It was what happened afterward.
The following morning, during assembly, my name echoed across the school compound.
I knew immediately that something was wrong.
My heart pounded against my chest so violently that I thought everyone around me could hear it.
"Step forward."
Those two words felt heavier than the school building itself.
Hundreds of students turned simultaneously.
Teachers folded their arms.
Senior prefects stared without expression.
My legs suddenly felt too weak to carry me.
As I slowly walked toward the podium, it began to rain.
The drops landed on my skin, cold and relentless, but they couldn't compete with the heat of shame spreading across my face.
If embarrassment had a sound, it would have been the deafening silence that surrounded me.
Every step felt longer than the last.
Every eye seemed determined to memorize my face.
I wasn't just another student anymore.
I was an example.
The example.
The only student from my grade who had been called out.
As I stood there, I wished I could disappear into the gray morning sky.
Instead, I stood motionless while teachers explained my offence to the entire school as though I had committed a serious crime.
When assembly finally ended, I hurried away as quickly as my trembling legs could carry me.
But leaving the podium didn't mean leaving the humiliation behind.
It followed me into every classroom.
Every corridor.
Every conversation.
Students whispered whenever I passed.
Some pointed.
Others asked questions.
Teachers occasionally referred to my punishment whenever they discussed discipline.
For weeks, it felt as though my identity had been replaced by one mistake.
Life inside that boarding school wasn't easy.
In fact, looking back now, it often felt as though every minute of my day had already been decided before I even woke up.
Freedom was something we only dreamed about.
Our lives followed the same routine every single day, like gears turning inside a machine.
The day usually began before three o'clock in the morning.
While many children at home were still sleeping peacefully beneath warm blankets, we were already awake.
Not because we wanted to be.
Because if you weren't one of the first girls awake, chances were high that a senior would assign you extra work.
The bathrooms were everyone's least favorite destination.
Buckets lined the walls.
Water splashed endlessly across the tiled floors.
The smell of disinfectant mixed with damp concrete filled the air.
Sometimes I would climb down from the third floor carrying heavy buckets just to fetch water for seniors who had no intention of doing it themselves.
By the time I climbed back upstairs, my arms ached so badly that I wondered how much longer I could keep going.
Unfortunately, the day had only just begun.
After changing into our perfectly ironed uniforms came morning chores.
Each student received an assigned section of the school to clean.
Mine was usually one of the busiest corridors.
At first, I thought cleaning a corridor sounded simple.
I was wrong.
No matter how carefully I mopped the floor, students constantly walked across it before it had time to dry.
Back and forth.
Left and right.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I would finish one section only to discover muddy footprints stretching across it seconds later.
My supervisor never seemed satisfied.
"I want to see my reflection on this floor," she would remind me almost every morning.
As though she expected polished tiles to become mirrors.
Then there were scrub days.
Those days were dreaded by almost everyone.
We were instructed to bring our own toothbrushes—not for brushing our teeth, but for scrubbing the tiny spaces between floor tiles.
No one cared whether you had a spare toothbrush waiting in your locker.
If you didn't, you found a way.
Thankfully, my mother always packed extras whenever I resumed school.
At the time, I thought she was simply being overprepared.
Now I realized she had unknowingly saved me countless times.
The school itself was unlike any other I had attended.
Only girls were admitted.
Hair was shaved so low that your fingers couldn't hold a single strand.
There was no room for hairstyles.
No room for self-expression.
Every student looked almost identical from a distance.
Individuality disappeared the moment the school clippers touched your head.
Then came the houses.
There were only three.
Pink House.
Green House.
Yellow House.
Being assigned to a house wasn't just about competitions.
It became part of your identity.
I belonged to Pink House.
That meant wearing an oversized pink gown whenever house activities were held.
The gown hung loosely around my body, hiding every shape until everyone looked like identical moving sacks of pink fabric.
Still, despite how funny we looked, we wore them proudly.
Because every house believed it was the best.
And every year each house waited eagerly for its own celebration.
Green House celebrated first.
Yellow House followed.
Pink House celebrated last.
Waiting until third term felt like waiting forever.
But everyone agreed it was worth it.
At least...
That's what we thought.
- Writer
