(Layra)

  It's been about five hours since I left home for school. It's raining and the dim light makes the fading color of my car journey even more pronounced. I constantly visualize my father and mother's faces in my mind, afraid I might forget them. I remind myself that I can list their physical traits; but what about their faces? Is it possible I might forget my father's face during dinner? I mentally tell myself, "Layla, you must hold onto them firmly in your mind." While wrestling with these dark thoughts, the car stops. Tall buildings surrounded by numerous wires loom around me. This isn't a school; so why does it look like a prison? The driver opens the car door for me to get out. He picks up my suitcase and briskly guides me toward the tall, quarantine-like buildings. I think to myself: Is this really a school, or have I been taken to prison? But logic pulls my mind back to the 11th-grade lessons. I must be strong. Layla, be strong. The man guides me toward a large assembly hall with fluorescent lights that, in the cloudy weather, evoke a feeling of sadness. He says in a skeptical tone, "You need to wait here. We'll take your things to your room."

  I look at the girls and boys seated in rows facing the stage. In the third row, I spot a girl with bright blonde hair and large, curious eyes. I walk over and quietly sit next to her. The girl glances at me and offers a faint smile. I sit down. At that moment, a tall, thin woman with a bony face and a resonant voice enters the hall and quiets everyone. The principal is a tall, slender woman with an elongated face, an aquiline nose, and graying hair tied back.

  A heavy silence falls over the hall. My nerves are frayed from stress. The principal begins her speech: "The rules here are strict. First of all, you must achieve high grades. Grades like eight, nine, or seven come with punishment. So, pay attention. If you receive a grade lower than nine more than ten times, you will be expelled directly." The principal uses the word "expelled" every time she wants to emphasize a point. It's a terrifying feeling: "Even if you get an eight, you'll be punished. So, either you or your parents must pay the fine." I submit to the principal. Any questions? No one says a word. The principal cuts off the talk by announcing mealtime and the requirement to wear uniforms, finally handing out some papers. "Rest today because of the long journey you've had."

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  I go to the dormitory. It's a large room with white fluorescent lights and six beds arranged in a row. I see my belongings placed on one of the beds. I walk toward the adjacent bed, which apparently will be my roommate's. A girl with bright blonde hair and a calm face is sitting on the bed next to mine, reading a book. I see an opportunity to start a conversation. I ask, "Are we roommates?" The blonde girl turns her head toward me. She looks at me with slight surprise. I say, "Sorry if I asked so abruptly." She responds with a warm smile: "I'm Nora. Aren't you the one who sat next to me in the hall today?" I feel a bit shy. I say, "Yes, I'm Layla." Nora extends her hand toward me and says kindly, "Nice to meet you." I shake her hand and say happily, "Me too... nice to meet you."

  The next morning, Nora and I wake up and head to our first class. First period is Math. Nora and I sit next to each other. The math teacher is a man with a stern face and a sharp gaze; I think to myself: with a teacher like this, I hope I won't be scared of Math; but a strong memory of my weakness in this subject floods my mind. I must be the best. My father always emphasized: "Willpower and following the rules are the keys to success." Suddenly, I notice the math teacher placing a paper on our desk. Then he announces in a clear voice: "This is a surprise quiz. You must answer within a limited time." In previous years, they still started with strict programs on the first days. I glance at Nora. Her face is pale. Last year, I had solved similar questions. It's easy for me. I signal to Nora. She is focused on the strange expression of last year's teacher. She's probably getting anxious. I decide not to give her the answer. The teacher might notice and punish us both severely.

  We finish the quiz. We leave the classroom worried. Nora's complexion hasn't returned. I think to myself: "The judgment part is painful. We have to wait for the results." But before I can speak, Nora starts talking: "I was scared. Friendship groups don't matter here. I know that. But I have to grow up, I have to face reality. If my grade is lower than nine, I'll be punished." I replay this bitter truth in my mind. This isn't companionship; it's a difficult and lonely challenge.