"Students
are not permitted to leave class during class time. If an EXTREME
emergency arises and a teacher finds it necessary to permit
a student to leave class, the student must have a note including
his/her name, destination, and time that he/she left class."
-- Collierville
High School Teacher Handbook
Tara Goodwin, Parking lot: 7:36
The flagpole stands tall, holding two flags high. They wave
in the cool wind. Two windows watch over me; their light shines
through showing me scenes of a regular school day. Teachers
scraping on chalkboards, occasional students opening their lockers
for a late visit. A car stretches around the corner, lazily
stops, and a short, graying man steps out. He fixes his pants
around his waist and continues to walk toward me. "Nice
day. It's almost too pretty to have to work on a day like this,"
he says. I nod and smile, even though the gray skies threaten
rain.
Courtney Lemons, Circular Drive: 7:41
The crunch of the leaves startles me as I step out. The light
makes my eyes squint and the slight breeze makes me shiver.
The wind suddenly picks up and the leaves are whirled around
in a tornado-like motion. I look up and see the flag waving
violently. My focus is then turned to the sound of the passing
cars; each person has his own life. Time seems to keep them
moving. Sounds of cars are mixed with the faint sound of students
in classrooms next to me. Windows are all shut tightly and covered
with blinds and curtains. This keeps the students from dreaming.
The cold ground numbs my bottom. A car stops right in front
of me. A man gets out and walks through the heavy metal doors
and disappears, but only for a few moments. He soon returns.
The heels of his dress shoes click against the pavement as he
hurries off. He pauses only for an instant to look at his watch
and then continues. The cold, gray cement makes the back of
the Collierville High School sign look bland and almost prison-like.
The only smell is that of the crisp morning air.
Nicci Feathers, Bike Rack: 7:50
A gentleman walks down the street like he has had a hard night
at work. Many cars follow their usual routine and head to work.
Yet traffic is slim. The sun is shining brightly and a cool
breeze brushes hairs across my face. I wish I could remain out
here all day. The grass is dead but new sprouts of greener grass
are coming up, creating a sense of springtime. A loud duelly
drives by. It seems we miss these things each day when we are
enclosed by the large metal doors that sit behind me. A tardy
student walks by on her way to class, books in hand. The ground
is cold; it numbs me. Only two bikes rest on the bike rack,
one without a chain. Teachers' vehicles sit lifeless in the
parking lot wishing to explore the outside world. But they are
stuck, just like me. Birds fly high over the rooftops across
the street while many people still snuggle warm in their beds.
Leaves flitter when the wind breathes. Teacher walks by. "Locked
out?" "No ma'am," I answer. I hear the squeaky
brakes of a school bus in the distance. Two flags are swaying
in the wind. The clouds above me have such meaning. I see an
ocean sunset and also an old woman rocking in a rocking chair.
It's so beautiful. The sun beams down into my eyes when I look
up. Jetstreams are formed in the clouds by a passing airplane.
Two mothers, after sending their older children off to school,
jog down Byhalia with toddlers in strollers. Several cars pull
into the driveway and I sense it is time to go back to class.
Laura Jordan, Outside: 7:50
There are big metal doors behind me. Sun is shining just enough
to create warmth. The ground I sit on and the wall I lean against
are cold. Cars are flying by me, rushing to work in the distance.
I can hear the tires on the pavement. The trees are leafless,
but I can still sense life in them. I lean down now so I can
write better. Cars will pass by, but then there is a short time
when all is quiet. Empty cars sit patiently in the parking lot
awaiting their owners to come and race them home. They sleep
quietly in their own places. A teacher walks by me and asks
if I am locked out of the school; I tell her no and then focus
my attention on the bike rack. It holds two bikes, only one
of them with a chain. The sky has an area where there are no
clouds, and it reminds me of a Florida sunset. I miss Florida.
Two cars drive by, breaking my flashback; they are racing each
other, it seems. I am cold.
Steven Orton, Main Lobby: 7:52
The hall is silent, eerily so. The memorial before me, provided
by the school, is to Matthew C. Smith. He was a hockey player,
just like I am. A hockey player that died in a car wreck . .
. that scares me; it could happen to anyone. The memorial holds
his jersey, encased in a large clear box -- something that most
schools put trophies in. His number was fourteen, two numbers
higher than my own. Two numbers isn't that far away; perhaps
I’ll have to be more careful. More silence, unlike after
school, when all the teens mill around in a hectic mess. Life
goes on around the memorial when the students are free; nothing
stops for anyone who doesn't have anything left to say. I'll
leave the lobby now, where his memory is encased in time.
Elaine Berry, Lockers: 8:00
Winnie the Pooh is dressed up as a bee on a balloon; a sign
underneath says "Congrats Pom." The locker next to
it opens with a clank as the freshman-looking student pulls
out a thick hardback book covered in white paper with random
writings and drawings all over it. He then makes sure to grab
his green check-in slip and walks slowly down the hall toward
the stairs. I can hear a teacher lecturing in the classroom
next to me as I see the guy disappear through the doors.
Kristen Acklie, Wellness: 8:04
Shouts resound in the hollow room. People scatter toward the
birdie. Freshmen hang on the badminton nets; when the coach
yells, they quickly slink off. Janitors drag trash cans in and
out of the room while the wheels rumble along the cold tiles.
Pseudo-light creeps into the hall as kids yell directions to
their teammates. A net is abandoned as it coils to the floor.
Young feet tap the floor and leave.
Jennifer Simmons, Hallway: 8:09
The steel doors overlap; the morning chill slinks in. A thin
sliver of sunshine escapes through the space between the doors.
The roar of the traffic outside resonates -- the cars and trucks
march by slowly. Stillness. The light is red; the engines idle
as they wait. Inside, the steady squeak of hiking boots and
clicking wooden heels for rhythms of alternating steps. A loud
rattling noise approaches -- probably a nomad teacher's supply
cart. Coach Bowman in his lemon-yellow windbreaker strides down
the hall. He is silent, save for the rustling of his jacket.
He disappears into the corridor.
Rebecca Earle, Main Stairway: 8:10
I look out over the lobby from the top of the stairs. My eyes
find the picture frame that hangs on the wall, the home of the
class of '56. Theirs are the faces of the dead. Dead because,
to those of us who are here, they have been forgotten. Not even
the walls remember them. When they attended school, the walls
here were not yet built. My former economics teacher, Coach
Bowman, walks up. "Don’t jump. Please," he says.
He is wearing his "I'm-trying-to-be-funny" look. "Don’t
worry," I say as I roll my eyes, "if I were going
to kill myself it would not be in a place as depressing as school.
Besides, this staircase is so small I'd have to swan dive off
the rail to do any damage." He shakes his head and leaves.
Like the faces of the class of '56, he is soon forgotten.
Mark Westmoreland and Kelly Vreeland: Attendance Office,
7:56
I look up at windows that lead to some mysterious room at the
top of the stairs -- a room students dare not go. Just below
are an American flag, fake trees, and a clock. Behind a gray
desk sits a woman with light brown hair holding a cup of coffee
and talking to a man in a gray suit. Mr. Moody takes a sip of
his morning drink, and he crosses one leg over the other near
the ankles. The walls around him are dull white, and the carpet
weave is tan and maroon. A girl walks in wearing an Ole Miss
shirt and sits down near the south wall. She and the infamous
Moody share a few jokes they've heard recently. Another girl
walks in. She has long, brown hair and freckles. Unfortunately,
she gets a lecture about the way she is dressed. She smirks
and leaves. Sitting next to me on the couch is a girl in jeans
and a yellow t-shirt. I wonder what she is writing about. Once
I decide to leave, I'll travel through a big maroon door deserting
the humming Attendance Office.
