The Hallway

I stand still as people move around me. They come in waves, rushing around me as though I were not even there. Movement. They are in constant motion, like the rough waves of the ocean, surrounding me. Students brush me as they race past, jostling each other, competing for space; they are all attempting to occupy the same narrow hallway at the same time. They readjust backpacks and stop to tie shoes, laughing and joking with one another. The smell of teenagers is unmistakable: sweaty armpits, smelly feet, and too-strong cologne applied far too freely. I overhear small snippets of conversations. Pieced together, they can be quite comical. The football fans discuss the last game in dejected tones as the jocks pretend not to hear, lips tightly pressed together, eyes looking straight ahead. A boy makes his way through the throng toward me, muttering an apology as he bumps past me, keeping his eyes on the tiled floor. His only companion is a heavy backpack he has trouble lifting. Two sisters walk together, talking discreetly, probably about a boy. The sisters notice that I have heard part of their conversation and continue, but even more quietly now. Down the hall someone opens her locker and balloons and confetti spring out of it. A friend shouts happy birthday to her as she blushes and thanks him. A bell rings and instantly the hallway empties of people. I too walk into a doorway, but glance behind again at the hallway, strewn with confetti now and reeking of teenager, before I turn away.