Little Inklings 2022

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR I remember when my brother went to school for the first time. The preschool had a massive playground with mulch ground, a green, red, and brown jungle gym, blue and green swings, a yellow slide, and three green tents, each with a metal picnic table inside. We walk across the playground and arrive at a line of classrooms made of a white brick. We walk to the third classroom, and there’s a glass door. I looked into the classroom: three circular wood tables, and everyone is coloring with crayons and markers. I waved goodbye to him, and his teacher closed the door. I hope his first day of school goes well. His first day of third grade. I, again, came along with my mom to drop him off. He was so excited to see all his friends again. He’s been talking about it for two weeks now! “My friend said he was going to bring cookies to our class!”, “My friend went to Disney this summer! I want to go with him one day!”, he was so excited. We arrived at the school, a white concrete building with blue metal poles in the front. We go through the two massive glass doors and walk on the cold, gray, tiled flooring. We arrive at room 1-8, his third-grade classroom. His teacher stands at the door and welcomes him. She opens the blue door, and my brother goes inside. I wave goodbye at him, and the door closes. His first day of middle school. I sat next to him in the car as he nervously looked out the window. He didn’t know anyone there. I wish I could go with him, help get him through what could be the worst three years of his life, but I know I can’t. The school is a terracotta color with flat white roofing. There’s a sign in front of the school with the school’s name and logo, and a giant poster saying “Welcome New 6th Graders!”. There’re signatures scribbled all over it, and I can only assume that those are from the 7th and 8th graders at the school. We get to the drop-off area, and our mom stops the car. My brother takes his backpack, and I say goodbye. His first summer job. My mom was driving the car to where he would work: an ice cream shop ten minutes away from our house. He didn’t want to do this job. He’s only doing it because mom’s afraid he won't have enough for college or a car, but she doesn’t tell this to my brother. But he hears her sobbing to our dad at night about how she’s scared that my brother won't have a future. That’s why he’s doing this. I look him in the eyes. He knows that I can help him, but he doesn’t want to take away the life I have planned. We get to the ice cream shop, a small store in a busy area, and he gets out of the car. I smile at him and give him a thumbs-up, and he closes the car door. His first day of high school. I remember him crying to me yesterday. He was bullied all of middle school, and he has to go through that for another four years. All he did this summer was work, and our mom was still crying to our dad every night. Sometimes, I wish that his life would just get better. I can’t deal with all of this every day. I would tell mom, but he said it’s better not to. He doesn’t want to worry her, so I don’t say anything. We sat next to each other in the car and got to my brother’s high school. Again, it’s a terracotta color with a flat, white roof, a sign at the front with the school’s name and logo, the same as the middle school. When we arrive at the drop-off, he gets out of the car and closes the door. He didn’t look back at me this time. I ran to my room. My brother chased after me and came in. He holds a knife. I should’ve helped him. I should’ve told mom everything. He closes the door behind him. Now I know what the other side of the door is like. DOMINIQUE CEDERBERG ❜ 26 77