The first day of school was always as bittersweet as the last. Summer was over and so were beach days and ice cream at noon. Sprinkler parties filling the quiet Brooklyn streets in the hot, still air of July were finished. School was starting again – finally my last year at the place I’d grown to love since sixth grade. The nervous butterflies in my stomach never went away, even after three years of first days, I found, and as I said good-bye to the humid pavement of late August, I wondered whether the 6:53 F train would recognize me.

Familiar rituals – the first day of school pictures my mom insisted on and worrying over the color of my folders – flew by. I barely noticed getting the subway, swiping my MetroCard and breezing through the turnstile.

Mixed emotions filled my head. I missed waking up late and lazing around as much as I was anticipating my first-period class and first homework assignments. While very excited, I was nervous to see my friends too. Would they have changed over the summer?

But fresh haircuts and new clothes can only alter a person so much, and they sure didn’t affect the way we squealed and hugged when we reunited on the sidewalk outside the familiar building.

Exchanging stories of staycations and camp, jet setting and poolside gossip, everyone felt at home as we walked toward school. We had been through so much in the past three years, and those memories held our friendships together. We had sat in awe at school trips, laughed over cotton candy at the barbecue, and anxiously talked about the high schools we wanted to attend.

Something had changed, though, and we all grew quiet as we walked up the tall marble steps to greet our final year. I know I took a mental snapshot of this last first time I would walk, arm in arm with my friends, through our school’s doors. The first day of school was always as bittersweet as the last.