Today marks the end of many things. It is the end of three years of middle school, it is the end of having to cram information for exams, and I didn’t realize this until now but it will probably be the end of a few friendships, as the current 9th graders say. However, today is also the beginning of staying up until dawn or reading outside with buzzing mosquitoes hovering right next to your ear even after you threaten to smack them, or eating extra-frozen ice cream from the bakala to cool down your boiling body. Summer.
Out of the hundred and sixty-something students, we are the last group to rise since our names are placed last alphabetically. A crowd of proud parents, teachers, and other students who have been instructed to clap at rehearsals clapped. Mr. Murphy, our vice principal, stood on stage calling names of the graduates; starting with “R”. I was 6 people away from being called next.
4:00 a.m. Sleep deprived and caffeine-driven, I began studying for today’s Religion exam. My head, close to imploding from all that stress and exhaustion building up this week, was surprisingly consuming knowledge quite quickly. Maybe it was the coffee. The images I saw began to flicker, on the brink of completely blacking out. Surrounded by a stack colored pens, a neat bundle of flashcards, and four-month-old worksheets decorated with staple marks, the caffeine lost its battle against my body’s need to rest so I slept right there on my own mess.
“Naya Rajab. Congratulations, Naya.” My friend preceded onto stage the one who laughed with me at Arabic class and endured a swim team trip to Athens with me.  We talked a lot at Arabic class, mostly about schoolwork and swimming. But for some reason, one conversation we had on the last day before spring break stuck to me the most. I just was complaining about the workload but then she pointed something out: You get that feeling of accomplishment after a long week. It was true.
  Post-Algebra exam. With confidence, I handed in my papers, aware that there was one more exam left to survive. My eyes focused on the slow, steady hands of the clock as I waited for Ms. Neff to collect all exam papers: 9:15 a.m. It was easy to forget that that was the last time I stared at this clock out of boredom- that this was the last time I’d ever set foot in this unforgettable class, complete memories of laughter and funny stories, and the next time I would be in a math class would be in high school. I finally have gotten over the most difficult test out of all, so I decided I would focus on that rather than panic about how I took one hour to study for my religion exam. 
“You’re next.” I stood behind a tall figure that just started progressing up the stairs leading to the stage. A bluish-white flash of a camera pierced the darkness, just like the beam of sunlight slashing through the window as my mother and I drove home from school today. 
“So how were your exams today?” she asked over the slight buzz of the radio. Distracted and in the middle of the process of erasing information to prepare a blank mind for summer, I replied with a simple “Okay”.
“You know how I studied for that religion exam for an hour? No? Well, good but I did. BUT, before you say anything, I got a B+,” I quickly said so my mom wouldn’t scold me for “not being responsible” and “not studying enough”. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
I started talking about Algebra and school and how they’re both finally over, and how summer could potentially be boring and dull. At least school keeps my schedule overflowing with work to do, whereas a series of dull, useless days usually hit summer more than once like a drought of boredom.
“Dalia Sadeq. Congratulations, Dalia.”
“Congratulations, have a great summer!” said Ms. Thomas, who stood nearby to regulate the movement of when and who was supposed to get their awards. I walked up on stage, mentally reminding myself to remain poise as the crowd clapped. When you're at a long award ceremony with a large class composed of over a hundred students, you notice things. I noticed that the sound of claps you get is determined by your popularity: the louder the sound, the more popular you are. Anyways, I was part of the talent show playing the piano in sixth grade the last time I was up here. Or was it seventh grade, when I helped my friends signed up for “backstage” for the school pla-
“What time is it?”
“4:44 p.m. Let’s get into the car- I don’t want the humidity to mess up my hair,” I replied, shading my eyes from the afternoon sun. My best friend and I decided to end the year on a good note so we agreed on attending graduation together. We got into the car, listened to the usual five songs on 99.7, and caught up since we’ve been so busy these past two weeks.
As soon as the car slid next the gap in between the sidewalk the high school gate, we quickly emerged without creasing our graduation dresses. Thinking we were late, we hurried to the library, where our grade was supposed to meet before the ceremony. However, only a few kids were there, looking out of place in their fancy clothes sitting on a fifty-year-old couch with its’ insides split out. But as soon as people started to pile in, a series of selfies were taken and feelings of relief were expressed by us worn-out students.
“Grade 8!” a teacher yelled out, barely gaining our attention. Someone handed him a megaphone. “GRADE 8! Start lining up by the doors; we are heading to the auditorium in FIVE minutes.” 
The auditorium. It was the first day of school, the very first day of middle school and my very first day at ASK. I stood alienated in my own island of personal space, like all the other new kids, whom I recognized from the new student orientation. The others, however, organized themselves in circles, laughing loudly, throwing compliments and tiny comments, repeating all their I’ve-missed-you’s and I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-while’s to each other. One of the new kids squeezed through two friends three seconds away from a hug. She headed towards me. Honestly, I never talked to her after that day so I don’t remember her name. “Hi… Are you new here?” she said awkwardly.
“Yeah, I’m Dalia. I’m in grade six. You?” I was proud of my title as a sixth grader.
“Oh… I’m in 8th grade,” the girl said. We both mentally considered this as a large age difference so we smiled, and refrained from any further small talk. I may not remember her name, but I can clearly picture her bright pink hair. It was weird because my old school had placed countless restrictions on us: no accessories, always wear the ugly uniform, red hair-ties, white socks, black shoes- or wait; black dress shoes only. Here, everyone made the uniform their own: either cuffing their shirts or tying it by the side with a rubber band, which sounds tacky now but it was “cool” back them.
Applause. As instructed, I head towards my principal, holding onto my award by its’ corners while my other shakes the hands of the owner of the school. I freeze for a second, knowing that my parents are taking pictures. Flash. I clutch the award by my side as I walk down the stairs with tiny yet quick steps, maintaining my posture. I left the stage, catching a glimpse of the golden letters engraved onto the thick paper. A fancy piece of paper is my reward for surviving all three years of middle school. In a sense, . My lips stretch into an artificial smile as I pass by my mother, who bends down to take a picture, and my good teachers, who congratulate me as I walk to my seat. After the ceremony, the organized system of the ceremony collapsed, succumbing to everyone’s need to get up and socialize. But we know we’ll see each other at tomorrow’s graduation party that a few of my friends are throwing so we didn’t start with the good-bye’s. I left with my mother.
For the last time this year, I pass by the library, which was the first place that completely astounded me when I got to this school. I used to be that kid that loved books- that wanted to be an astronaut. I used to read books and stories, but the books I read have evolved into study guides and textbooks, and then eventually, just a few years from now, the study guides and textbooks will be replaced by college brochures and college applications.