If anyone had asked Stella Louise Cabral what she thought High School was going to be like, she would have told them a tale of smiling seas of students, bright blue straight A's, and terrific teachers.  She would have enthused about her barely contained excitement, her infallible knowledge that it would overcome the troubles of Middle School.  She would have explained that High School was going to be like the early morning mist: a breath of cool, fresh air.  High School was a place where dreams were realized and goals were set.  The four years would fly by like doves.

When she got there, she quickly discovered that it was a trap.  By the time the gates closed, it was too late to go back.  They were locked in like prisoners and herded like cattle to the classrooms, where the teachers—who were just as much made into inmates as the students—began their well ironed, machine printed lessons.  Occasionally, an administrator (whom, with their black suits and ties often frightened the children) would appear to judge their progress.  In the minds of the students, there wasn't any.  But the Suits would nod and smile and pat them on the back and say they were doing a fine job.  Stella tried not to recoil from the touch. 

Their lives were dictated by bells.  One in the morning to start the day, one to end each class, and one final ring to send them home.  It became instinct to know when they were going to go off—so much, in fact, that they didn't have to look at the clocks or their phones.  Not that they were allowed to have their phones on to begin with: all connection to the outside world was cut like Stella's dreams.  Only emergencies signaled the use of communication. 

The system—the machine—destroyed her goals and forced her to set new ones that fit their own standards.  English—the one subject she loved—ripped the creativity from her heart and threw it in the trash.  She attempted to add her voice into her papers, but those failed and were later shredded at home.  Therefore, her grades were average—something that she wasn't used to—and this led to anxiety attacks and eventually a trip to the hospital.  And when she returned, the machine punished her for missing class. 

One day, after class let out, Stella couldn't help but feel invigorated: she'd just gotten a paper back that she thought she'd done well on.  She'd perfected inserting her voice into her writing without really inserting it at all and was certain that she was finally going to get the grade she deserved.  But when she turned the paper over and stared at the comment her teacher made, she couldn't spare the water to cry. 

Major misread, it read in orderly cursive and Stella felt herself smile grimly. 

Yes, she thought, turning to look back at the school.  A major misread indeed.