The Door in the Hallway
It was a first day like every other first day – and not like any other first day at all.
All the familiar first day things – the flurry of faces, the smell of pencil shavings and new shoes, the tingle of excitement coursing through the air – had returned to welcome another year. Everything – and everyone – was just bigger now. A little less colorful. A little more serious.
Not so serious, though, that they couldn’t still run through the halls. Still shriek with excitement at the sight of an old friend ready to be made new again. Still clamor through the door falling over one another to make sure they claimed just the right seat.
All except for one.
At first glance, there was no reason I should be any different than anyone else. I was wearing the same white collared shirt that was just a bit too big and the same new gray skirt that was just a bit too stiff. My shoulders bent the same way under the weight of a brand-new backpack that was just a little too full of books. And I had arrived at the same open door punctuating the same scuffed and worn-out hallway.
The only real difference was that I hadn’t gone inside.
Through the door, excited faces bobbed and twirled like leaves on the breeze. Papers rustled in the hands of a teacher with kind eyes and a knowing smile. Morning sunlight streamed in through the open windows, reflecting off rows of chairs and desks wiped sparkling clean and eager to be chosen. The room buzzed and glowed and surged, shaking off the dust of summer as though it, too, had woken up that morning eager and nervous and hopeful for the first day of school.
It was old and strange and familiar and new and exciting. It was beautiful.
But it might as well have been a world away.
The more the classroom roared to life, the colder and darker the hallway seemed to grow. Beads of sweat pooled on my palms and fell from my fingertips like lonesome rain. They shook the ground under my feet as I stood, still, in the hallway, trying to decide what kind of weird I wanted to be today.
Afternoon sun faded into shadow as I turned the corner on another scuffed and worn hallway that looked only a little bit different than all the other hallways that had greeted me that day.
I walked down the hallway alone, which wasn’t surprising. When you choose to be the kind of weird that tries to sneak past the loudest and most gregarious new classmate’s welcome-to-school high-five – but doesn’t quite sneak fast enough, you’re not exactly overwhelmed by offers of friendship.
At least this hallway was quiet.
And it didn’t have any open doors.
In fact, you wouldn’t have known anyone was there at all if it wasn’t for the tiny box of light dancing on the floor halfway down – painted there by a single, thin window carved into a waiting wooden door.
My feet carried me dutifully forward – even though I didn’t want to go. I placed my fingers on the handle – but thought better of turning it.
If I stood on my tiptoes, I could just see in. I lifted myself toward the once-white ceiling. I took a peek.
I had almost made it to the end of the hallway.
The good end. The end that held the door to sunlight and freedom and no one there at all. The door with no older kids from higher grades behind it. The door through which I’d come.
I was almost there.
But the other door opened first.
A voice came out of it. Surprisingly soft – but still enough to freeze me in my tracks.
“You look lost.”
The first place I looked was down – at my chest. I didn’t remember leaving my heart hanging open like a decades-old textbook, pages drifting thoughtlessly into the paths of roaming glances.
Two brown eyes pulled mine back toward the door down the hallway. I was almost not sorry they could see me. But only almost. Either way, I couldn’t escape them now.
I tried to mumble a thank you as I slipped like a whisper through the door from which I had almost run away. It was out of obligation mostly, and it came out like a squeak, but the laughing smile that broke like the dawn from beneath the warm gaze of my captor seemed to say it didn’t matter.
The door at the end of the hallway – the door that led to rich autumn evening and freedom and home – felt a thousand miles away.
I wished it were a million.
My backpack was heavy with books and notes and hopes and dreams and anticipation for the new year ahead.
And joy. It was so full of joy and laughter and hesitant – then undeniable – fun that it was nearly bursting at the seams.
One amazing new friend, then another disappeared through the door in the hallway like the last rays of sunshine slipping away below the horizon. But when I reached it, I couldn’t go through. As I gazed at the setting sun kissing the concrete and making all the cars in the parking lot glimmer, my feet felt heavy with newly remembered smiles and wishes for just a minute more.
So, I stood, still, in the hallway. I didn’t want to say goodbye.
Finally, when I could no longer ignore the honking horns and ringing bells that sought to cast me out into the evening, I whispered, “See you soon,” and crossed the threshold.
My feet lifted me forward – even though I didn’t want to go, past the old supply shed and the swatch of green grass to the door in the car that would ferry me homeward. I reached for the handle – but thought better of pulling it. I glanced back toward the door in the hallway and dreamed about what kind of awesome I wanted to be tomorrow.