"Superficiality means something on the surface. Seek superficial things, gain superficial happiness. You know, superficial happiness. It's there on the outside but on the inside...totally empty." -- Ash

The first day of school is by far the most hypocritical and fake. There are the guys that flounce around campus pretending that they didn’t practice that walk in the mirror twenty million times. There are the girls that look like they tried too hard because their bracelet matches their shoes exactly, which matches their dress exactly, which matches their earrings…exactly. Girls racing into the bathroom every period to plug in their straighteners and curlers to iron away that last-minute frizz, refusing to sit outside because the unforgiving sun could melt the makeup off their faces.

And then there are people like me. People that get sick at the thought of how much superficiality weighs down the mood of the first day of school. And no, I’m not trying to be a snob. Nor am I a loner. But every year, I see this cycle, which makes me lose complete interest in the social aspect of school.

Because who really attends the first day to learn? What is there to learn? Just boring rules and regulations, and what teachers give twice-a-semester bathroom passes and what teachers think that asking to go the bathroom is a bigger sin than adultery.

The days leading up to the first day of senior year were the reason that my phone’s text message inbox was full in just two days, clogged with text messages from frantic friends asking what I was going to wear for the first day.

I was kind of depressed, I’ll admit that. The first day of senior year was kind of like the end to a twelve year tradition of organizing backpacks and folders and the traditional back-to-school shopping experience.

But that thought wasn’t enough to make me stand in front of my closet for an hour, trying to decide what outfit looked best. The reason the superficiality cycle of high school sickens me is partly because I was sucked into that cycle too, from fifth to tenth grade. But I gave up caring so much, and started living for myself. What a freaking liberation.

“What are you going to wear on Monday?” My father asked me that Sunday afternoon.

I looked up from hurriedly scrawling down some coherent sentences for an English essay assigned four months ago. Procrastination at it’s finest, I tell you.

“I don’t know. I’ll just wear one of the things I bought with Rida.” I had responded. He nodded and I rushed to finish the essay without looking like I had done a half-assed job.

I slept at two o’clock in the morning that night. Procrastination is a major screw-over.

When I wake up three and a half hours later, I head to the bathroom first, to wash up for prayer. I head over to my small closet, looking for something to wear. I settle for pale pink skinny jeans and a denim jacket. I clip back a chunk of hair and pray to God for guidance and peace within my heart.

‘The beautiful one to grow in peace and love with God’—the meaning of my name, Eiliyah. Everything I’m asking God for—for me to live up to the meaning of my name.

As I walk to the bus stop with my brother Harun, I ponder how amazing it is that a phrase in one language can convey the same message in one word of another language.

“Yo.” Christian, my friend, nods at me. He waves a little awkwardly at Harun. He’s economical with his words, especially in the morning. Who wouldn’t be? The sun’s not even out yet.

“Hey.” I respond. Harun holds up a hand in greeting. We all wait in silence, under the dim streetlight, surrounded by wet grass. The bus chugs up the road, and we get on, taking our respective seats; me in the back next to Harun, Christian in the middle. Everyone has bright white headphones in their ears; I sit quietly, Harun breathing peacefully next to me, just as quiet.

At school, Harun and I part with a wave. We have a lot of classes together. We’ll see each other in a few minutes.

Sadhana calls me as I walk past some of the football players following girls’ asses encased in tight denim with their eyes.

“Where are you?” she asks. I can hear a lot of background noise.

“Walking through the courtyard.”

“Come to downstairs Williams! Everybody’s here.”

“But I kinda wanted to go to upstairs Renfrew Hall and pick out a locker….” I nearly slam into a bulky black guy who is holding his pants up with one hand, his arm slung around a giggling girl with jeans so tight I wonder if any blood is going to her legs.

“Eiliyah! It’s the first day of senior year! This is where everybody is. It’s the last year of our IB graduating class!” I conclude that her poor calves aren’t getting enough blood.

I sigh and change my direction so that I’m heading to Williams Hall. “Coming.” I say. Somebody shouts Sadhana’s name so she hangs up without saying goodbye.

I make my way into Williams Hall, grimacing at the thought of having to interact with some of the most moronic kids I’ve spent the last three years of high school with. I see Sadhana and Sarah, my sophomore friend who I met last year when she came up to me and started talking.

It’s jam-packed, students filling every square inch of the hallway and spilling over into classrooms. Their backpacks are brand new and don’t match the tiredness of the hall and the hallways, worn down and battered by the years of teenagers using it. I love it here in this building.

“Eiliyah! Oh my God! We’re seniors this year!” Sadhana makes her way over to where I am. Some of the senior boys—the same boys we spent three years with—all turn and look to see who the source of the squealing is. When they see it’s just us, they roll their eyes and go back to talking about whatever the heck boys talk about.

“I know! I’m…I’m surprised.” I’m not as spastic as her but I know I look overwhelmed.

“This is our last year together.” Sarah says. It seems so far away, the end of this year. The end of this school year, and this scary concept called the future, looming in the distance, unfathomable.

“Then we’ll make the most of it!” I say brightly to lighten the mood.

“Ok! I agree. Ok, ok, so like…I didn’t know it when I chose my locker, but I’m next to all the Khans. And the Mehtas.” Sarah squeaks out nervously.

I raise my eyebrows and glance at the six boys huddled together. A couple of them are spinning their locks. A gang of junior girls push past us and we involuntarily move closer to the set of lockers lining one wall of the hallway.

“Oh. Wow. You got lucky.” I don’t see the big deal about the Khans or Mehtas but trust me: any other girl would kill to have Sarah’s locker.

“Seriously, what is the big deal about the Khans and the Mehtas? When you have classes with them, they’re not that amazing. Trust me. Oh, you know Krish, the ‘honorary Khan’? Do you know what Krish used to do in Anatomy class last year? I swear, he is so immature.” Sadhana says.

“What? What did he do?” Sarah asks eagerly, seeming to forget that her crush for Krish Mehta was “nothing” and “totally over”.

I sigh and turn away from them swapping Krish stories, looking for something—anything, to distract me from the gossip being exchanged between my friends.

The hallway goes on and on until it ends with the presence of a light yellow wall. Maybe that’s what my life is like…going on and on until I hit a wall. It was sure as hell make sense, because I feel like these walls, these people that I’m surrounded with, aren’t enough for me. I need to go out to see the world. I need to make something of myself.

“Eiliyah! Aren’t you listening to what I said?” Sadhana snaps me out of my thoughts.

“No, not really. Sorry. I’m tired.” Half-truth.

“I asked you what Krish told you that one time in Anatomy class. When you were talking to Ethan.”

I sigh and roll my eyes at the memory of that what he said to me. “He told me to shut the hell up because I was annoying. Then he told me to go and date Drew.”

Sarah gasps. “But he looks so innocent!”

“Drew?” I ask, confused. “Yeah. He is kind of innocent.”

“No, I mean Krish. He’s so nice.” At the notion of Krish being considered nice by somebody, I burst out laughing. I turn to my left and see him opening his locker and talking to a friend, Raj.

“Yeah right. That’s a good one, Sarah.” I notice that the freshmen are looking at the senior boys—especially Raj, Krish, Zayd, and Omar Khan—in awe. Some sophomore girls, Sarah’s friends, are sneaking glances at the Khans.

“Can I put something in your locker?” I ask while eyeing her familiar, shiny, purple lock, one to the right of Krish’s. His locker is open but he’s hunched over Raj Mehta’s cell phone screen.

“Dude, you have guts.” Sadhana says with wide eyes. I mentally sigh. Here’s what I don’t get about Sadhana: she doesn’t think the Khans and the Mehtas are a big deal, yet she’s intimidated by them. I don’t get it.

Shrugging, I make my way over to Sarah’s locker while my friends linger back. I spin the combination that I’ve known for a while now. Krish’s arm presses up against mine; our lockers are pretty small, with not enough room to maneuver. I’m looking into Sarah’s locker and placing things from my backpack that I won’t need until after lunch. I can sense Krish turning and looking at me, and then removing his arm quickly. Well then. There goes Sarah’s claim that he likes me.

Sadhana leans against the locker to the right of Sarah’s. “Oh my God. Look who’s coming down the hallway.” She whispers.

I glance to my right, leaning back so that I can see past Krish’s big head. Christian’s walking down the hallway, and girls of all grades are shooting quick glances at him as he stops twenty feet away from us to open his locker.

He’s no longer the skinny, short, long-haired boy I met in fifth grade at the bus stop. The admiration-filled looks he’s receiving make me see how much he’s grown just this summer, even though his upward rise to cuteness began sophomore year.

As I turn my attention back to Sarah’s locker, a flash of black and khaki catches my attention. A tall boy with jet black hair and paler skin than Christian’s is standing with his back faced to me. His hands are in his khaki cargo shorts pockets.

“Sadhana is that….” I turn my head to face my friend who is scanning the hallway to see what I’m looking at.

“Yo, Krish!” The boy shouts out. I freeze. I know that voice. It’s deeper and more manly than it was at the end of sophomore year, but I know it well.

“Hamza! My man!” Krish’s voice booms in my ears. I stare straight ahead, pretending that Sarah’s Spanish II textbook is the most interesting and important thing in the world. My hands tighten around the cold locker door.

I turn to the left one last time. Hamza is standing, now faced towards Krish, grinning. They run towards each other in a mockingly gay, bromantic way. Krish wraps himself around Hamza and they hug each other tightly.

I swear. These are the boys I have multiple classes with every year. Extremely touchy-feely, loving, bromantic boys. This, along with the fact that Muslims aren’t allowed to date, is the reason that I have not had a high school relationship.

I turn back to Sadhana and Sarah, who has appeared again after talking to a friend, Taylor, at the other end of the hall. They both stare at Krish and Hamza. Well, Sarah stares at Krish and Taylor stares at Hamza.

As I slam Sarah’s locker closed, my gaze catches on something to my left. At first, I see Krish’s back, but as I look up, Hamza’s eyes connect with mine. He’s finally grown into his big bug eyes.

A weird look passes between us, and the minute he sees me, the smile slips off his face. It doesn’t turn into a frown, just…neutral, expressionless. I shake my head a fragment of an inch and turn back to Sadhana and Sarah.

I forgot about the look for five hours after that. English class is really when the madness began.