So tomorrow is my last first day of school and my first day of year twelve, the last year of school. I sort of can’t believe that I’m actually (almost finally)starting The Final Year because it seems like yesterday when we came to Australia (when in fact it was over ten years ago) and I started grade two with Mrs. Hall.
Each year passed with its ups and downs and I ‘graduated’ from primary school in 2009. Each year I’d watch the year 12s finish up their schooling lives forever and think ‘that’ll be me someday; but before I even got there, there was always this safety barrier: the year level in front of our one; the year who were always there to do things first for us. But now it’s us and there’s no more barriers and no more ‘oh, I’ve got another year to do it’, or ‘this year doesn’t count’, because it does: it is THE year that actually does count and it’s arrived at my doorstep rather ungraciously with the promise of stress, friendship and finality.
It sort of hasn’t set in that tomorrow I’ll be starting my final year of school because 1) we don’t actually have proper class tomorrow, it’s just lockers and timetables and the expected lectures about being on time and how we’re role models and what’s expected from us as year 12 students, and 2) we’re still at the same school, we’re still the same people – it’s just us, the motley bunch of kids who entered the school at year 7 together as a confused (and extremely naughty) cohort. We lost and gained a few throughout the way, and now, four years later, we’re at the beginning of the end, the same, slightly drunker and worse for wear group, (a little more) grown up. It’s almost like we haven’t aged, except for our heights and faces and of course puberty (that little bitch).
But here’s to it: the greatest and worse year of life; the countless number of 18ths; the infinite sacs, combined with the ever present complaining; the promise of a life after school; the lectures; the (supposed) status; the friendships; the teachers and (finally), the finality of it all.