Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 73
First Day

The middle school campus was across town from the elementary building Ash had attended for the past three years. Same school system, same uniforms, completely different world.

Shannon pulled up to the drop-off loop. "You have your schedule?"

"Yes."

"Your lunch account is set up. And remember, you can call the office if you need anything—"

"Mom. I've got it." Ash grabbed his backpack—a new one, bigger than his elementary school bag, designed to hold textbooks and binders instead of folders and pencils.

"I know you do. I just—" Shannon reached over, squeezed his shoulder. "You're starting middle school. My baby's growing up."

"I'm not a baby."

"You'll always be my baby. Even when you're forty." Shannon smiled, but her eyes were a little too bright. "Go on. Have a good first day."

Ash climbed out of the car, joined the stream of students heading toward the entrance.

The building was bigger than elementary—three stories, modern architecture with lots of glass and concrete. A banner hung over the entrance: "Welcome Back, Saints!"

He walked through the doors and was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. The hallways were packed with middle schoolers—sixth through eighth grade, hundreds of kids in navy and white uniforms, all taller than he remembered being at this age the first time.

Because he wasn't tall anymore.

In elementary school, he'd been one of the taller kids in his grade. Had gotten used to looking down at most of his classmates, to being picked first for basketball, to feeling physically capable and confident.

Now he was eleven, just started sixth grade, and surrounded by thirteen and fourteen-year-olds who towered over him. Boys who'd hit their growth spurts early, who had shoulders and height and the beginning of teenage bulk.

Ash felt small. Really small. For the first time since the regression, his body felt inadequate in a way that wasn't about gender—just about size. About being younger, smaller, less developed than the older kids around him.

He found his locker—number 247, third floor, B wing. The combination lock took three tries before it opened. Inside was empty metal space waiting to be filled. He shoved his backpack inside, pulled out the schedule printed on cardstock.

Period 1: English - Room 312 Period 2: Math - Room 208 Period 3: Science - Room 315 Period 4: Lunch Period 5: History - Room 203 Period 6: Physical Education - Gymnasium Period 7: Religion - Room 301 Period 8: Elective (Art) - Room 118

Eight periods. Eight different classrooms. No more staying in one room all day with the same teacher and same classmates.

He headed to Room 312 for English, navigating hallways that all looked identical. Navy lockers, white walls, fluorescent lights. Kids everywhere, laughing and shouting and comparing schedules and talking about their summers.

Ash kept his head down, focused on finding his classroom before the bell rang.

Room 312 was on the third floor, east wing. He found it with two minutes to spare, slipped inside, found an empty desk near the middle. Not front row—that was for try-hards and kids who couldn't see the board. Not back row—that was asking for trouble. Middle was safe. Invisible.

Other sixth graders filtered in. Some he recognized from elementary school—Emma was in this class, so was a kid named Vincent who'd been in his fifth-grade class. Most were strangers, kids from the other elementary feeder school.

The bell rang. The teacher—Ms. Harper, according to the board—closed the door and started talking about expectations and syllabus and the importance of reading critically.

Ash half-listened, more focused on the weirdness of the setup. Desks in rows instead of tables. No colorful posters about kindness and growth mindset. Just a whiteboard, a projector, and shelves of books organized by genre.

This was middle school. More serious. More academic. Less about learning to be a person and more about learning content.

After forty-five minutes, the bell rang again. Everyone grabbed their stuff and flooded into the hallway. Ash checked his schedule—Math, Room 208, second floor—and joined the migration.

The stairwell was chaos. Eighth graders moving slowly, taking up space, not caring that younger kids were trying to get past them. Seventh graders in clusters, laughing too loud. Sixth graders like Ash, looking slightly lost, trying to navigate without looking like they were trying.

Room 208 was at the end of a long hallway. Ash made it with thirty seconds before the bell.

Math was pre-algebra. The teacher—Mr. Rodriguez—looked young, maybe late twenties, and immediately launched into a diagnostic assessment to see what everyone remembered from last year.

Ash found himself doing the work automatically. His adult brain handled middle school math easily, but he was careful not to finish too fast, not to stand out. Blend in. Be normal. Just another sixth grader struggling with fractions and variables.

Between second and third period, he passed Marcus in the hallway.

"Walsh! You have science third period?"

"Yeah, Room 315."

"Same. Come on, I know where it is."

They walked together, Marcus talking about his summer, about starting middle school, about how weird it was having different teachers for every subject.

"And we have to change for PE," Marcus said. "Like, actual locker room changing. That's going to be weird."

"Yeah," Ash agreed, though he was more concerned about the locker room dynamics than the actual changing. Being twelve in a room full of thirteen and fourteen-year-olds, some of whom already looked like young adults.

Science was in one of the lab classrooms—black tables with built-in sinks, gas outlets for Bunsen burners, safety equipment along the walls. The teacher—Mrs. Peterson—talked about the scientific method and lab safety and expectations for behavior in a space with chemicals and equipment.

Ash took notes mechanically. This was the structure of middle school—forty-five minutes, bell, switch classes, new teacher, new subject, repeat until the day ended.

Fourth period was lunch. The cafeteria was bigger than elementary, with long tables and multiple lunch lines. Ash got his food—pasta and salad and a cookie—and found Marcus, Tyler, and Daniel at a table near the windows.

"This is so weird," Tyler said around a mouthful of pasta. "We only get thirty minutes now. Mrs. Martinez used to let us take forever."

"And the cafeteria is huge," Daniel added. "I barely found you guys."

"That's elementary school stuff," Marcus said. "This is middle school. We're on a schedule now."

Emma found them halfway through lunch, squeezing in at the end of the table.

"How's everyone's day?" Emma asked.

"Confusing," Tyler said.

"Long," Daniel agreed.

"Different," Ash added.

They compared schedules, realized they had some overlapping classes but nothing perfect. Emma had the same lunch period but different morning classes.

The bell rang. Thirty minutes, exactly. They dumped their trays and headed to fifth period.

History was Room 203. The teacher—Mr. O'Sullivan—was older, gray hair and glasses, and immediately started talking about ancient civilizations and the importance of understanding the past to understand the present.

Ash found himself actually interested. History from an adult perspective was different—he could see the patterns, understand the context, appreciate the complexity in ways twelve-year-olds couldn't.

But he kept that to himself. Took notes. Answered questions when called on but didn't volunteer. Stayed invisible.

Sixth period was PE in the gymnasium. This was what Ash had been dreading.

The locker room was exactly what he'd expected—rows of lockers, benches, tile floors, the smell of old sweat and industrial cleaner. Boys changing into gym uniforms—gray shorts and white t-shirts with the school logo.

Ash found an empty section of bench, changed quickly. Tried not to look at anyone else, tried not to compare himself to the eighth graders who already had chest hair and developed muscles and voices that had dropped.

He was eleven. Wouldn't turn twelve until March. His body was an eleven-year-old boy's body—right for his age, but small compared to older kids. Skinny. Underdeveloped. Not the athletic, capable body he'd gotten used to feeling like.

The comparison made him uncomfortable in a new way. Not dysphoric—this body was right. But inadequate. Young. Unprepared for whatever testosterone would eventually do.

PE was basic—running laps, stretching, an introduction to the fitness standards they'd be tested on throughout the year. The coach—a woman named Coach Mitchell—explained expectations, demonstrated proper form for push-ups and sit-ups, split them into groups for a relay race.

Ash ran his lap, did his exercises, kept pace with the other sixth graders. He was still athletic, still capable. But he wasn't dominant like he'd been in elementary school. Wasn't automatically the best at everything.

That was fine. Better to blend in. Better to be one of many rather than standing out.

After PE, back to the locker room to change. The same careful not-looking, the same awareness of being smaller and younger than half the boys in the room.

Seventh period was Religion. Room 301, back to the third floor. The teacher—Sister Margaret—was older, kind-faced, and immediately started talking about the structure of the class, the importance of faith in daily life, and the expectations for behavior in a Catholic school.

Ash had complicated feelings about religion. His first life had been spent at Catholic school too—Dad had insisted on it, just like now. But the conflict had been constant. The church's teachings about gender, about sexuality, about who deserved acceptance—all of it incompatible with who he was. He'd attended Mass because he had to, performed the rituals because refusal would have caused more problems than compliance. The moment he'd left for college, he'd stopped going entirely. Never set foot in a church again except for family weddings and funerals.

But Noam attended Catholic school. Said prayers before meals. Went to Mass with his family. Performed the same rituals he'd performed before, except now his body matched the role he was playing.

It was another costume. Another role to play. Easier than fighting it, more practical than revealing his actual thoughts.

Sister Margaret talked about the year's curriculum—Old Testament, New Testament, Church history, moral theology. Standard stuff. Ash took notes, participated minimally, kept his opinions to himself.

Eighth period was Art. Room 118, first floor, the only elective he'd been allowed to choose himself.

The art room was different from the other classrooms—messier, more colorful, with student work covering the walls and supplies organized on shelves around the perimeter. The teacher—Mr. Kowalski—was young, covered in paint stains, and immediately enthusiastic about creativity and self-expression.

"This is your space to experiment," he said after introductions. "To try new things, to make mistakes, to find your artistic voice. I don't care if you think you're good at art or bad at art—everyone can create something meaningful."

For the first time all day, Ash felt something relax in his chest. Art had been his thing in his first life. Painting, drawing, creating—it was how he'd processed the world when words weren't enough.

He'd been doing art with Sophie, casual watercolors and sketching. But this was different. This was a class, with instruction and time and permission to create.

Maybe middle school wouldn't be entirely terrible.

The final bell rang at 3:15. Ash grabbed his stuff from his locker, navigated the crowded hallways one more time, pushed out into the afternoon sun.

Shannon was waiting in the pickup line. "How was it?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

Ash climbed into the car, dropped his backpack at his feet. "It was... different. Bigger. More complicated. But fine."

"Did you find all your classes okay?"

"Yeah."

"Make any new friends?"

"Mom, it was the first day. Nobody makes friends on the first day."

"You became friends with Daniel on the first day of kindergarten."

"That was different." Ash looked out the window. "Middle school is different."

Shannon was quiet for a moment. "I know it's an adjustment. New building, new teachers, new expectations. But you'll figure it out. You always do."

That night, lying in bed, Ash thought about the day.

Eight periods. Eight different classrooms. Eight different teachers with different expectations and different styles.

Hallways packed with kids he didn't know. Older students who made him feel small. The constant movement, the noise, the chaos of hundreds of middle schoolers trying to navigate the same space.

It was overwhelming in a way elementary school had never been.

But it was also... normal. This was what middle school was like. What being twelve was supposed to feel like—small and uncertain and trying to figure out where you fit.

He wasn't tall anymore. Wasn't automatically good at everything. Wasn't the kid teachers noticed and praised.

He was just Noam Walsh, sixth grader, trying to blend in and survive.

And maybe that was okay.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his dark room. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I started middle school and felt small for the first time in years. Today I navigated eight different classrooms and compared my eleven-year-old body to fourteen-year-old bodies and felt inadequate. Today I wore a uniform and played a role and kept my head down. Today I was just another sixth grader, invisible and normal."

He paused.

"Today I started over again. New building, new expectations, new version of growing up."

Four thousand, six hundred and eighty-two days to go.

But tomorrow would be easier. He'd know where his classrooms were. Would know what to expect.

Middle school was just another thing to navigate. Another stage to survive.

And he'd survived worse.

Growing up, one overwhelming first day at a time.