Satire

Aran Wollard

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Packing List for Incoming Freshmen

Parents of CHS freshmen,

Please communicate THIS list of NECESSARY items for your freshman entering Columbia High School in the fall:

(1) 25 zipper-backpack containing:

(2) agendas, ONE given on first day of school and ONE personal agenda

(1) Emergency contact list of the school nurse, your parents, both neighbors, your aunt and uncle, grandfather AND grandmother

(1) LAMINATED map of the school, color coded for your convenience

(2) copies of your schedule, printed, one in your hand AT ALL TIMES, the other in the mesh of your accordion binder

(1) Accordion binder, 75 folders total

(70) number two dixon-ticonderoga pencils

(75) highlighters, containing all shades of every color

(10) black sharpies

(1) Bottle of sunscreen, 100 SPF or higher

(1) Water bottle with mister and fan attachment, one backup

(1) big puffy jacket

(5) warm layers(some classrooms are too hot/cold)

(1) plastic bag with gym clothes never washed

(2) combination locks

(1) 64 oz Purell bottle of hand sanitizer

(15) magnets for your locker and racks for locker

EVERY textbook given to you by your teachers in your 25-zipper backpack

Swimsuit, swim cap, towel, goggles, and fins for swim class(EVERY freshman will have swim)
(2) tissues boxes DECORATED
(4) glue sticks,

(2) pairs of scissors

(1) lunch each day, of your aromatic tuna sandwich, held OUTSIDE your backpack

(1) phone case worn on your hip that your phone clips to

45 ANNOUNCEMENTS will be made to remind you of the list, on the first day of school through Thanksgiving break. Myself, Principal Aaron, cannot stress how important every item on this list is. Parents, it is integral to your students’ success that you check your child’s backpack to make sure all items are accounted for. And don’t forget--send your student to Columbia clutching their schedule in one hand and their aromatic tuna sandwhich in the other!

Go Cougars,

Elizabeth Aaron

Photo credit is located herehttps://www.youtube.com/channel/UCay2WHXZzSNUx2Yt1wUoh6A

Jessica Brice

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The Most Beautiful Public High School in New Jersey

Photo courtesy of Architectural Digest

I clutched my paper ticket in a moist fist, sweating profusely under the glare of the afternoon sun. Around me, other tourists did the same, shuffling impatiently or fanning themselves in vain. I craned my neck to see above the crowd, directing my gaze at front of the line. The sea of heads covering the pavement tapered near the entrance of the museum a few hundred feet away. I flicked my wrist upward to check the time, watching the fluorescent green lights flicker on beneath my skin. “3:03 p.m.” flashed across the digital display of my implant. 

Simultaneously, a tinny, discordant tone blared inside the building. A bell, they used to call it. Back then, it signaled the end of a school day; old photographs showed hordes of children rushing frantically through the doors each afternoon. Now, it was purely symbolic, like a modern monarch stripped of his original powers and duties. Now, the bell ushered in visitors instead.

The masses cheered in anticipation, surging toward the heavy oak doors as they were propped open for the fifth time that week (the museum only opened Monday through Friday). As I neared the front of the building, a large brick tower came into view, bearing an antique clock on each face. Several chimneys dotted the green shingled rooftop. Ivy sprawled across the facade like crabgrass between cracks in the cement sidewalk. A large archway spanned the main entrance, and I could discern the curved edges of words and figures carved into the rock—long-forgotten subjects like ethics and Latin.

I showed my crumpled ticket to an officer in the lobby, then scoped out the nearest tour guide. Despite the throng, it was easy to spot them sporting their uniforms, old-fashioned clothing dating all the way back to the 2010s. Like their peers who walked the halls 200 years ago, the girls wore high-waisted bottoms in pastel colors typically reserved for infants. Their tops were equally ridiculous, trapping their torsos in tight spandex or barely covering their midriffs. The boys wore simple t-shirts, mesh shorts and jogger pants, as if an athletic event could be held at any time. I smoothed my SmartSuit, grateful for its flattering and comfortable fit.

Our guide, a young eighty-something, introduced herself to the group. In keeping with the time period, her name—Jessica or something—was bland and ridden with consonants, sandpaper on your tongue. Then she delivered a well-rehearsed introduction to the exhibit, painstakingly recalling the history of the Columbia High School Museum from its completion in 1927 to its retirement in 2018.

While she droned on about the Gothic Revival movement, I turned my attention to the posters lining the walls behind the front desk. One article, entitled “The Most Beautiful High School in Every State in America,” had been published in Architectural Digest (a magazine, I guessed), printed and framed. According to the highlighted blurb, Columbia was considered most beautiful public high school in New Jersey. I thought it was strange the way the paper had yellowed and wrinkled overtime, the way skin did before science saved us from graceless aging.

Before we shuffled through the halls, our guide reminded us not to disturb anything we saw, lest we alter it somehow. The museum staff went to great lengths to keep everything looking exactly the way it did in 2018, removing the litter visitors occasionally left behind. “E-waste” was the term she used. 

We visited the second-floor A-wing first, trudging up the stairwell. At first, it was silent save for the sound of our boots reverberating through the chamber (and the squeaks of our guide’s white tennis shoes). Suddenly, a shriek pierced the air. We all stopped short and turned in the direction of the noise.

A small stone the color of red wine glinted on the step behind a terrified visitor. No, it was an insect, its limbs scrambling blindly through the air. “It’s a cockroach,” the guide said with a placid smile. “And a handsome one, too.” We stared at her, unsure of what to make of it. The word vermin came to mind, accompanied by a sour taste and the urge to maim. But this was the most beautiful high school in New Jersey, where such things could not exist. I forced myself to look at the cockroach again. The legs were long and slender, almost delicate. Its shell was an intricate coat of armor. I agreed; the cockroach was handsome indeed.

After a few turns, we arrived in what our guide called the band room, where wind instruments were stored and played during class. She was quick to point out the exposed ceilings, a desirable design feature. “You mean exposed rafters?” someone asked in the back. She laughed. “Not exactly.” Above us, a few pieces of perforated cardboard remained glued to the ceiling. The rest had crumbled and fallen, haphazardly positioned in a way our guide found charming. Asbestos? All sorts of antiquated ideas filled my head again. No, this was no place for a public health crisis to occur, much less an obvious one. Asbestos was simply a building material, not a toxin lying dormant in the tissue, a wolf hiding in the high grass. It was what they called “classic.” The tourists murmured appreciatively, blinking rapidly to activate their eye-cameras.

When we were finished, we retraced our steps along the wide corridor back to the stairwell. As we plodded along, I noticed another feature of the building I had overlooked: an eclectic interior color palette. Absent were the sleek, gunmetal-greys and pristine whites of the latest architectural wonders. The walls of the school had been doused in innumerable shades of bright blue, ranging from turquoise to cyan. A lesser person might have described the lurid aesthetic as juvenile or ostentatious, but I could not ignore what others before me had already confirmed. This was the pinnacle of design; cardinal red lockers squeezed between teal ones on linoleum tiles the color of diluted urine.

The next few classrooms mostly contained papers and mottled wooden floors. They smelled of mildew and damp earth, providing little relief from the heat despite the large vents installed against the walls. Stacks of peeling hardcovers sagged on the shelves, coated in a layer of small grey particles. I asked our guide what it was. Lichen? No. “Dust,” she replied. When she turned around, I furtively swiped my index finger across a book to collect a bit of it. The enchanting film coated every exposed surface, a bed of ancient snowflakes settled over the earth. It even clung to the walls, a pale yellow underneath hastily scribbled graffiti. 

For a brief moment, I wondered how such antiquated mediums as handwriting could be allowed to exist. Erasing a pencil mark or wiping a desks was as simple as pushing a button, yet no one lifted a single mechanical finger. But that’s why the people came in droves; they liked the ancient artifacts. They had become scarce, so they were valuable. They were different. And so they were beautiful.