For the entirely new and the exhaustedly old, an exploration of high school as I, a trans-continentally new student, seize Coppell by the hour.

8:18 a.m.

Enter the first day of school. As someone plucked out of the rest of the remote but Westernized world, a scene I have rehearsed myself for.

Stereotyped blonde hair slicing, whittled hips swishing, Aphrodite’s minions strutting pretentiously ahead. They are the vortex of the hallway and everyone else is a reject, but wait. I do not recall any man in a hallway herding Lindsay Lohan off to her math class.

It is not Mean Girls. Just Coppell High School. And the only things the hallways have space for here are stampedes of barbarians who, in the time before the bell, are actually quite civilized and amiable, and not necessarily wearing pink on Wednesdays. Hollywood has not been the best source. Has it, fellow expatriates? (India, in my case, I was strapped to a grey-striped uniform shirt and sent to the principal’s office almost weekly for painted nails. Yes, there were rules demanding tied hair, cut nails and neat uniforms. It was school, not prison, and I did love it.) But, galloping back to Cowboy Drive, Texas, I am getting late for class and the system here is as lax as American culinary portions are small. Terrible comparison, but swallow it.

10:31 a.m.

Robots of English class are erected in their places by a droning announcement, hands slashed to chests in allegiance for America. I confess, an unintentional renegade, I am forced to mouth the Pledge at parts I do not recall from years past, and the Texas pledge is mostly bowed lip-singing. The class rolls along to raised hands and the English teacher’s tutelage. I find an odd moment to ask a student in the seat across me, another junior, about the school currently holding us hostage. She tells me how, “people care a lot about academics and GPA here,” and so a lot of people take AP classes, estimated at around three-fifths of the whole student body. Well, time to get our game up, newbies.

11: 13 a.m.

Lunchtime wanders along and I hear a wonderful sound: a British accent. I bolt and can not even be stopped for a cuppa’ tea and biscuits until I affront the source. Now identified as an IB junior, who has sailed seas centuries after the Mayflower to reach contemporary America. She finds things mostly “lovely” here, after being overcome by the sheer size of the school and its spirit for football, which she has “finally understood” (American accents not so much though). I appear to not be the only fan of her own accent; she relays to me how people have even asked her to say “I’m Hermione”. Before I have any time to ask her myself, a man calls me, “You must have a pass.” The same man from the morning, I realize. An investigation is required. He is Mr. Anthony Poullard, the end to all us vagrants tramping through hallways at undesignated times. And one of our valuable assistant principals, of course. He stops here to ensure a student is not encroaching without a pass, fortifying our school walls and embodying the gateway between students and the administration. His advice for new students is “get in, get involved” and, no T-shirts thrown for guessing to, “just have a pass”. I am detained to the other side of his chair.

12:53 p.m.

The mascot of CHS has not waited a second to introduce itself to me. At student services, overblown on students’ faces at pep rallies, student’s heads, the hallways, and the walls of the classroom I should be present in. I admit to being thrown off by the singly masculine nature of the word (anyone else wondering too?), and lo, there across the hallway is the epitome of cowboys, a boy unrecognizable without his ranch hat, senior and leader of the Silver Spurs, Nick Jones. Assured he will dispel my doubts, I approach him and am answered. Cowboys, he informs me, is “generic” and “has always been meant for both sexes”.

1:57 p.m.

I am most certainly hallucinating. It can not be. I strain my steps and condense the ethereal sound so it is all I hear. It most incredibly is music, my favorite kind (shoutout to all Bastille fans), making me finally feel a little at home. I later discover from Mrs. Stacey McNeely, a counselor, that the student council is responsible for choosing the music, and I hear from a classmate that it actually serves to spur dawdlers to class on time as the song drains out. As for feeling even more at home, she strongly recommends joining a club, and also advises, “Always choose clubs based on your interest. Colleges are looking for students who are involved in areas where their passions or interests can be explored and developed. Choosing for interest will lead to an enriched college application, not the other way around.” Luckily though, we may all be home soon if sixth and seventh period allow.

3:55 p.m., post-school

Finally, a hypothetical day of school over. Actually, no, not yet. I am yet to glean knowledge of the much celebrated, yearly event of Homecoming from junior Anjali Nagaraja. Nagaraja, with the same story of continent-hopping as me, commendably decided to attend to school social responsibilities. “It was a good experience! I made a few friends.” Of the school and her first impression in general, she says, “Coppell High School is an incredible school! The people are so sweet and kind and very welcoming.” At least the dance was nothing like on TV.