A comment on yesterday's post got me thinking about my high school experience.

Before I start, let me backtrack and be completely obnoxious, inappropriate and egotistical. I'm very smart. I don't always have the best common sense, and there are some areas where I lack knowledge, but I have an excellent ability to learn. I learned to read at two and a half. I retain more information than most people, I can multi-task better than anyone I've ever met, and I read 3000 words per minute.

I'm not telling you this to brag. I'm just creating the setting for this tale.

So. Here I am, this smart-ass brilliant 12-year old kid who's a year younger than everyone else in 8th grade (I would have been two years younger if my parents hadn't been too damn afraid to put me in kindergarten at 3), and I'm discussing high school with my mother. She tells me about this brand new, two-year old program at Spruce Creek High School, four towns over, called the International Baccalaureate program. There was an article in the paper about it, and even though it was part of a huge public school, you had to apply to get into the program itself. I don't even remember what scores they needed – PSAT probably – but attendance was very limited. It had a different focus on learning than any other program, and unlike AP, it required a full commitment – you couldn't pick and choose classes if you wanted to get your IB diploma – the diploma that would typically allow you to skip a full semester worth of credits in college.

My parents asked "Did I want to go?" I was hesitant, just like I am with any new venture. Even today, the thought of change and the unknown stalls me to a standstill. My mother encouraged me to shadow a student for a day and see what I thought. I loved it.

My 13th birthday became a memory. Summer started to turn to autumn. My first day was visible on the horizon. I had my bus assignment memorized. Be on the corner of Knollwood Estates Drive and Hidden Hills Drive at 5:45 AM. As I was coming from almost 20 miles away, that school district had set up a special busing system that would pick up kids from all over the various towns at ungodly hours and get them to school by the first class at 7:27 AM.

I stood there, shivering despite the heat. With the exception of a short-lived stint in seventh grade that ended up with two bullies, a beating, my ass, and the ground, I had never been to a public school before. This was a huge transition from the security blanket of my private school, with only 11 people in my 8th grade class, people I had been with since first grade. My backpack weighing almost as much as I did, Walkman in hand, I waited for my bus.

"This is going to be awesome," I halfheartedly told myself. "I can't wait for some of these classes!" Yes, I'm well aware of the extreme level of geekiness in that sentiment. Here's another tidbit of nerdliciousness for you to chew on. I used to sit at lunch with my friends and we would see who could correctly identify the highest number of elements in the periodical table in order. We would try to stump each other with calculus. I am geek, hear me roar.

In my head, I painted tapestries of grandeur. We would descend from the bus in full view of the student population. A hush would go over the crowd. "Those are the smart kids," someone would whisper while others nodded wisely. The teachers would make notes of our eager shining faces. The administrators would know that we were the good kids. The seniors would be impressed by our collective rising star.

In the still of the morning, I heard the hum of a diesel engine. "This is it," I straightened my shoulders and awaited my destiny.

And my jaw dropped in horror as the short bus rolled up. Replete with wheelchair ramp and handicapped symbols, typically used to transport the mentally retarded and physically disabled, my chariot awaited. The door squealed open. "Yer one of them smart kids, right?" The driver's voice broke through the dark interior.

"Any recognition is better than none," I thought to myself and boarded with a sigh.