The sun had no mercy. By 7:30 a.m., the front courtyard of Westerdam was glowing white-hot, the tiles shimmering like glass under the August heat. Minh stood in perfect formation with class 6A, a tight knot of kids in stiff new uniforms, sweat already soaking into their collars. Somewhere, a sprinkler spun weakly over a patch of dead grass, clicking with every rotation, as if mocking them.
The principal's voice crackled from a portable speaker perched on a metal stand, distorted at the edges, swallowed now and then by the wind. Minh couldn't concentrate. All he heard were phrases: "tradition of excellence," "future leaders," "shaping intellect." His vision kept drifting—ants marching across his shoes, a drop of sweat trailing down someone's temple, a girl behind him whispering "I'm going to faint."
After nearly thirty minutes, the speech finally ended. Polite applause rippled across the yard, more out of exhaustion than respect. They were herded into the Grand Auditorium, and it felt like stepping into another world.
Inside, the real weirdness began: an hour-long session to learn the school anthem. Seven hundred kids. And leading them were a group of Grade 9 students in matching white jackets, standing on stage with microphones and clipboard folders.
"Again! This time with feeling!" one of them shouted, grinning like they owned the school.
By the fourth round, Minh still didn't know if "Westerdam, shining toward the future" was a promise or a threat.
Afterwards, they finally reached their real classroom: Room K-201, located in the oldest, rustiest building on campus. The hallway leading to it smelled faintly of mildew and chalk dust. The walls were a faded yellow, with patches of peeling paint revealing the concrete beneath. The wooden floorboards creaked with every step, and the ceiling fans rotated lazily, offering little relief from the lingering heat.
At the front of the room stood Ms. Phuong, tall and thin, with glasses perched precisely at the tip of her nose. She didn't smile.
"You'll sit in alphabetical order," she said without preamble. Her voice was calm but firm, the kind that didn't repeat instructions twice.
Minh was placed near the window—close enough to hear the birds outside but too far to whisper with anyone. The desk was old, with initials carved into its surface, and the chair wobbled slightly.
Then came her next words:
"This is not elementary school anymore. Everything from today counts."
No one said anything, but Minh felt it—the first real reminder that this school wasn't just "special." It was serious.
Lunchtime didn't help. The cafeteria was bright, loud, and smelled like grease. Minh took one bite of his meal and instantly named it: fake KFC. Dry, lukewarm, and somehow still expensive. But he ate every bite anyway. He was hungry, and he wasn't about to waste his first lunch here.
In the afternoon, the sixth graders were allowed to visit the upper school club fair—a chaotic mix of older students yelling over loudspeakers, handing out flyers, and showing off dance routines and robotic arms. Minh wandered around wide-eyed, taking everything in. He grabbed a chess club pamphlet, got accidentally pulled into a mock debate, and left with a tote bag full of stickers and flyers.
Just before they went home, Minh's mom was already waiting at the gate, holding up her phone. "Stand in front of the school sign," she said. "Smile. This one's for the future."
Minh didn't know what expression to make. Hopeful? Confident? Smart?
He just smiled. A little crooked. A little confused.
The hallway between him and the rest of the school had only just begun.