By: James Cassar

Infamous gridlock traffic has established itself as a mainstay in Loudoun County. Rush hour is now an ironic term, since the steady flow of traffic is almost always interrupted by an unwelcome storm of ridiculous stop n’ go movement. The fast lane quickly devolves, and disgruntled drivers curse the day highways were invented – or at least, when these inexperienced drivers cleared Behind the Wheel. Unfortunately, the madness does not stop outside closed doors.

                Tuscarora High School, the breeding ground for dastardly drama and some of the wackiest wardrobes this side of the nation’s capital, is home to a new breed of reverse rush hour: an inconvenient influx of prepubescent bodies. This disconcerting brand of troublesome transit is done without cars, instead the alternative mode of vehicular transport being sheep (Ugg boots) or cattle (leather sneakers that boast the Nike swoosh). This phenomenon is quizzical, to say the least. Didn’t we stop riding animals into town in like, 1903? In a world that prides itself on the next big thing, it’s a little shocking to see such old school values in a society that disregards all other ancient values of respect, chivalry, and gentlemanly conduct.
It’s also of note that these vehicles aren’t actually used effectively. Sure, these animals get students from point A to B, from one party to the next, but the six minutes between blocks is spent with their feet planted at a jarring dead stop. Those precious three-hundred and sixty seconds are expended instead firing their gums into overdrive, and a chorus of blah-blah-blah-gossip is heard bouncing around both floors of the building. Those actually more concerned about their schooling than stupid scandals find themselves trapped against an unnaturally-imposed gate of gangly legs and raging hormones. Hilarity doesn’t ensue. It’s Revenge of the Nerds on a much grander scale. But I digress.
Even though those armed with a copy of the dictionary don’t wield protractors as a wicked offense and use their overstuffed backpacks as makeshift shields. I know what they’re thinking: it’s time for this to change. Last year, we didn’t have freshmen clogging the hallways like the arterial aftermath of a Super-Size meal. Last year, we didn’t have four grades. This year, four grades equals the unruly four horsemen of the Apocalypse, and to prove a point, those clad in tight jeans and brand-name clothing instead of simple robes assert their false authority on the hallowed tile of the proud black-and-blue. A storm’s coming, however, and that’s the angry voice of the people with actual say – the upperclassmen. Come at us, bro.
I’m pretty sure that those that are the esteemed members of the first graduating class would testify to the fact that this unwanted traffic jam sets their nerves on edge. Already the victims of a premature case of senioritis, it just adds more contagion to the countless lists of bothersome traits that a younger class possesses. Inexperience breeds incompetence, this much is true, but we’ve been in school for almost a month now. It should be pretty obvious that school is like Route 15-lite. Traffic needs to keep moving. Saddle up, riders. You’ve had your fun; it’s time to blaze a new trail before reality blazes you.