08-11-2010, 08:57 PM
Chapter 1
“1...2...3...4...5...6...” The droning metronome in my brain counted the tics on the clock one by one. “…7...8...9...10...11...12.” 1800 tics and 30 minutes later, I was sick of it. In retrospect, the diagrams and theorems on the board probably would have been more entertaining (not to mention productive), but they wouldn’t have kept my attention for very long. How could sitting in a chair be so draining? It’s much easier at home with a bag of chips and a good show on TV.
The weather was gray and unchanging outside, like the pages in the book I was resting my head on. With a name like geometry, what do teachers expect their students’ first impressions to be? I was never any good at this class, and although my parents weren’t exactly ecstatic about my grades, Ms. Reynolds couldn’t care less if I was asleep or not. Fine by me.
*BEEEEP*
The bell (or the class-switchy/endy thing) finally rung and that was the one thing in this school that I always enjoyed listening to. I put my stuff in my bag and I started to get up out of my chair when something met the back of my head with a vengence.
“…the hell…?”
“Hey, Restei.”
Son of a bitch.
“What? Too dumb to even acknowledge that I’m talking to you?
Why now? Things were going so well this week.
“HEY! Answer me!”
What would happen if I didn’t? I’ve never really let him go past this point. Yeah, let’s see what happens.
*Click*
crap.
“Got your attention now?”
Nah, I think it’s the gun.
“3...2...1...”
“What the hell do you want Chris?”
“I noticed you were watching the clock again.”
Chris Mallard. Biggest dick in the world. Give him a title and it labels his new personality. 6th grade hall monitor. He yelled at me to get to class. I told him to fudge off. He gave me a detention. I punched him in the face. Broke his nose, too.
7th grade pep leader. It was our school’s way of making a joke out of some poor die-hard. He was in charge of making a list of all of the kids and rating their pep. People with the lowest pep had to stay after school to take “Energy enrichment” classes. Poor emos never saw it coming. I don’t what butthead implemented that system, and I never found out who it was, but all I can say is they’re really friggin lucky. Mr. PL issued me a required afternoon class. Naturally, I ignored the waste of time and skipped the class. The next day, it wasn’t school staff that talked to me about my absence. Chris passed me another slip while I was walking down the hall. It ended the same way it did in 6th grade.
8th grade locker inspector. As to how or why any adult believed this job to be reasonable, I’ll never know. Anyway, Chris found a can of soda in my locker. It was only after he dumped it on my head that I knew this.
“Next time, think before you carry contraband.” Yeah, and maybe one day, I’ll be as cool as you.
I grabbed his hand and twisted it until the can fell. Clutching his hand, he couldn’t do much while I grabbed him by the back of the head, held the can against a wall, and used his skull as a trash compactor. Sure, he bled a little, and yeah, there was a circular bruise on his forehead for the next week, but the staff just laughed when he showed up at the nurse.
Freshman year…well, I don’t have a story for this one. Fortunately, the high school didn’t have any ridiculous student jobs yet, so Chris kept of my ass for that year. Then the middle school’s reach extended into the administration, and Chris was hooked up with the title of “Attention sentinel”. Douche-bag police is how I pronounced it. Since then, every class of mine has been a living hell. The school equipped him with an “Initiative booster”. In actuality, it was a low-charge, hand-held taser. After learning of his equipment, I was beginning to question the mental stability and competence of the administrative staff.
“Whaddaya gonna do Chris, zap me?”
“I wouldn’t act so smug. I think that most of your teachers would agree that you’re due for a little push.”
“So that gives you grounds to hit me with a friggin book? Jackass…”
*Zzpt*
“Ack, dammit!”
“Consider this a warning. Pay attention in class from now on, Mr. Restei.”
Cheeky little bastard…
I hate Chris Mallard. Hated him since sixth grade. That bitch…making me break his nose…who does he think he is?
I made my way down the hall and out the door. It was the one time I wasn’t stopped short of my exit. I don’t take the bus cause my house is only 15 minutes away on foot. That, and the bus driver scares the hell outta me.
I make it seven minutes down the road. Everything is fine; the sun is shining, the winds are blowing, and the birds are chirping. Out of nowhere, this huge, fiery explosion blossoms in the air, followed by a deafening boom. The force knocks me down flat on my ass.
“So this is it? This kid?”
“I swear, I could feel a powerful energy originating here.”
“Why did they assign you as a sentinel again?
“There’s no way…IT WAS RIGHT HERE!”
My hearing returned before my sight. There were voices, but none that I recognized.
“I told you that skipping breakfast would screw with your head.”
“Boo! Breakfast is no fun! I don’t have time for boringness!”
My sight finally rectified itself. Two strangers were standing in front of me. There was a tiny girl wearing equally tiny clothes. That was more than I could say for the guy standing next to her. He was massive; not only in height, but in overall stature. He had muscles on his muscles.
However, these were no ordinary people (as if the explosion wasn’t incriminating enough.) The girl had crimson hair, and her clothes weren’t anything that girls just wore. She looked like she came from some ancient desert civilization, or some strange cult. Her clothes were white and looked like giant ribbons. They covered her where necessary, leaving the rest of her body open to the sun. Her feet were supported by thin white sandals.
The man was unnaturally large, boasting a fiery mohawk. His gargantuan arms bore large, studded, gold rings. Where he received them, or why he wore them, I have no idea. He wore no shirt; just white shorts and a red sash wrapped around his waist. For footwear, he had white boots.
“Well, I don’t have time for this.”
“No! I’m sure of it! He’s got to be it!”
I was getting sick of watching and listening. I wanted answers.
“HEY!”
The both looked at me as if they were surprised I could talk.
“Would you two chuckleheads like to explain what the hell is going on here?”
“1...2...3...4...5...6...” The droning metronome in my brain counted the tics on the clock one by one. “…7...8...9...10...11...12.” 1800 tics and 30 minutes later, I was sick of it. In retrospect, the diagrams and theorems on the board probably would have been more entertaining (not to mention productive), but they wouldn’t have kept my attention for very long. How could sitting in a chair be so draining? It’s much easier at home with a bag of chips and a good show on TV.
The weather was gray and unchanging outside, like the pages in the book I was resting my head on. With a name like geometry, what do teachers expect their students’ first impressions to be? I was never any good at this class, and although my parents weren’t exactly ecstatic about my grades, Ms. Reynolds couldn’t care less if I was asleep or not. Fine by me.
*BEEEEP*
The bell (or the class-switchy/endy thing) finally rung and that was the one thing in this school that I always enjoyed listening to. I put my stuff in my bag and I started to get up out of my chair when something met the back of my head with a vengence.
“…the hell…?”
“Hey, Restei.”
Son of a bitch.
“What? Too dumb to even acknowledge that I’m talking to you?
Why now? Things were going so well this week.
“HEY! Answer me!”
What would happen if I didn’t? I’ve never really let him go past this point. Yeah, let’s see what happens.
*Click*
crap.
“Got your attention now?”
Nah, I think it’s the gun.
“3...2...1...”
“What the hell do you want Chris?”
“I noticed you were watching the clock again.”
Chris Mallard. Biggest dick in the world. Give him a title and it labels his new personality. 6th grade hall monitor. He yelled at me to get to class. I told him to fudge off. He gave me a detention. I punched him in the face. Broke his nose, too.
7th grade pep leader. It was our school’s way of making a joke out of some poor die-hard. He was in charge of making a list of all of the kids and rating their pep. People with the lowest pep had to stay after school to take “Energy enrichment” classes. Poor emos never saw it coming. I don’t what butthead implemented that system, and I never found out who it was, but all I can say is they’re really friggin lucky. Mr. PL issued me a required afternoon class. Naturally, I ignored the waste of time and skipped the class. The next day, it wasn’t school staff that talked to me about my absence. Chris passed me another slip while I was walking down the hall. It ended the same way it did in 6th grade.
8th grade locker inspector. As to how or why any adult believed this job to be reasonable, I’ll never know. Anyway, Chris found a can of soda in my locker. It was only after he dumped it on my head that I knew this.
“Next time, think before you carry contraband.” Yeah, and maybe one day, I’ll be as cool as you.
I grabbed his hand and twisted it until the can fell. Clutching his hand, he couldn’t do much while I grabbed him by the back of the head, held the can against a wall, and used his skull as a trash compactor. Sure, he bled a little, and yeah, there was a circular bruise on his forehead for the next week, but the staff just laughed when he showed up at the nurse.
Freshman year…well, I don’t have a story for this one. Fortunately, the high school didn’t have any ridiculous student jobs yet, so Chris kept of my ass for that year. Then the middle school’s reach extended into the administration, and Chris was hooked up with the title of “Attention sentinel”. Douche-bag police is how I pronounced it. Since then, every class of mine has been a living hell. The school equipped him with an “Initiative booster”. In actuality, it was a low-charge, hand-held taser. After learning of his equipment, I was beginning to question the mental stability and competence of the administrative staff.
“Whaddaya gonna do Chris, zap me?”
“I wouldn’t act so smug. I think that most of your teachers would agree that you’re due for a little push.”
“So that gives you grounds to hit me with a friggin book? Jackass…”
*Zzpt*
“Ack, dammit!”
“Consider this a warning. Pay attention in class from now on, Mr. Restei.”
Cheeky little bastard…
I hate Chris Mallard. Hated him since sixth grade. That bitch…making me break his nose…who does he think he is?
I made my way down the hall and out the door. It was the one time I wasn’t stopped short of my exit. I don’t take the bus cause my house is only 15 minutes away on foot. That, and the bus driver scares the hell outta me.
I make it seven minutes down the road. Everything is fine; the sun is shining, the winds are blowing, and the birds are chirping. Out of nowhere, this huge, fiery explosion blossoms in the air, followed by a deafening boom. The force knocks me down flat on my ass.
“So this is it? This kid?”
“I swear, I could feel a powerful energy originating here.”
“Why did they assign you as a sentinel again?
“There’s no way…IT WAS RIGHT HERE!”
My hearing returned before my sight. There were voices, but none that I recognized.
“I told you that skipping breakfast would screw with your head.”
“Boo! Breakfast is no fun! I don’t have time for boringness!”
My sight finally rectified itself. Two strangers were standing in front of me. There was a tiny girl wearing equally tiny clothes. That was more than I could say for the guy standing next to her. He was massive; not only in height, but in overall stature. He had muscles on his muscles.
However, these were no ordinary people (as if the explosion wasn’t incriminating enough.) The girl had crimson hair, and her clothes weren’t anything that girls just wore. She looked like she came from some ancient desert civilization, or some strange cult. Her clothes were white and looked like giant ribbons. They covered her where necessary, leaving the rest of her body open to the sun. Her feet were supported by thin white sandals.
The man was unnaturally large, boasting a fiery mohawk. His gargantuan arms bore large, studded, gold rings. Where he received them, or why he wore them, I have no idea. He wore no shirt; just white shorts and a red sash wrapped around his waist. For footwear, he had white boots.
“Well, I don’t have time for this.”
“No! I’m sure of it! He’s got to be it!”
I was getting sick of watching and listening. I wanted answers.
“HEY!”
The both looked at me as if they were surprised I could talk.
“Would you two chuckleheads like to explain what the hell is going on here?”