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Chapter 1

Introduction

By Jared SmithPublished 6 years ago 7 min read
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Chapter 1: Setup

I lay down on my new bed, in my new room, in my new house, in a new town. Too many “news” for comfort. My parents have moved us to the big city. Population: 1,896,743. I have lived my entire life in a town with a staggering population of only about three thousand—too small to have a consistent and regular census. Tomorrow is the first day of my senior year in a mega high that looks like a university on steroids. I hate them. My parents, they have uprooted our entire lives in order to “work on their marriage,” which is just fancy talk for saying mom cheated on dad.

My new room is actually quite nice; wood floors and a wonderfully red color for the walls. I have my own bathroom, which I've never had. This room, and the entire loft, is gorgeous, but I still hate it. My dad had an uncle with no children that left a large inheritance, including this loft, to him. Cars and taxis honk their horns and I can hear buses and god knows what else. This place is so loud. I miss the wind blowing through open fields, the smell of horses and cattle from our neighbors, the pond surrounded by pesky bugs.

Mom and dad have already gone to bed. I should be asleep too, but I can't. It's after midnight and I am so angry and sad that I can't see straight! I log on to one of my social media accounts and reminisce about the past. I see my best friend Derek and I at the lake by his house. All around us are other people from school. I can name all of them. It's a party going on behind us. Guys holding red cups and girls in bikinis; everyone laughing and smiling. I know everyone in that picture like the back of my hands. We all grew up together. We were friends, each other's shoulders to lean and cry on. Now, I feel like I've been cut out like a tumor. I slam my phone down on my nightstand and feel the tears well up in my eyes. I close them and let the sandman work his magic.

I wake up and prepare for probably the worst day of my existence. I shower and throw on some clothes. Before I head to the kitchen for breakfast, I catch myself in the mirror. I see a tall, muscular 17-year-old. I have dark green eyes and red hair. I have seen this face many times before, but I barely recognize myself. Perhaps it's the strange setting of my new bathroom. Everything in this place is entirely sleek and contemporary. I sigh and make my way to the kitchen for some cereal.

“Sleep well?” my mom asks, overly cheerful.

“No, why would I?” I hiss.

“Are we really going to do this? It's not even seven in the morning. Please, Nathan, give this place a chance.” She sounds desperate and tired. I guess I'm not the only one having an “adjustment” problem.

“Whatever!” I pour my cereal and milk and inhale the food so my mother will be out of my field of sight. I cannot stand what she has done to dad and this family. The sight of her makes me sick. Dad has already left to discuss the inheritance with the lawyers.

………………………………………………………………………

The school is way larger than the pictures online; several stories tall and sprawling with kids. This campus is ninth through twelfth grade, and a couple thousand students. I think I might have a heart attack. There is a lump in my throat and my mouth is dry. I head to the head office to receive my schedule. The secretary of this particular building, F, is a fat, mean woman. She appears to be in her fifties, but judging from her makeup, nobody has told her that. She looks like a drag queen.

“I am Nathaniel Phillips, and I would like a copy of my schedule, see I’m ne…”

“Here!” she flings a piece of paper at me, not even looking up from her desktop computer. Bitch, I think to myself. My schedule looks just like my father wanted:

AP Biology Mr. Kindle

Calculus Mrs. Jannet

Physics Mr. Johnson

French 2 Mrs. Sloane

AP Sr. English Mrs. Perry

Art 2 Mrs. Avile

Psychology Mr. Timerson

Basketball Coach Roane

I make my way to the biology room. There must be thirty students in this room, which more closely resembles a college room. I take a seat—the corner furthest from the door—and the most out of sight. From this angle, I can see everyone. Mr. Kindle is a middle aged, balding man who is oddly in shape for his age. He seems nice, but looks may be deceiving. I see the athletes as they all bunch together. At my old school, that was my cliché. As such, I am completely aware of how difficult it is to get in the the jock group. I’ll let my skills speak for themselves at practice later today.

Class starts, though not really. The first day of school, nobody wants to do anything. The whole room goes up in a roar of multiple conversations sparking up simultaneously. I sit quietly in the back, taking in the my new classmates. Nobody really catches my eye. They all seem bland. And seriously stereotypical. I open a notebook and begin to make random doodles to pass the time. I lock eyes with this girl, just for a moment, but her face burns into my mind. She has piercing, yet kind blue eyes. Her hair is the most beautiful strawberry blonde, and her tan is obviously natural. I look away as swiftly as I had seen her.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I don’t pay attention in any of my classes, as they all blend together. All the teachers talk about rules and some even decide to read directly from the handbook. I just doodle. I get home to find my dad home and my mother gone—probably fucking some stranger. I don’t even look at my dad, I just head straight to my room and slam the door with teenage angst. I stare at the wall. I am surrounded by boxes unpacked. So I give in and start the process. I start with my clothes. My new closet is the size of my old room. I grab some hangers and start with my shirts. I decide to color code them, not for “OCD” reasons, but simply to make the time go by. I move on to my books. The loft came with a built in bookshelf in my room. The books I own are my life. Despite being a jock, I am not a stereotype. Reading has always been my passion, ever since the first time I picked up a Dr. Seuss book.

I alphabetize them. I have 234 books from A-Z. I spread them across the floor in piles in order of letter. As I start to shelf them, I hear my mother come home and start speaking with dad. I can’t hear specifics, but I pick up on the tone. Their voices are low and full of restrained emotion. I grab my earphones and blare music. I don’t want to hear anything that might upset my already unstable mood. I lay down on my bed, which I did not buy. However, I can’t complain about the memory foam cloud of a bed. I close my eyes, and the next thing I know, my alarm is going off.

I arrive at school a little bit earlier than usual and sit in the courtyard. The morning air is perfect. There is a gentle, cool breeze that caresses my skin. The sky is waking up as the sun is warming the air. The dew on the grass has made my shoes wet, but I don’t mind. I sit on a bench and pull out a book and start reading. I am completely zoned into the novel until I hear a gorgeous voice. The girl from biology.

“Hi stranger,” her voice the perfect combination of lavender and silk.

“Um, hi,” my voice too uneven for comfort.

“You are new, aren’t you? If I had to guess, I’d say that you are not used to crowds and lots of people.”

“And what gives you that impression?” my voice slightly more steady, but not without effort.

“Let’s see. You haven’t spoken to anyone or have even been spotted with a group of people. This suggest that you are not originally from here. You sit at the back of the three classes we have together, so I assume you do that in all your classes. This points to your uneasiness in crowds. Also, your voice is shaky at the moment because you find me attractive. Did I miss anything?”

“Uh. Um.”

I am lost for words. She lets out a laugh so beautiful it could have its own concert, and walks away with a smile on her face. Who is this girl? Whoever she is, she is damn smart. I attempt to go back to my reading, but I can’t, so I get my notebook out and start my doodles. I write the words: “What’s your name and number?” I get up and walk towards her from across the courtyard and I casually slip the paper into her backpack side pocket.

literature
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About the Creator

Jared Smith

I'm a young writer living with Bipolar Disorder. I write on many different topics, but prefer short stories. I hope you enjoy.

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