It’s raining hard when I get into the guy’s car. It would’ve never been this wet in Dallas. Another reason why Dallas rules over Washington.
The guy says something as he starts the car. I can’t hear him because of some stupid techno crap that blared out of the speakers.
“What?” I replied.
He turns down the music, “My name’s Connor,”
“Ayden,” I mutter. Like you should care, right?
“I haven’t seen you around before.”
“And you know everyone at the high school?” I reply.
“Well, I’m supposed to.” Connor shrugs. We’re out of the parking lot, cruising down the street.
“Uh…huh. Turn right.”
Connor does so. Rain flecks the windshield and I watch each raindrop land on the glass until the wipers wipe them away.
“That’s my house there.” I point when I see it appear. Connor turns in the driveway.
“I’m sorry about your shirt,” he says. “I need to make it up to you.”
“No, you don’t. It’s fine.”
“I’d like to. How about Starbucks or something sometime?”
I huff, “Fine.”
I get out and slam the door. As far as I’m concerned, I’m never gonna see Connor again.
-
Dinnertime.
My dad and mom have collaborated in the kitchen. Tonight it’s Mexican food. I like it and my older sister, Kelly, likes it. But tonight it’s more talk than eat. I don’t join the conversation, though. I’ve sunk into a bad mood. My cut hand is stinging and my sister refused to let my shirt enter the laundry pile with my stuff.
I eat three tacos and two servings of tortilla chips. Then I excuse myself.
It’s when I’m checking my cut to see if it’s infected does my mom check up on me.
“How was school for you?” she asks.
“Good.” I reply.
“Really? What happened to your hand?”
“I hurt it.”
“On what?”
I glare, “I tripped.”
“And stained your shirt?”
“That was different.”
“Is this gonna be like freshman year, Den?”
“Stop calling me Den,” I snap. “And no. I’ve made sure it’s not.”
“Okay. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. What happened with the shirt?”
“A guy spilled his drink on me. He drove me home.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
She leaves me alone. I’m close to screaming now and I grab my iPod, listen to my favorite alternative song on full volume.
I end up screaming in my pillow anyways.
-
Tomorrow I show up early. Interpreter June shows up late. My homeroom teacher looks peeved and I know word will get to the redhead.
Lunch I sit by myself again. Several people walk by me, but no weird looks.
I enter Study Hall. And there’s Connor.
June and the redhead aren’t there. There’s only a teacher assistant, two blond girls, me and Connor.
The teacher assistant wants me to sit by Connor. I sit on the right of him. Then I pull out my school agenda and I check my homework. Turns out there’s none. The assistant comes over and I tell her.
“Really?”
“Yes,” I reply.
The assistant looks doubtful, but lets it go with a dramatic lift of her eyebrows.
Interpreter June storms in. She picks up her bag and leaves, but before she does I see—and everyone else sees—that she’s in tears.
The redhead calls me out in the hallway.
“June’s resigned,” she told me. “She can’t stick to the schedule.”
“Great, so I don’t have any way of getting information?”
“You do. I’ll get an assistant in all your classes. That way, you’re able to do all your homework.”
“Why did you fire her?”
The redhead sighs sharply, “Because she was late. And she was sloppy, from what I’ve heard. Socializing with teachers too much. Sloppy signing. She’s young. She’s not used to this.”
“And you fire her after two days?”
“I know what kids want. Whether they admit it or not, they want good education. And that’s why I switched your free period to seventh. Because I got an e-mail from your mother. About freshman year in Dallas.”
I’m starting to detest my mother right now.
My reply comes through my teeth, “And should freshman year matter? I’m a sophomore. It’s all in the past. I don’t care.”
“I know. I’m just taking precautions. I want everything to be okay.”
“Well, it’s okay now. Because it doesn’t matter.”
...it's just kind of like, "My life sucks. This world sucks. STOP TALKING TO ME, KID." Lol, maybe not exactly like that. I know this is a short critique, but I really don't have anything to say that's bad!