The Blonde Relocation

The Day Home

I got home six months later. My parents had visited me once a month and my friends came along. All my stuff was waiting for me, just where I had left it. Turned out that the dude who blew up the White House was a twenty-six-year-old black haired college student in Pennsylvania. Sure, we were all mad at them for mixing up the trail, but we respected them for now.

I spent most of my time outside; walking to town, lying outside at school, anything to do outside, I did it. I was locked in a prison for six months with a radio, my friends, paper, pens and pencils and an eraser and the occasional paint that I decorated our cell with. We were allowed two hours of electronics a day, nine hours of sleep, one hour outside, and the rest was mingled and cell time.

We were all bored, but I definitely got a good story about it.