My Match with Mr. Macho

My backstory

I hate math. I hate science. I hate English. I just hate school all together.

"Tomorrow we will begin to annotate Tolstoy." Says Mr. Hendrik.

As if anyone in here actually understood a word he was saying. What the heck is annotating?

"Brixton, please come talk to me after class." He says. Simultaneously the bell rings. Great, I'm so going to be late.

"What?" I snap impatiently as I make my way to the front of the room.

"Your scores in here are very impressive, I was wondering if you wanted to do a few programs for college, you know some prep classes, I think you would be very happy as an English major." He states with an over enthusiastic smile stretched across his wrinkled face.

"My scores?" I ask, still caught up on the fact that apparently I'm not failing.

"Yes, I mean, you've scored anywhere from 95-100% on every quiz this semester. You must study hard." He grins, I'm almost afraid he's going to put a gold star on my forehead or something. Would it be rude to laugh right now.

"Uh yeah, so much studying." I say sarcastically.

"Would you like me to get the forms?" He asks, his smile is so big it has to be hurting his face.

"Oh uh....well...actually, I'm tutoring right now, and my schedule is pretty full and stuff...sorry." I say, trying to look apologetic, even thought I'm almost bouncing out of my seat in anticipation to get out the door!

"Oh well...that's too bad, anyways, good luck with your tutoring." He says, looking so dejected, that for a second I almost feel...nah, I really don't.

"Thanks." I say as I begin to inch my way towards the door.

'I'm going to need it.'

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Thud

'Ouch, I think I just got a concussion.' I think in a very melodramatic voice.

I get up off my cream carpeted floor and look around my room.

Wow, it's super bright this morning.

I get up and lay back down on my bed.

I look up at the ceiling. It's bright pink.

My parents are really weird, they did all the walls white, and then bright ceilings. Who knows why, I'm just surprised that I actually ended up semi-normal.

My parents are rich. Not because they are smart, or hard working, or even good at anything really. My pap was rich and it just got handed down.

My parents are both heavy drug addicts. They are in a rehabilitation center right now actually.

My childhood was rough. My dad was abusive. When I was five, I came home and he was high. I didn't know what was going on.

He started yelling at me for weird things that didn't make any sense. He threw me to the ground and beat me up. He fractured my arm and broke my ribs. Once he got back from cloud nine he realized how much trouble he would be in if anyone found out.

He called my mom in Moscow, Russia. She left us when I was just born because she wanted to clean herself up and go see the world.

He sent me away to live with her. She was good to me, and I had a great childhood. She is the rich one, my dad just mooches off her.

She isn't in rehabilitation for drugs, she has been clean for 15 years. My mom has anorexia and is bulimic, not by choice, her metabolism is speeding up while the rest of her body is slowing down. She should weigh a ton by now, they feed her all the time to try and keep her body sustaining food and energy.

My mom is my role model, and I love her to death. She will be out in a few months and then I won't be alone all the time.

My dad won't ever get out though, he's been in too many times, he's pretty much there for life, not that I mind.

I was shipped off to Westmont so that my Aunt Edora could look after me while I was without parental guidance.

I don't want to be here, before I moved I lived in Florida.

I had a boyfriend, and I really liked him. I had good friends, who understood me. I was happy, I was comfortable for once in my life. I had my mom with me. My life was perfect.