There are a lot of new characters in this chapter, and it gets a little confusing, but bare with me. Also part of this chapter is interior monologue that I had to write for a school project, so that's why I'm uploading a little later then usual. So enjoy!! :D
-Midnightriter
Ch 3
~•~ Bradley's POV~•~
Beep... Beep.... Beep...
Ugh, I thought, school. Slamming my hand on the annoying alarm clock, I rolled out of bed, still disoriented. Running my hand through my tousled, bed head hair, I changed into a pale yellow shirt and run down jeans.
Grabbing my new backpack, I rushed down the stairs to see Lily walking out the door with keys jingling in her hand.
"Now Lily, you're giving Bradley a ride to school," Emily said sternly.
"Ugh... Fine," she said stalking off to her car. Plopping into the shotgun, the ride was short to West high. Buses circled the drive, dropping off kids. Groups of students were scattered everywhere, chatting about everything. Eyes turned in my direction as I made my way toward the office to retrieve my schedule and locker number.
"You must be Bradley," greeted the secretary, "I'm Ms. Greenberg." Handing me a crisp piece of paper, Ms. Greensburg gave me vague directions to my locker.
Finding the foreign language wing, I scanned the lockers until I found number 482. Spinning my combo the locker opened, but papers littered the whole locker. Shutting the locker before anything else could fall out, I checked over my schedule. First off I had History with Mr. Lloyd.
A bell sounded, signaling the halls to start filling. Getting pushed and shoved throughout the hallways, I couldn't find Mr. Lloyd's room.
Again the bell rang. Kids scattered the hallways, scurrying to their first hour. "Um, do you need help?" asked a girl walking down the hallway.
"Ya, I'm new."
"What's your name?" she asked politely.
"Bradley."
"So Bradley, what do you have first hour?"
"Uh...," looking down my schedule I scanned it once more, "I have history with Mr. Lloyd," I mumbled.
"Oh," she said excitedly, "well actually he's kinda boring, but that's where I'm headed."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"I'm Anastasia, but most people just call me Anna."
Following Anna down the twist and turns of the hallways, we reached Mr. Lloyd's room. His head turned in our direction as we walked in.
"Anna is there a reason you're late?" he asked, "cause-"
"Of course there is," she replied, "I was helping the new student."
Hearing my cue, I steeped into Mr. Lloyd's view. "You must be Bradley," he said. Ugh... I hate introductions. "Would you like to introduce yourself to the class?"
Well, it's not like I could say no Mr. Lloyd. "Hi," I said shyly, "I'm Bradley, and I, um," I could feel my face turning scarlet.
"You can take a seat," said Mr. Lloyd dismissively. All the desks in the back were taken, so I took the nearest seat to me, which just happened to be front and center.
The room was bare. No posters, no windows, just nothing. Pulling out a pencil, I absentmindedly started rolling it on the desk. A monotone lecture on the civil war rotted my brain throughout the first hour.
By the time the bell rang, everyone as I could tell, wanted to leave this trap. "Anna," I called, stoping her before she walked out the door, "can you show me where Mr. Gresmore's room is?"
"Actually, Hayden can show you where that is. He has chemistry next hour too. Hayden," she yelled, while walking out the door, "Hayden, get over here." Running after Anna, I watched a guy emerged from the crowd, exchanging a few words with Anna before catching up to me.
"Hey, Bradley," he said as if we had known each other for years. "I'm Hayden, so..." He tried to stall the conversation, but at the same time keep it going. With nothing else to say an uncomfortable silence fell between us.
Walking in the door just as the bell rang, I walked to the back of the classroom, taking the back conner seat. Mr. Gresmore turned around looking over the room. "So for those of you who don't know, we have a new student today," started Mr. Gresmore, "Bradley," he stated.
Wow, I thought, I'll get along with this teacher. He didn't even make me introduce myself.
Turns out Hayden had the exact same schedule as me, at least for before lunch. The final bell rang before lunch, and everyone scurried out of the room toward the cafeteria.
Long lines greeted me in the cafeteria as I bought my lunch. Anna met us at their usual table. Rushed introductions went around the table, but a death glare shot me down, "Hey Lily," I said trying to lighten the mood.
"Wait," Anna paused, "you know each other?"
"Uh... yeah," I responded, "I'm surprised you don't know."
"Know what?" commented Hayden.
"Wow, you guys don't listen do you?" said Lily sarcastically, "maybe if you'd listened during lunch you'd know what's going on."
"Ya," replied Cassidy, "Bradley is Lily's new foster brother."
"Oh," Hayden and Anna said together. Chattering filled my ears as I zoned out of the gossip.
Ringing, the bell signaled lunch was over. "What do you have next?" asked Anthony, another one of Lily's friends.
"I have trig with Mrs. Yin," I replied, "and then French with Mrs. Rainé."
"Ok, well I'll see you in French."
My least favorite class I headed off to, and I knew nobody. Walking down the cramped halls, I finally found the math wing. The room was full of talking students as Mrs. Yin had not arrived yet.
Getting lost in thought, trig went by fairly quickly. Only one more class, I thought.
The foreign language wing, I already knew where it was. Taking twisting and turning hallways, I reached my destination.
"Bonjour," Mrs. Rainé greeted me.
"Bonjour," I replied. Eyes searching the room, they landed on Anna and Anthony talking.
"Hey Bradley," they called together.
"Hey."
"Ugh..." groaned Anna, "she's lecturing today. Oh, how I hate these days."
Taking a seat between Anna and Anthony, I watched as everyone sighed in unison as the bell sounded. Mrs. Rainé started scribbling on the board before babbling away in French.
Mrs. Rainé stop talking, or at least slow down. I can barely understand you in English, nonetheless in French. No one is listening to your speech on whatever you're talking about, yet everyone is staring at the black board trying to decipher your unreadable handwriting. It's only my first day attending West High and the teachers bore me to death.
"Bradley," called Mrs. Rainé, "S'il vous plaît lire à la page 121." Ok, Mrs. Rain, even if you would be talking in English, I wouldn't be able to understand you.
"She wants you to read to page 121," whispered Anna. Ugh... why did I sign up for French class anyway? Words rearranged themselves, jumbling into unreadable literature on the page. My fingers fidgeted with the pencil, rolling it across the desk. The class was dead. No one even looked in my direction as I hesitated to answer. Silence sat in the room, hovering over everyone.
"No," I responded with a hint of a French accent, breaking the unbearable silence. Why did teachers always pick on me; especially on my first day?
I should've ran away when I had the chance, but now Emily and David expect me to stay in St. Louis, stay in now what they wanted me to call home. What is a home? Home is a place of refuge, a place where you feel safe with unforgettable memories. Friends are countless, keeping in touch. You're free to dream without being judged. Home is a place where you can turn to anyone if you have a problem... wait... how do I know all this? Anyway, why would I care? I've never had a home and never will. There's no point in trying to set roots, if you know at some point you'll be uprooted. I've never truly had one.
Even when my parents were alive, it was constantly moving, relocating, transferring. Pain flashed across my mind, sending shivers up and down my spine. Arms twisting in unrealistic angles, pictures flitted in and out. Screaming echoed in my ears, reminding me of the fatal car accident.
Years pass, but no one replaces the roll of a mother or father, they're irreplaceable. Never have I woken up to the smell of pancakes on Saturday morning. My father never encouraged me to go out for sports. The only way to save memories is to write them down, to savor every last moment, but even then they still are not the same. My only outlet from my so called life is writing, journaling, and recording. No matter what's happening, I can turn to my journal. But what if that was taken away, what would happen? Would my thoughts drown me? Or kill me from the inside out?
I have to run away before I can attach myself to anything, for one day I will be pulled apart from everything. Nothing will matter anymore, will it? What will happen then?
Carried away in my thoughts, the bell brought me back to the present. One day down, many more to go.
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