The Arrogant Asshole

To Hell I Go

Adults are absolute idiots. Especially my parents.

"How could they do this to me?" I whine, staring sadly out the window of the grimy bus that shuttled sadly down a dusty road that led to hell. I had loaded this bus at exactly six this morning, carrying a small backpack filled with clothes. The kids on the bus with me were happy to be sent off to this doom. Fools.

There's around twelve of us kids on this ride, each of us getting our own seat on the bus, thankfully. Otherwise, I would've ripped someone's throat out by now.

I sigh, letting my eyelids flutter shut to block out my surroundings. I hate this already.

I'm shaken awake by some crusty child that looks about sixteen. Only a year younger than me, but definitely still a child. He was the tone-deaf kid screaming some song with another grub in the bus earlier. I will never forgive them for that.

"Get. Your. Grubby. Hands. Off me." I grit out, giving him a deadly glare. I stood up to my full height of five foot one and three quarters to intimidate him. It works, and the brat scampers off with the rest of the group.

I grab my small bag, tossing it over my shoulder, and trudge off to join the other high schoolers.

When I step off the bus, I almost have a breakdown from seeing where I was going to spend the rest of my summer.

A ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Well, I sort of expected it, from the brochure I found on my mother's desk before she broke the bad news to me. But this was nothing, NOTHING, like the pictures in the brochure.

All I saw was disappointment in front of me. There was a worn dirt path leading to a fairly large farmhouse, sprawling fields surrounding this farmhouse, and a barn attached to a pasture to the left of all this nonsense. When I saw the horses, I groaned, turning around and attempting to get back on the bus. Before I could, the doors of the creaky shuttle slammed shut, and the rickety thing that took hours to get us to our destination sped off, soon far out of sight.

I kicked the ground in hatred for my surroundings, regretting it shortly after when dirt flew into my eyes.

I'm going to hate it here.

This hell had been created for a reason. To give kids a fun and safe place to learn about farm animals and what it's like to live on a ranch. Sounds cheesy. I was signed up against my own will, by two parents that failed at being parents. I didn't want to spend the summer with them anyway, and planned on getting a job or disappearing to my room for the long, hot days in my Arizona hometown, but my parents apparently had other thoughts. They tried to make up for my horrible childhood and upbringing by sending me to this wretched place, and my father told me to stay if I didn't come back with some respect. I don't think I'll be going back home.

After the tour of the farmhouse from the stone ages, we were sent to a large room that was built on later to accommodate guests like us. That was where we met the actual owners of the house. Before, we were being dragged around by a ranch hand who had found us stranded at the start of the dirt path.

Meeting the family that owns the ranch went fine. Just more people I have to deal with. The mother of the family seemed too enthusiastic to meet a bunch of sweaty high schoolers, but maybe she's lonely. Her husband seemed quiet, very unlike his wife, who couldn't stop talking. Their sons were complete opposites as well. One was shooting daggers at us, the other friendly and offering assistance if we'd ever need it.

I could tell who didn't agree to this summer arrangement.

"This summer, you'll get to ride horses, learn how to cook with vegetables from our garden, muster up what it takes to help maintain a ranch, and have the authentic experience of staying at one!" The mother, Mrs. Rickler, exclaimed. She was wearing overalls and had her hair tied up in a mess tangle atop her head. I could see flour stains on her thighs, most likely the result of cooking before we arrived.

My theory was correct when she herded all twelve of us into the kitchen.

I heard excited chatter riffle through the other kids when they saw the blueberry muffins piled high on three plates that sat on the wide kitchen island. It was around eleven by now, and I'm assuming most of us hadn't had breakfast, either from nerves or excitement.

I had eaten, knowing I'd need the strength to fight anyone that needed it. The kids ran for the muffins and started scarfing them down when they were told they could, and I stayed away, not wanting to waste any energy in these hunger games. I wandered to the next room, finding myself in the living room of the farmhouse. I had to say, it was nicely decorated. A TV hung above an old fireplace, a soft wool rug lay under a coffee table that was stationed directly in front of a worn sofa. I plopped down in an empty armchair, picking at my cuticles as I waited for the pigs in the next room to finish.

This was a complete waste of my summer.