Arlo Sarsons - Wrath of Amaterasu

1) Smelling like rotten tomatoes

Hey. I'm Arlo. Arlo Sarsons. I'm 15 years old, and I'm originally from the beauty of L.A. We had to move after Dad died. It was sudden—a car crash. I was only five, so most of the memories are fuzzy. What I do remember is the long nights when it was just me and Mum in that tiny apartment, trying to make things work. After he was gone, so was most of the money, and we had to pack up our lives and leave. That's how we ended up here. If you're reading this, I'm sorry, but you've made a terrible life decision. Yeah, seriously—because this? This isn't some cute, feel-good story where everything works out in the end. Nope. This is a story of chaos, mythological creatures, middle-aged gods with fashion senses so bad it should be a crime, and, oh yeah, a guy with more issues than a broken game console.

But hey, I get it—you're curious. You think, "Oh, it can't be that bad, right?" Wrong. If, at any point, you start feeling like this was a mistake—or you get that weird sensation in your stomach like you've eaten too many nachos—just stop. Seriously, ignorance is bliss. If you're still here, well... don't say I didn't warn you.

So, where was I? Oh right. It's my first day at yet another new school, because apparently, the universe has decided that consistency is overrated. My mom and I moved this summer. We used to live by the Brighton docks, which I loved. There was something about the sound of waves crashing against the shore that could calm me down. Not that I ever swam in it—I'm not suicidal—but the beach? That was my thing. Now, we're in Birmingham, and in case you've never been, it's basically the polar opposite of a beach town.

I miss our old place. I miss the salty air and the way the beach reminded me of better days. Days when it was just me and Mum, building sandcastles and laughing until sunset, before life decided to get all "real world" on us. Those were the good times. Before Mum married him—Stefan. But we'll get to that disaster in a minute.

Anyway, school. Yeah, I've been through more schools than I can count. Not because I'm a bad kid—at least, that's what I tell myself—but because stuff always happens. Bad stuff. Weird stuff. Like, you're minding your own business, and boom—expulsion. In Year 7, I got kicked out for shoving Lola McGloving (who, by the way, totally deserved it) into an ancient replica of a velociraptor during a school trip. In Year 8? I accidentally tripped over some live wires and knocked out the entire school's power grid for a solid week. That one's on me, I'll admit. And Year 9? Well, let's just say setting off fireworks in the middle of a classroom during Bonfire Night preparations isn't exactly a safe thing to do. Who knew?

So here I am, standing outside our tiny, run-down bungalow, waiting for my next round of academic disaster to start. "Do I really have to go? I could just, you know, stay home... help you out or whatever," I said to Mum, trying my best to look as pathetic as possible.

She was standing in the doorway, wearing her favorite blue sundress and her hair blowing gently in the morning breeze. She smiled at me, but I knew it wasn't real. "Arlo, sweetheart, don't make this harder than it has to be. You'll be back by Christmas, and then we'll have the whole summer together," she said, her voice just a little too cheerful.

Yeah, I wasn't buying it. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the weight she carried from having to deal with Stefan—the guy who made my life miserable and hers even worse. Three months of putting up with him while I was off at some boarding school in the middle of nowhere... I hated leaving her. I hated him more.

I gave her a hug, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut, and turned just in time to hear the low grumble of the school bus pulling up. And when I say "school bus," I mean this thing looked like it was older than time itself. The paint was peeling, and it was this gross, rusted brown. Definitely not the iconic yellow I'd seen in movies.

As I stepped on, I was immediately hit by a smell so rancid I thought I might actually throw up. It was like someone had spilled a mixture of sweat and rotten tomatoes on the seats and let it bake in the sun for a week. Perfect.

I found the least disgusting-looking seat and settled in, trying not to breathe through my nose. Just as I looked out the window, I saw him. Stefan, my personal nightmare, had slithered out of the house. He stood there in all his greasy glory—grinning at me with those crooked teeth that looked like they belonged in a museum of bad dental hygiene. He was wearing jeans that were two sizes too small, and his beer belly was hanging out for the whole world to see. Lovely.

I tried to give Mum one last smile, but my stomach twisted when I saw Stefan slap her... you know where. My face burned with anger. If I could, I'd jump off this bus right now and—well, let's just say he wouldn't be smiling anymore. But before I could do anything stupid, the bus jerked into motion, and I heard the driver bark at me, "Sit down, kid! Not safe to stand!"

I flopped back into my seat, feeling my face turn red as I heard the snickers around me. Great. First day and I've already made a name for myself, I thought, burying my head in my hands. Could this day get any worse? Probably. With my luck, there was no telling what might happen next.