Book Thing

Chapter One: Bad news

Sam/Leon

Bland walls surrounded me with fake green plants and that weird smell you would probably find in an office of some sort. There was even a beige couch with plain white pillows and a glass coffee table with a gray carpet underneath it. Everything in this room was so impersonal, even though the design was clearly meant to make it feel welcoming. Really, it did the opposite. Who in their right mind makes a room feel this suffocating? Perhaps it's just me? It has been a while since I've had to come here.

I snap out of my musings as I hear the brown wooden door begin to open. I turn towards the door to see who is coming in. At first, all I see is a watch and a clean pair of dress shoes, along with a white sleeve. As they continue to come in, I find myself recognizing the face of the person entering. I straighten my posture just a little as the man closes the door and makes it to the couch opposite of me. I watch as he places the clipboard, he came in with on the coffee table along with his custom-made pen. He places his hands together in his lap, takes a deep breath, and looks at me. The look he gives is one of something close to sadness and regret. I feel a wave of guilt hit me, even though I know I'm not all that guilty this time.

"I heard what happened, Sam," he begins, "and I have to say it's not looking good for you this time." "They're trying to charge you with assault with a deadly weapon," he sighs.

With his words, I felt a surge of anger-I was the one who was beaten and attacked! They had taken me! They had restrained me while I was kicked and punched! I took a deep breath to keep myself from bursting out in rage.

"Mr. Weaver, it was self-defense." "I had not done anything until they had taken out their knives." I began to plead my innocence to him, for it was clear to me that the others were yet again trying to set me up.

"I know, Sam," he sighs slightly, "but that's not what they're saying, and by the looks of it, you might not be able to get out of this one." he picks his clipboard and pen back up, his face showing that he was not any happier with this then I am.

"Mothe-Mr. Weaver, are you saying that I might have to serve time?" In shock, I had almost said something I shouldn't.

A small cringe and a guilt-ridden look were the answers I got to my question. He then proceeded to say, "Look, Sam, I know that this isn't the best solution, but if you plead no contest, I might just be able to send you to the C.Y.C. (Correctional Youth Center) instead of Juvie and then prison."

With his words, I was suddenly hit with the severity of the situation. I felt the need to both cry and scream in rage. I pushed down these feelings to hide them, despite the fact that I knew that my eyes had watered and that I was sure Mr. Weaver had seen. I was to serve time or go to C.Y.C., both undesirable options.

"There's no other way, is there, Mr. Weaver?" I finally spoke after some agonizingly slow minutes, as it had taken me that long to get myself together. Thankfully, Mr. Weaver had remained silent and waited for me to calm myself.

A sigh and a silent nod were the answer I got from him. I looked down at my hands as the heavy feeling in my chest became stronger with each passing minute that went by. Truthfully, I knew that I was panicking and that my fear was overriding my logical sense, and really, that was ridiculous because I had seen this coming, and I knew that they would get me eventually. This whole town wanted me gone. I was surprised that they didn't get me the first time around.

I took a deep breath to help calm my nerves and pushed my feelings into a box to deal with later-or never. All things considered, never sounded like the better option. With one last calming breath, I looked up again to meet Mr.Weaver's gaze. Although he had managed to reign in his emotions just as I did, I could still tell that he was still feeling guilty about his inability to help me further.