The Great American Road Trip

Chapter One

Lugging the last of my boxes upstairs, I crashed on the sagging navy couch, dusting off my khaki shorts and watching specks of dust dance in the afternoon sunlight. I'd only been at Eisenhower Mem. School for an hour and sixteen minutes, but I'd already realized two very important things that would probably affect my immediate future:
A. There was a lot of dust, and
B. There was a lot of area for dust to gather in.
The place was huge, about three times the size of my old school, which had been pretty large in my opinion, and the student body was more diverse than the United Nations. Glancing at the door, I saw that the sheet of paper taped on it showed my name, as well as two others, A. Anderson and Q. Richards, just above the little brown sign that said room 403, Sword Hall. The school seemed to have a real thing for the Second World War, as all the residential halls were named after the beaches of D-Day, and the main buildings themselves were named after the Allies- Britannia, Americana, and the Soviet Republican administration building, not to mention the actual name of the place. I almost expected the Dean to be called Hoover or something, but unfortunately, he was named a very uninteresting P. Jones. Bored, I pulled out my ancient Nokia, the most indestructible thing I'd ever seen- yes, I did have that phone, no, it's not because I couldn't afford a smartphone, and yes, I liked it- and scrolled through the texts. One from my parents, who were at a conference in Geneva, saying that "I would really enjoy my time at this place" and "not to worry", and one from my sort-of friend back home, Dean, which said that "You're so lucky to get out of Graytown", except with numerous expletives I will not mention as I do not swear. Shaking my head, I prepared for a vigorous round of snake on the tiny screen, and suddenly, I heard a yell from outside the hall.

"Merde! Merde merde merde merde!"

Because I had picked French over Spanish, and unlike most of my classmates, I understood angry French explanations very well, I put down my phone and went out, almost banging my head on the door (I'm six feet one, what do you expect) and saw an Asian guy dressed in jeans and a black NASA t-shirt, with short black hair, bent over a school map, the mark of all us new kids. He looked up when he saw me in the hallway.

"Hey, do you have any idea where room 403, Sword Hall is? I think I'm lost again."

I nodded, and pointed to the room right behind him. He looked surprised, and raised his eyebrows.

"Well. That was dumb."

I grinned, and led the way to our room.

"I want you to know that normally, I am highly intelligent," said the guy, lugging in his stuff. "Today, however, my brain was straddled with the anxiety of joining a new educational institution, so I messed up a bit with the rooms."

Trying not to laugh, I nodded again, and pointed to the sheet of paper on the door.

"Happens to everyone. So, are you Q. Richards or A. Anderson?"

He looked up from stacking books onto his desk.

"I'm Anderson Anderson. Andy."

"I'm Steven Turner," I said. "Steve."

Andy grinned.

"Like Steven Rogers? Captain America?"

I shrugged sheepishly.

"I'm named after the guy. My dad's a huge fan of Marvel comics."

Andy nodded, and went back to arranging video games.

"Uh,  can I ask you a question?" I said, and he turned around. "Isn't Anderson Anderson a repetition of your last name twice?"

He sighed, and looked at his shoelaces.

"Yes, yes it is."

Since he seemed reluctant to talk about it, I went back to playing snake. By the time I had crashed into the walls twice, Andy came over, smirking at my phone.