Forgotten

PROLOUGE

AVERY ROSS sat in her English classroom staring at the clock. 1:55. Five minutes until the end of eighth period at South Brook High school. Five minutes until Avery would be able to end the dreadful week of school.

PART 1 avery

1

I AM Avery Ross. I am in 10th grade at South Brook High School. I am tall for my age, very tall. I have long, sleek black hair and bright green eyes. My skin is very pale and I have light tan freckles. My hands are covered in light brown pock marks from when I had the chicken pocks in fourth grade. Am I forgetting anything? Oh. Right. My chair. Yeah- since the 3th grade, I have been riding around in a silver wheelchair. Maybe I should have mentioned that first! Surprised? I knew you would be. I won't bore you with the details. Sorry, sorry. I know- I am the bad guy. I promise, as soon as I feel comfortable with you, I'll tell you.

So, today in English Class the teacher assigned us a group project. Of Course, I got to sit at my desk and watch all the other girls squeal with delight and rush over to their best friends. And every time, some poor girl doesn't get to her friend in time and frantically spins on her heel searching desperately for a partner that won't lower her social level. And of course, that poor girl always gets stuck with me. This time, I was partnered with Abigail Waters. She was trying to be partnered with Maia Blue, but McKenzie Wilde got to her first. Abigail glared at me, looking disgusted. "Hi, Abby." "Hey." The teacher, Mr. Byrnes, walked through the aisles and explained the project. Abby clearly wasn't listening. It was obvious I would be carrying the weight of the project.

When I got home, Lynn was sitting at the front desk. Why does my house have a front desk? You might ask. That's because my so called "home" is the happy hearts disabled orphanage. I know, I know. Another curve-ball. Sorry, but if you can't hang with a lot of surprises, than my story isn't for you. Anyway, At HHDO, my "mom" is basically Ms. Lynn Michaels. Lynn was on the phone when I rolled in, scheduling an adoption interview for a little seven year old boy named Alec who has Downs syndrome. Anna and Hanna, the twins who have brain damage from a car accident when they were 8 months old, were playing with the worn little wooden dolls in the living area of the orphanage. They are now twelve, but they have trouble focusing for long periods of time and working out problems that require intense thinking. I rolled over to the art station, where a teenage boy named Dillon (who is a year older than me) was painting a picture of a dog. He has Muscular Dystrophy, and he rides around in a fire truck red automatic wheelchair. I want one of those with a passion, but there isn't enough money in the budget for even a used 2000 model.

When I returned to the front desk, Lynn was frowning at her dinosaur of a computer. She smiled a bit when I rolled up behind her. "Hey, Lynn." She frowned again. She wants me to call her Ms. Michaels, but I don't care. I rolled past her and into the homework room. Dillon rode out of the art room and decided to tag along. This room was only used by me and Dillon, since we were the only ones who go to school. I rolled over to the blue table, and Dillon's face went mock cross. "Girls are 'apposed to sit at the pink table!" He joked, but he couldn't keep a straight face. I don't laugh often, but he and I started cracking up. We laughed so hard, Lynn poked her head around the corner to check on us. After a few minutes, we started to wind down. I rolled in front of Dillon and he pulled my blue tie-dye backpack off my chair handles. He turned his chair around and I removed his green camouflage messenger bag from his bag hook. We have been doing that without thinking about for seven years- since I was a member of the orphanage. There. Happy now? I revealed a secret of my past.

I stared at my Algebra problem. It felt like they were staring right back! I rolled over to Dillon and without either of us saying a word, he peeked over his shoulder then scribbled something on a Post-It. He dropped the note in my lap and I discreetly peered at Dillon's rough handwriting. The Answer is simple- just multiply the variable by the constant then add 74. I calculated the answer then wrote in my crisp cursive Thanks. I owe you one. I dropped the note on his social studies study sheet and he slanted his eyes to read it. He smirked, scrawled something on the blue note and tossed it in my lap. More than one. :) I help you all the time. When are you gonna do to help me? Huh? I think I need help. How do I solve number 27? Tell me. I bet you don't know! What's the answer, Very? (Remember that? Haven't called ya that in a while have I?) I smiled. When I first moved into the orphanage in the third grade, I was shy and sad and scared and lonely and I barely talked for a month. I didn't talk, that is, until little ten year old Dillon Young rolled up to me and said "Hey! You stole my ride!" We sat together at lunch at the orphanage. At dinner, he asked me my name. I was still a little wary and cautious, and on top of that I had a mouthful of chicken nuggets, so I mumbled when I spoke. Apparently, whatever came out sounded like "Very" So he called me that for days, until I noticed the absence of the "A" sound and corrected him. We laughed for hours and that was the sole thing that opened up my private shell in a month. Now, he occasionally calls me "Very" Whenever he thinks I am going to be mad at him, since it's hard to sound mad through a fit of giggles.