unreadable // south park - firkle x ike

2 - Firkle

     I glance at the clock. 7:53. I'm supposed to be at school by eight, and it's at least a fifteen minute walk from here. If I'm quick, I might be able to make it to the bus in time, but it's always filled two to a seat with loud conformists.

     It's whatever, though. I can stand being a few minutes late, it's not like my dad would take the time of day to pick up the phone for South Park Junior High. Even if he did, he wouldn't remember the call thirty minutes later. He's apparently "too busy" to answer and/or pay attention to anybody that isn't a client, a co-worker, or a higher-up--all of which don't include his own son, apparently.

     I throw my half-eaten granola bar in the trash, I'm not really hungry. Pausing for a moment, I head to my room to grab my backpack. Around the corner and down the hall from the kitchen, there my room is.

     When I was younger, my mom always used to say that one day we'd have a two story house, as soon as she got that promotion. That my room would get to be on the second floor. That it was her dream to finally live in a two story house, because her parents couldn't afford one when she was a kid.

     I know that my dad could pursue her dream for her, but it's no use. He'll say something along the lines of, "I'll think about it," but then never give you a solid answer after three months of "thinking about it."

     I shake my head, and grab my old backpack. Sure, it's nearly ripping at the seams, but I like this one. There's something about an old backpack that has character--something about an old backpack that grows onto you. I toss my phone into the front pocket, and begin to head to the front door, before pausing to retrace my steps today.

     Nope. Nothing I've forgotten, it seems.

...

     I walk into the classroom, and a few heads turn to see who opened the door after the bell rang. Most of them turn away once they see it's just the weird goth kid. He smiles at me--I don't smile back. Although I must note, his smile manages to meet his eyes even in the case of such a small event, a.k.a., this one.

     "Seems as if you've decided to join us today, Firkle.." Ms. Morgendorffer says, glancing up from the attendance sheet. "It's a shame that there's really no point in writing you up." She seems to understand that my dad just doesn't care.

     I shrug, sitting down and putting my backpack on the back of my chair. Ms. Morgendorffer sets down her clipboard, and walks towards the chalkboard, beginning to write down "important" dates in American history, both recent and definitely not recent. 9/11, 2001, 7/1, 1776, etcetera. I would be taking notes (not really, actually), but these are all dates that I know off the top of my head.

     This continues for forty minutes or so, until we're finally dismissed with homework that will probably take longer than the class itself.

     I grab my backpack, and head for the hallway. Luckily, my seat is close to the door--one of the closest, actually--so I'm out of the room pretty quickly.

     As I'm walking, I hear my name behind me. I know exactly who and where it's coming from.

     I ignore it, despite an urge to answer.

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580 words

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the next chapter will take more time