Finding Home

Chapter four

I toss my books into my bag as the bell rings. Mrs. Sengal walks up to me.

"Mr. Jones," she says, her voice sharp and grating in my ears. I look up and plaster a fake smile on my face.

"Yes Mrs. Sengal?" I ask her in a bright voice.

"I am not impressed with your recent grades," she complains in the meanest voice imaginable. She takes evil teacher to the next level.

"I understand, Mrs. Sengal. I'm sorry. Is there any extra credit I can do to make up for my recent grade?"

Her face softens the slightest bit.

"I will give you one chance to retake the test. If your grade doesn't change I will have to speak with your guardians."

I feel a sting at this term. It's bad when people say "parents," but guardians is nearly worse. Parents is trying to avoid it. Guardians is just a painful reminder that my mother left me for some fantasy. I'd rather people just say aunt and uncle.

"Thank you," I respond, standing up with my bag over my shoulder.

"See you Monday," she says. I nod my head and leave the classroom. My buddy Jack appears in the doorway of another classroom. Science, I think.

"Hey man," I say, bumping my shoulder to his.

"Wassup," he replies, running a hand through dirty blond hair.

"Nothin'. Mrs. Sengal just got on my back for my D-. Like, dude, that is my only bad grade this year. Back off," I complain. He nods.

"Yeah man. I feel ya. Actually I don't because I always get bad grades and no one even cares anymore."

We both laugh.

"Hey, you wanna come over and play some video games?" he asks. I shake my head.

"Sorry dude. I'm grounded for the grade."

"Whoa, seriously?"

I nod. He rolls his eyes.

"Screw it! Just come over and say you're at the library."

"I uh, really have to um, study for a test," I stammer.

He glances at me sideways. The truth is, my uncle is a genius police officer and he'll figure it out. And I want to talk to my sister. There. I said it. We reach the exit.

"See you Monday," I say, pushing open the door and heading right. He waves over his shoulders as he starts in the opposite direction. I walk down the sidewalk to my house, backpack hanging off one shoulder. I slip my key into the slot of 62 Valley Boulevard. I twist it open to a quiet house. Kathy and Ted must still be at work. I flick on the hall light and dump my backpack underneath the coats. I rip off my Nike's and throw them under the bench. I walk into the kitchen and grab a bag of chips from the cabinet. I walk into the living room and turn on the TV. I cruise the channels until I find Law & Order, my guilty pleasure. Two episodes later the door slams open and the smell of hot pizza greets my nose. I leap off the couch and run to the hall. Ted is taking off his shoes, a large pizza box resting on the bench next to him. I grab it and open the lid. A waft of hot, delicious air slaps my face. Pepperoni. Ahhh. I inhale the sweet smells as Ted neatly places his boots under the bench. He stands up and takes the pizza box.

"Hey kiddo," he says with a snort. I follow the pizza like a dog.

"Uh huh," I say, trotting to keep up. "Sup."

He sets the box on the island in the kitchen and opens the fridge. He pulls out a bag of cut romaine and dumps it in a bowl.

"Get me the cherry tomatoes, would you?" he asks, picking out some brown lettuce leaves.