Running up the stairs, I unlock the door to my family's apartment and wave to Amelia from the upstairs window that overlooks the sad excuse for a lawn.
"Andy-Roo-hoo!" My mother uses that stupid baby name for me again, and I sigh as I walk in. My sister is lounging on the couch, going through a makeup magazine filled with half-naked models with to much skin showing and unrealistic hair.
"Yes mom?" I call back, trying to avoid being drug into the kitchen to help with dishes.
"How did school go?" She asked, and I set my skatebord against the wall, carefully so that my mom wont explode if it scuffs the paint.
"Fine." I answer, and set my knee pads and helmet next to the board. My mom is a safety freak.
I speed-walk to my room, passing my dad in his office, typing away at his designing computer.
Opening the door to my room, I head over to my work table, and set down the washers, old batteries, wires, and shattered motherboards that I had picked up on the way home.
Dragging out my laptop, I plug in the hard drive and set to work on my reports.
Firing up Google classroom, my hands fly across the keyboard. We're reading The Giver in literature, and answering detailed questions every night.
I didn't bring home the book.
I didn't have too.
I read the book I sixth grade, when I was nine. I had skipped seventh grade, and was in eigth grda when i was twelve, and finished as valedictorian. I finished ninth and tenth grade over the summer, and now I a sophomore. At twelve years old.
Point is, I remember the book well enough to answer the questions easily.
But that doesn't mean I can do school quite as easily.
Being thirteen and a foot and a half shorter then most students isn't easy. Its downright hard.
Another news notification popped up on my server. Something about the president threatening Russia again. China was still neutral, and everything was crazy. The world circulated with wars and rumors of wars. Flash floods were common, and fires and droughts plauged the western United States.
People were panicking, but it hadn't seemed to have hit our city yet.
A beeping interrupted my thoughts, and I pushed my leggs out against the wall, propelling myself across my room on my swivel chair, and over to my window.
Adjusting the antenna to my homemade radio transmitter and receiver, I listened in on the classical music that wafted through the speakers. I've found a channel! It works!
Grinning, I turn up the calming music, and return to my work.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Star
Science FictionNine teens, chosen for some mysterious purpose, the survivors of "the wipe-out" as that day was called. A post-apocalyptic world is all that left. And the aliens who came.
