The Waiting Game

Chapter Two

As I sprinted home, the gears in my brain were spinning. What was he doing on south street? I has been to his house recently for a class party, and I knew he lived on the other end of town, on Maple Avenue. Weird, I thought.
The rest of my run was consumed with thoughts of my mother. Her honey colored straight hair falling over her shoulder as she bent down to give me a cookie when I was five. She smelled like cinnamon, and her warm blue eyes sparkled. Everyone knew that I inherited my love of baking from her. Another memory surfaced. Tis time, I was seven, and my older sister, age nine, was riding on her bicycle, but my younger brother hadn't even been born yet. My mother was standing behind me, her sweet southern accent sweet and soft, like the pecan pie she told us about from when she was a little girl in the southern part of the state.
"Okay," she said, "I'm gonna run behind you as you pedal, and if won't let go until you tell me to." She didn't have to wait long until me, the thrill-seeker I used to be, exclaimed,
"Let go!" I couldn't believe it! I was riding a bike! I pedaled harder, wanting to feel more of that flying sensation. The wheels turned faster and faster. I abruptly barked and came or a stop in front of my mother, who's face was radiant and practically growing with pride and joy.
"You're a natural! When you're old enough," she said, "I will give you my motorbike." My eyes gleamed. I dreamt of that day for years. When I was fourteen, and old enough to ride a motorbike, she kept true to her word and gave me her beloved bike. It was her prized possession, with flames painted all across the sides. It was one of the few more expensive items we owned. Yet, here she was, willing to give up her prized possession, because she knew I would have loved it. That isn't to say she didn't care about my brother and sister. She loved us all equally. She gave my sister her old locket, and when grey was just a bit older, he would get her magnifying glass. He loved every story about old detectives like Sherlock Homes and Dick Tracy. He wants to be a detective. Unfortunately, in the year 2352, detectives no longer exist. All mysteries are solved by the cydroids. They replaced real people who used to catch criminals called 'cops' about a century ago. Or, at least, that is what the history books say.
Life has changed so much since I was a sweet, outspoken, five year old. Around age ten, I began to realize how terrible the world around me had become. I began to speak less and less, talking only to my family and friends, and only speaking in class when I absolutely had to. I hate speaking in school. That isn't to say that I am a bad student, I am getting a pluses in all of my classes. My sister and a Grey are the same way with their grades. To everyone but my family and friends, I was invisible. It isn't hard to go unnoticed. In fact, I think I like it better this way. Grey is quite outspoken, and he makes it hard for people to not like him. Alex wasn't very outspoken, but it was hard not to notice her with that bright red hair. she had tons of friends, compared to my two best friends. She did speak up sometimes, though, and everyone enjoyed her quick wit and sly remarks, even teachers. Often people assume I am unrelated to the others in my family because of my oddly colored eyes and quiet demeanor. Most people also believe that I am stupid or slow, because I don't talk much. But the truth is that I read and think a lot. I might think a bit too much, and I always have a book on hand, I love to read, and books are one of my greatest comforts and the source of most of my knowledge. My father enjoys reading, but my sister would rather write or sculpt, and Grey would rather paint or play diamondball. Diamondball is this game that is played with a ball that is shaped like a diamond. It used to be very popular in the 21st century, but now it is just a kid's game. Anyway, Grey only reads if it is Dick Tracy or Sherlock.
Oh, I realized, I'm almost home. There was my house. A one story, with two palm trees and a flower bed. Just like the houses around it and all up and down the street except for it's color. It was the only pure black house in the state. I entered through the garage to the kitchen to find the house was empty. It was Sunday. My father was probably at the story getting something for dinner, Alex was probably at driving school, since she had flunked her three previous driving tests. Grey, however, was at a friend's house.
Someone rapped on the front door three times. I ran down the hallway to answer it. I slowly opened the door. The hinges squealed as the door swung open.