Why do people always think it's me? Whenever something bad happens, they're like "it must have been Jason!" or whenever something's broken, "Jason must have been here!" Sure, I'm not the most responsible, or reliable person, but seriously people, you just have to assume like that!
Well, anyway you probably didn't pick this up to hear me complain about my personal problems (which I do a lot), so let's move on. My story begins in Alcolu, South Carolina.
My day started normal enough. I woke up to the BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! of my Darth Vader Star Wars alarm clock (no, I am not six, thank you very much), which was set at 5:45 for school. Depressing, I know. Groaning, I shut it up with my hand and lay in bed for a couple more minutes (and …show more content…
As I wait, I whistle, and fiddle around with a random stick I had picked off the ground.
In the middle of my fiddling, I catch something moving just barely out of the corner of my eye as it bolts around the bend, as if afraid to be seen.
I felt the strange urge to chase after it. Luckily for "it", because I was pretty fast, the bus pulled around the corner, and Matt forced me to get on.
I walk down the aisle to the very back of the bus, where the 8th graders sit (even though I'm not an 8th grader, I consider myself cool enough to sit with them. They never complain so...) I slide in next to this boy named Andrew Bailey and nod my head in hello.
To my surprise, he takes off his headphones, and- get this- he actually acknowledges me and asks, “Why are you always skipping …show more content…
Very helpful when you have the attention span of a gerbil," I explain.
"Lucky," he mumbles,"I wish I had perfect recall." And with that, he places his headphones on his ears and continues as if I don't exist, so like normal.
As we move over the bumpy unpaved roads I start to think, which is a very dangerous pastime. Why was Andrew Bailey suddenly so interested in my personal life? How did he know I skipped class? What was that thing I saw earlier, a stray cat?
I was still thinking when we pulled in to Oakwood Middle School, my weekday prison, full of guards (teachers), and my fellow inmates (7th graders).
I get off the bus along with the other 40 delinquents- I mean students- and head through the chaotic hall with its blue and black lockers, kids banging them shut and leaning on them talking to others.
I stop at mine- number 483- and fiddle with the lock putting in my code. When I get it open, I swing my backpack off, shove it in my locker and pull out my homework folder, a book and my phone (a.k.a the only thing that keeps me sane). Bending down, I take out my stuff for