The day we moved to California was a particularly bleak one. The skies were heavy with grey clouds and the faces of my relatives were worse. They all sobbed and hugged each of us tightly as we went through the gate. But of all things I want to write about, that’s the last. So let’s skip ahead here.
When we got off of the plane and into the taxi to our new flat, I have to admit, I was a little blown away. The palm trees swayed from side to side and as we drove I could smell the ocean. I didn’t want to like California. I was prepared to hate it.
Our flat was the kicker. Though small, it was literally on the beach. I smiled and sat in the sand with my suitcase. My Dad told me to at least put my suitcase inside before I went adventuring, so I begrudgingly lugged my case into the kitchen and went back outside.
I wandered along the seaside for hours I think, carrying my trainers in one hand, and letting my jeans get wet. I was tired, but the sights were so captivating that I felt there was no time to sleep. That’s when a girl came up to me. “You know, you shouldn’t be wearing jeans to the beach.” Her voice was annoying, and she just stood there, looking directly at me.
What a peculiar thing to tell a stranger. I thought. “You know,” I said. “You shouldn’t be wearing a face that ugly in public places.” Her face went beet red, and she angrily walked back to wherever she came from. That’s when I came up with my brilliant plan. I would let myself mouth off to people. I wouldn’t try to supress my feelings, or the stupid things I sometimes did. Then my Dad would think that home was a better influence on me.
I laughed to myself and ran back to the flat. After all, school started tomorrow. I got up the next morning very tired. Dad told us we could sleep in and he would take us to school, but we protested. I got on the yellow bus that came five minutes after my brothers, because he went to ‘high school’ and I went to ‘middle school’.
Before he got on his bus, he patted my back, and said, “Be good,” because he knows I have a problem with that. I nodded, even though I had no intentions of being good. When I went into my first class, that was Math; all eyes were on me as I walked across the room and into my seat. I took a seat at the back because that way the teacher wouldn’t be able to see me as well. I also have issues with concentrating.
The teacher smiled vacantly at the students and did attendance. I was glad she didn’t point me out as a new student, but I don’t think that was her being considerate. Ms. Walsh looked very old, and she squinted at the list of names even with glasses on. I just went back to tapping my feet as she explained Math things. I try to concentrate, but I can never do something for more than a minute or two, unless it interests me. I noticed that Ms. Walsh had called my name, and when I looked up I realized that maybe she had called my name a few times. “I’m here.” I said. “Attendance was 20 minutes ago; I asked you if you knew how to solve the question on the board.” Mrs. Walsh replied, pointing a wrinkly finger at the board behind her.
“No, I can’t.” I shrugged, not bothering to look up. Everyone was silent, before a huge burst of laughter made my head snap back up. The question on the board was 2+2, literally. I sighed as Mrs. Walsh remarked, “I know you’re new, but I didn’t think you would be that far behind.” I rolled my eyes. “That was just rude, lady.” Mrs. Walsh furrowed her brow.
That was the first time l was sent to the office in my new school. Only twenty minutes into the first class. I sauntered into the office and sat down. After ten minutes, the principle, Mr. Matthew ushered me into his room. He rubbed his temple and took a sip of his coffee. “I’d like to understand why you were sent here.” He said calmly. “I’d like to know why the Math teacher was teaching twelve year olds 2+2.” I replied, leaning back in my chair.
Mr. Matthew soon lost patience with my snaps and called my Dad. My Dad looked angry when he came to pick me up that day. I smiled to myself as I left the office. That was strike one.