a Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends fanfic
by
C. "Sparky" Read
Part I
Chapter One
"C'mon, Mac, try again!"
The toddler, after landing once again on his rear, rolled carefully to his feet and began inching his way forward while his six-year-old brother waited expectantly about three feet away.
"C'mon, Mac," repeated Terrence, reaching out to catch Mac should he fall again. "That's good - Oops," he added as the toddler stumbled forward into his arms. Terrence turned triumphantly to their mother, who stood in the doorway. "See, I told you I taught 'im," he declared.
Mom glowed with pride after watching her youngest take his first steps. Terrence had spent all day with him - she thought they were just playing. Suddenly remembering that she was holding the camera she lifted it to take at least one picture, even if she did miss the big event.
Terrence dragged the toddler to himself and wrapped his arms around him. "See, I told ya so, you can walk," he told Mac.
Mac laughed.
Mac screamed.
"Oh, you like that, huh?" gloated Terrence, tightening the headlock he had his little brother in. "Well lemme get the other side for ya!"
Mac shrieked as Terrence applied a juicy Wet Willie to his other ear. "Terrence, knock it off!" he cried, struggling uselessly against the bigger boy's strength.
"All clean," announced Terrence smugly, shoving Mac roughly into the couch. "Won't Mom be proud. See you tonight, barfbag." Terrence snatched up his backpack and stomped out of the apartment, Mac glaring after him and rubbing his ears sullenly.
The peace between the boys hadn't fared well in the weeklong lull between the regular school year and the start of Terrence's summer classes. Without schoolwork to keep him occupied, the older boy quickly fell back into his habit of torturing Mac, who was disappointed to say the very least. (Terrence being grounded hadn't helped at all.) Bloo had razzed Mac, who had been bragging a little about Terrence's harmlessness, about it for a whole hour before it slipped his mind entirely and he moved on to something else.
Now it was Monday morning and Terrence was on his way to his first day of summer school. Because it was open year-round for various programs, the summer makeup courses for all of the middle and high schools in town were given at Tillman Academy For the Artistically Gifted, a seventh through twelfth-grade public school, which focused on the arts. Kids in the "regular" public schools tended to mock Tillman students for being "artsy-fartsy geeks," and Terrence wasn't thrilled to be taking classes there, though it was handy that it was within walking distance. He wasn't, however, thrilled with its close proximity to Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends, which was barely a stone's throw away (to coin a phrase). Still, it was only for six weeks.
But by his last class of the day, all shreds of optimism had been torn from the body of the thirteen-year-old, who sat slumped over his desk, staring dumbly at the paper in front of him. He couldn't believe it. What kind of sadistic teacher gave a pop quiz on the first day of school? Not even regular school, but summer school. These weren't normal kids, these were kids who had done so badly in regular school that they had to come here to get back into regular school. The teacher should already know how dumb they were. Well, this was Terrence's opinion anyways. He didn't know hardly anyone who shared his classes, the majority were kids that normally attended the middle school across town rather than his own. He was the only eighth-grader from his school there, as far as he could tell. Further proof to his mind that he was, indeed, the dumbest kid he knew. Fabulous. Terrence pouted at the math quiz sitting innocently on the desk before him. This really, really wasn't fair. He gnawed on the cap of his pen in frustration, ignoring the ache from his recently acquired braces. Being dumb really bit the big one.
As Terrence halfheartedly began to scribble down what he hoped, if not the right answers, at least plausible-looking ones, he began to regret not signing up for an elective. He might need the extra credit after all. He was taking English, Spanish, History, and Math - he had room for one elective, he just hadn't signed up for one because he didn't want to have to hang around this geek school any longer each day than he needed to. Although he found himself a little jealous at the nice campus, he couldn't wait until his time spent at Tillman was behind him.
By the time Terrence handed in what he knew was a failing paper, he had made up his mind to suck it up and try to find an elective class that wasn't full. Of course, this was more easily decided than accomplished. Art: full. Ceramics: full. Drama: full. Dance: he'd rather repeat eighth grade for all eternity. As a last resort he wandered by the Music room just as the last class let out for the day. Music. His dad played the piano and Mom had tried encouraging Terrence to take up music some time ago, even buying him a used electric guitar thinking he'd go for it. It now sat in his room untouched, as he hadn't the patience to learn it. But hey, you never know, maybe he had some of his dad's talent after all. He figured he could stand to take drums or something.
"I'm sorry," the music teacher explained, "but the drums are taken. My makeup summer courses are very small and I only allow one drum player. I always require my students to sign up in advance so I can distribute the instruments. But I did have a young lady drop the course today and leave one instrument open..."
Terrence didn't hold out much hope that it would be a very cool instrument, and when the teacher walked over pushing a wheeled case almost as tall as Terrence himself the boy half turned, ready to walk out.
"It's a cello," said the teacher, pulling it out of its case and extending the endpin. "Not the easiest instrument to master but well worth the effort. I was a little disappointed we might not have a cellist this year. Why don't you give it a spin?"
But Terrence was edging towards the door. "Um," he said. "Nah, that's okay, I'll pass. Thanks anyways, Mr..." He trailed off, realizing he hadn't caught the teacher's name.
"I'm Mr. Chesline, but the kids all call me Chess." He waited expectantly.
"Oh, uh...Terrence Vaughn." Terrence continued his retreat.
Chess raised an eyebrow. "Not one of your favorite instruments, is it Terrence?" he said. He rested the cello on its endpin and twirled it once.
Terrence paused and raised an eyebrow right back. "I um, dunno," he said doubtfully.
Chess cocked his head and appraised the boy. "You need extra credit, right?" he asked abruptly.
"Well..."
"You do know that Music is worth one more credit than most of the other electives, don't you?"
Terrence frowned, mulling that over. "Well," he hedged.
"All right, look," said Chess, twirling the cello again. "You need extra credit, and I need a cellist. Now at this point, I figure its either this or Interpretive Dance - that class never gets full up. What do you say?"
The teenager paused, sizing the teacher up. "Chess" was a tall, wiry-thin African American man who exuded energy and wore a plaid shirt. Terrence didn't think he looked very dangerous, but then, he was rather suspicious of the harmless-looking ones. He glanced back at the cello, which seemed to stand there as innocently as the teacher. Terrence didn't trust either of them.
At last Terrence broke the silence. "I don't have to take it home...do I?" he asked carefully. If anyone saw him pushing that case around he'd either be pounded to death or expire on his own of embarrassment. Besides, he wasn't too keen on Mac making fun of him or Mom swooning over him for being "talented" or somesuch crap.
"Well," replied Chess, looking thoughtfully down at the instrument, "you don't have to, but you're gonna have to practice it sometime. I suppose you could pop in here in the afternoons and use one of the practice rooms. They're open on Saturdays too."
"I'm grounded on the weekends."
Chess shrugged exaggeratedly. "Well then you'll have to get all your practicing in during the week. But it's only a six-week class, and I do like to give a concert on the day after the last class for the families."
Terrence looked at him sharply. "A concert?" Great. Mom would make him wear a tie and fuss over him while she snapped pictures like a rabid member of the Paparazzi. Mac would love it. It would be awful. He rolled his eyes. Worst summer ever.
Chess pulled a bow out of the cello case and walked over to a chair. "Well, you missed the first class, but I can get you started now," he said, waving at the chair with the bow. "And once you're comfortable with the instrument we'll play some scales. Unless," he added when Terrence didn't move, "you'd rather go visit Mrs. MacCurdy in the Dance studio?"
Terrence scowled. Dirty pool.