JASON AND THE PROBLEM CHILD
A/N: The characters in this story--specifically the Everett family--are just as much my property as my wife's. What that means is, both of us came up with the characters. The BSC members, of course, are owned by Ann Martin. Just thought I'd clear that up.
CHAPTER 1
"A gathering of angels appeared above my head; they sang to me this song of love, and this is what they said; they said, 'Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me--'"
That was the song that was playing on my clock-radio in my bedroom one summer afternoon in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, and I was singing right along as I packed my Adidas bag. My family, which consists of my mum, Steve, my stepdad, and Bebe, my eleven-year-old stepsister, were taking a trip to Manhattan for a couple of weeks to visit Aunt Amy, Mum's sister, Uncle Aaron, her husband, and their two daughters: Alex, who's Bebe's age, and Alissa, who's six and a half.
Who am I? I'm Jason Everett, I'm fifteen years old, and this fall, I'll be starting my freshman year at Stoneybrook High School. I have black hair, which I usually keep pulled back in a ponytail, green eyes, Michael Keaton-ish eyebrows, a shark's-tooth earring in my left ear, and a scar on my right cheekbone. I got that scar in a fight when I was ten. The kid I'd fought with hit me in the face with a two-by-four that had a little tiny nail sticking out of the end. It damn near tore my eye out, too, but missed my eye by an inch. I don't really mind having it anymore, though. In fact, I think it looks pretty cool.
Anyway, I live with my family in this brand-new apartment complex at the end of McLelland Road, which is where my good friend, Kristy Thomas, lives. Kristy is the president of a business called the Baby-sitters Club, and sometime after Stoneybrook Middle School's production of Carnival, they made me an associate member (I'll explain a little more about that later).
Well, I was rummaging around in my closet, looking for my favorite Rolling Stones jersey, and singing along with the radio, when I heard pounding on the door, and a voice shouting, "Jason! Hey, Jason!"
I immediately recognized the voice as Steve's, and rushed to turn the radio down before I opened the door. "Yes?" I asked. I could tell by the look on Steve's face that he wasn't in the best of moods.
"Jason, how many times do I have to tell you not to play your radio so loud?" he asked sternly. "And I'm not the only one. I've gotten quite a few complaints from some of the neighbors on this floor that you've been too noisy."
As soon as he said that, I felt like the world's biggest schmuck. You see, Steve happens to be the superintendent of the entire complex. That basically means he's responsible for keeping up with things like groundskeeping, maintenance, and he's trying to do a good job for the tenants. If he didn't hold up to his end of the bargain, he could get fired, and we'd no longer be able to live there.
"I'm sorry, Steve," I said. And believe me, I was. "I guess I didn't realize I was that loud. I was just lost in my own world there." Speaking of which, this wasn't the first time, as Steve pointed out. Another time, I was listening to my favorite Motorhead CD, and trying to sing like Lemmy, but I couldn't really do it very well, and from upstairs, I heard a pounding and a voice yelling, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing down there?"
"It's okay, son," Steve answered. "However, in the future, I'd really appreciate it if you played your music a little more softly, and so would the other tenants. Capisce?"
"Capisce," I agreed. (Yes, Steve is Italian.) "Well, at least I wasn't listening to William Hung!"
Steve laughed a little, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, then walked away, muttering to himself in Italian. The only times he ever does that are if he's really pissed off, or if he hears a really funny joke. I, for one, prefer to hear him do that when he's in a good mood.