Today was the day, the first day at a new school, the School for Talented, Gifted and Unique Youth to be exact. But as far as first days went, this would be my 15th first day, since 6th grade, so in other words another average day in Percyland. The sunlight streams through dirty blinds as I dress, in simple jeans and a blue t-shirt (my lucky colour), grateful that this school didn't require uniforms like the last. I drag my feet zombie-like to the kitchen, and wonder how many classes I'll be able to sleep through without the teachers noticing. My mom is no where in sight, but the note on the kitchen counter, sticky-posted onto a pouch of blue Kool-Aid is proof that she isn't 100% hidden in her world of art, statues and muses. Grabbing the juice pouch I head out the door of my new, and most likely temporary home/house/apartment and head towards the bus stop.
Sadly, even as a sophomore my mom strictly believes that school buses are safer than public buses. She doesn't recognize the fact the riding a school bus is a form of slow and agonizing torture. I slowly mount the steps to the bus, preparing myself for the stench of worn seats, sun-baked rotting food (contrary to popular belief baked is not better), and teenage sweat. After holding my breath for the longest possible time, almost turning my face blue, I finally am forced to breath in. The smell of pungent hormones and stupidity is still overwhelming, I keep hair in front of my eyes and look for a seat. Jocks in the back, as usual, nerds in middle and front rows nearly empty. I sit down on the first row seat, right behind the driver. The murmurs in the back alert me the the teenage species have identified one the they don't recognize, an impostor, also known as me.
After eight songs blasting through my ear buds and three bus stops I have successfully avoided all human contact. Nobody has dared sit by me yet, so I'd say the day is going pretty good. Until now, the seat beside me bumps up and down, squeaking with the weight of another person, I sneak a peek from under my closely drawn hood. I see a fair skinned boy with afro/dreads hair, a style that closely resembles a bird's nest. Turning my head I hope that the kid hasn't seen me, but unfortunately he caught me.
"Admiring the do, huh?" He says with a confident smirk plastered on his pale, freckled face. I think I'm hallucinating from all the teenage hormone smoke, but I hear a Jamaican accent.
"Your kidding me right?"
"Of course not, mon. It takes skill to get hair the wicked," Definetly a Jamaican accent. "I'm Grover."