This story is pretty much written so I'm not gonna waste it because of no reviews, someone is bound to read it I'm sure! Anywho here we are again, this story is long but I'm gonna get it up as fast as I can, because I am excited about it and excited about sharing it. I will let you know once again there is language and adult content especially later on, I have it rated T for now but it will go up to M.

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"I'm wide awake and I can see, the perfect sky is torn" ~Natalie Imbruglia

4

In one sense, every day is the first day of the rest of your life. December 26, 2014, though, was a little bit more. Christmas was over, and I woke up to find myself in the same room, in the same body, and in the same life in which I'd found myself the day before. All of which were three years older than they were when I'd gone to bed on December 24.

My first thought as I woke up, stretched, and sat up in bed, was that if Mom were still alive, she'd reinstate spanking just to make sure my room never looked like this again. And I would have agreed with her; it was disgusting. So laundry was still high on my list of priorities. Since it was only seven o'clock, however, I figured I'd better wait a bit to start that project. Instead, I tiptoed down to the kitchen, where Dad and my older brother Jay were drinking coffee and reading the paper, Dad the sports section and Jay the business news.

"Morning," I said cheerfully.

"Huh," Jay grunted.

Dad just looked over at me.

"Say, Jay," I tried again, pouring myself a cup of coffee, "thanks for the subscription." He nodded, still without so much as a glance at me. "So wadda you doin' today?" Dad asked me. "I dunno," I shrugged. "You're not gonna lift, are you?" his eyes narrowed. "You don't need that shit at this point." "Yeah," I agreed. Okay, no lifting. "Yeah, wouldn't want to strain the golden arm," Jay muttered. "I don't remember your brother givin' you shit when you were playin,'" Dad said pointedly. "Yeah, I know," Jay sighed and finally looked at me. "Sorry, little bro. Thanks for the gift card." "Sure," I said. God only knew which store I'd gotten him a gift card from. "Actually," I turned back to Dad, "I still need to do some laundry." "Paige'll be up soon," Dad said. "Let her do it."

"Maybe he doesn't want his clothes to end up all the same color," Jay blurted out. I watched Dad tense up, to the point where I could see the blood throbbing in his neck. Jay also realized he'd gone too far. "Hey, sorry, Dad," he said, pushing himself back from the table. "It's been a tense week." "Things rough at the Seven-Eleven?" Dad growled. "I think the Wal-Mart's hiring." Jay bit back his own snappy comeback, put his dishes in the sink and left. Dad watched him go, and then turned to me. "I swear one day I'm just gonna chuck his ass outta here," he said. He left for work himself a few minutes later, and Imogen appeared a few minutes after that.

"Morning," I said. I figured the third time might be the charm as she sleepily walked around the kitchen to get herself a bowl of cereal.

"What do you want?" she demanded. Apparently I was mistaken. "Sorry," I said, holding up my hand. What was it with this family? "Look," she paused with an open milk bottle in her hand. "Christmas was special. Nice, even. But you don't have to pretend we're friends any more." She said it with such savagery that the part of me that wanted to protest — to whine "we're not friends any more?" — found itself without a voice. Instead, I simply asked if she thought that anyone would mind if I started a load of laundry.

She looked at me with a smirk.

"Queen Paigy and Princess Maya?" she scoffed. "They could sleep through a fire. When did you get so domestic?" "No underwear," I said, putting a quick end to that discussion. "Do you know if the school's open today?" "I thought all you jocks had your own key to the weight room," she spat. "I meant the office," I said quietly. "Oh," she said. "I dunno. I guess. Why?" "I was, uh, thinkin' about changing some classes," I told her. "Why?" she asked suspiciously. "I dunno," I shrugged. "I see Jay and I think, suppose I get hurt. You know, what would I do then? I mean, no offense to the guy, but that's not really where I wanna see myself." "What is it with you?" Imogen asked as she sat down at the table. "What?" "Are you high?" I just laughed. She shook her head, and we settled down to eat in silence. From my standpoint, the less I said about anything at this point, the less trouble I could get into.

I did my laundry, and around ten o'clock, with Paige and Maya still dead to the world, I hiked the two miles between my house and the high school. The front door was open, although the office itself held the only signs of life. Fortunately, it hadn't changed much. When you entered the office, you still came face-to-face with a counter, the first barrier between us, students, and them, the school's administration. Behind the counter were two desks, one normally occupied by Mrs. Bhandari, the other by Mrs. Perry. Together, the story went, they ran the school, occasionally dragging Mr. Raditch out of his principal's office to make announcements before they locked him back inside the office.

Today, though, there was only one young lady sitting at one of the desks, a Ms. Bhandari, if the sign on her desk was right. She was much nicer looking than either Mrs. Bhandari or Mrs. Perry had been, and if I lingered a few minutes at the counter before clearing my throat to attract her attention, well, who could blame me? Exotic, petite, slender, her raven hair pulled back into a somewhat severe-looking bun, she sat there studying her computer screen with a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.

"Did you want something, Mr. Torres, or were you just going to stand there all and wait for someone to announce your visit?"

She still hadn't looked at me yet, although apparently I'd been wrong about the obliviousness. "I, uh, I was thinking about changing my class schedule," I stammered. She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head at me. "I'm not sure we could make it any easier for you," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe we could just assign you a room and your teachers could rotate in and out. Then we could have your lunch delivered as well." She'd put a couple of air quotes around the word "teachers." Did I not have real teachers this year?

"Drewster!"

A baldish-looking man came hustling out of the principal's office, his hand extended. I eagerly grasped it, the first sign I'd seen yet that someone knew who I was and was happy to see me. Evidently the occupant of the principal's office had changed as well. This would be Archie Simpson, according to the fake-wood sign at the entrance. "How was your holiday, um, sir?" I asked. "Excellent, Trickster, excellent. And call me Snake. How about yours?" "Fine, thank you, sir. Pete," I said, finally pulling my hand loose. "Excellent," he smiled. "So what can we do for you?" "Mr. Torres thinks his courses next semester are too hard," Ms. Bhandari said scornfully. "Actually," I said softly, "I don't believe I said that, ma'am. I simply said I had some thoughts about changing my class schedule." "Well, let's see what we've got," 'Pete' said. Ms. Bhandari had already pulled my schedule up and was holding it between her forefinger and thumb as if it would infect her. 'Snake' snatched it from her hands, her message flying right over his head, "First period," he read, "Principles of Government with Mr. Perino. That looks good."

Ms. Bhandari was shaking her head.

"Second period," he continued. "The second half of Mr. Townsend's American History survey. Just between us, you might want to go to a few more classes this semester, Trick." Ms. Bhandari rolled her eyes. "And fourth period," he concluded, "English Self-study with Mrs. Stone." After a few seconds of silence, it became clear that he'd finished reading. "That's it?" I asked. "Three classes? All I have is three classes? What do I do in the afternoon?" "Coach Stone wanted that kept clear for scouts and practice," Pete winked at me. "I played a little ball in high school myself, you know, Trick. I know how important it is to make a good impression and keep in shape." The phone rang just then, and Ms. Bhandari answered it and told Pete that it was Superintendent Shepard. "Whoa, gotta take this," Pete gave me another wink. "Don't go away, Trick." He bounded into the other room and closed the door behind him, but Ms. Bhandari and I could both hear the "Merry Christmas, sir!"

"So what is it you're unhappy with?" Ms. Bhandari turned her attention back to me. I decided I needed to level with somebody, at least to a certain extent, and I'd concluded, based on nothing more than ninth-grade instinct, that Archie "Snake" Simpson might not be the best guy to start with. After all, he was a ballplayer, too, wink wink. I imagined him reacting the same way my father would have reacted if I'd told him I wanted a more challenging schedule. "Can I ask you a question, ma'am?" I put as much sincerity into my voice as I could.

Ms. Bhandari blinked.

"Certainly," she said. "Can I come sit at the desk?" I asked in a conspiratorial whisper. I slipped around the counter to take the chair beside her desk after I got her nod. "What would I have to do to get a 2.75?" "You'd have to get B-minuses," she said, trying to figure out whether I was trying to trick her. "No, I mean permanently." "You mean for a high-school average?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting into the wispy bangs that had come loose from her bun. "Exactly," I smiled. "What would I have to get this semester?" She hit some keys on her computer. "You'd have to take five substantive courses," she said, "and average a 4.6. Then you'd end up with a 2.749 which would get rounded up to a 2.75." I'm sure my face fell. If I got all A-pluses I could average only a 4.5. "So it's impossible," I mumbled. "Well, no," she said. "Not impossible. But given your academic record I'd have to say it was extremely unlikely." "But I could do it? In theory?"

"If you took one honors course," she said. "And got A-pluses in everything." She looked skeptical, and given what I'd learned up to this point — that it would take five A-pluses this semester just to get me close to a B-minus overall — she probably had good reason. But I saw an opening, and I wasn't about to let it close. "So, like, what could I take?" She pushed a few more buttons and printed out a schedule for me. First and second period were the same; third period was Honors English, fourth period was "The Physics of Astronomy," and fifth period was something called "People of the Book" a course labeled "REL 101." "And other than astronomy lab on Wednesday afternoons," she said with a quiet seriousness, "this leaves all your afternoons free like Coach Stone wanted."

"Huh," I looked at the paper. "Can I ask you another question?" "Certainly, Mr. Torres," she smiled at me. "I'm enjoying today very much so far." "'Cause you think they really coddle athletes around here, don't you?" I asked. She stared at me. "Your mother thought that, too," I said. "I remember her talking with my mother once, about my older brother, when I was still in ninth grade and hangin' out here at the office waiting for a ride home. And this English Self-study I have with Ms. Stone — the coach's wife? — " she was nodding — "is...?" "Crap," she said with the ghost of a smile. "So I can take all these courses?" I held up the list.

"Why?"

I looked at the principal's door, and then turned back to her. "I would really like to go to the New York University next year," I said. "And I was told they require a 2.75 average and a 1400 on the SATs for a baseball scholarship." "You're serious," she looked at me, her eyes softening just a bit. "I am," I nodded. "You'll have to re-take the SATs, you know." "I figured," I nodded. "I guess I really didn't put a lot of effort into them, huh?" "You got a 790." "On the reading?" I asked. I'd looked up the SAT scoring system when I got back home last night. Evidently there were now three of them: Reading, Math, and Critical Analysis. I was always better at reading. A 790 was pretty damn good. "On all of them, Mr. Torres," she said. "A 790 on all three of them together." "Shit," I blurted out. "That pretty much describes it, Mr. Torres." I looked over to see a smile playing across her lips once again. I couldn't help but smiling myself, and pretty soon we were both laughing out loud. Finally, we quieted down and she waited for me to continue.

"I'm dead serious about this, Ms. Bhandari," I said. "I can take 'em again on the 27th of next month, right?" "I'll sign you up, Mr. Torres. As for these classes, the only prerequisite for the three new courses here is Introductory Physics, and you took that last year." So I knew physics? Well, damn. "So what's this course?" I pointed at the "People of the Book." "The School Board wanted a religion class this year," she frowned. "Who teaches it?" "Mrs. Kwan." "As in Laur-?" I stopped myself. "Kwan." she finished with another smile. "Yes, Laura Kwan. She insisted on being allowed to teach this course. She was afraid that it would become just another Christian education class if somebody else got hold of it. You haven't had her for anything else, have you?" She was frowning at her computer while I mumbled my answer. "I'm sorry?" she asked. "Sunday school," I finally said. "I had her for Sunday School." "Perfect," Ms. Bhandari smiled. "Now it won't just be a class of evangelicals. You only have one problem left."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You have to get Mrs. Dawes's permission to take Honors English," she said, in a tone that suggested that that would require some sort of divine intervention. "Mrs. Dawes likes me," I protested. "I got an A-plus from her last, er, in ninth grade. Uh, first semester" Ms. Bhandari looked back at her computer as my voice trailed off. "Yes, you did," she nodded. "And then a B second semester. And then a C last year, after your initial incomplete. As I remember, you turned in your final paper two weeks late, and got a C on it. Normally, the incomplete would have been replaced with a C-minus, one grade lower than your paper, but she talked Mr. Raditch into giving you the C. So you may have used up all your good will with Mrs. Dawes.

"Unfortunately," she continued, "she's on her winter cruise this week, and won't be back until next Monday. You really think you can talk her into this?" "Honestly, I have no idea," I said. "It's worth a try though, huh?" "For NYU? Yes, it is. My father went there. He used to go on and on about it. I tell you what, why don't we keep this our little secret until then?"

I gave her a quizzical look.

"If it doesn't work," she said. "You can take your current schedule and go on to the major league draft. We'll be the only ones who ever know. Because if Mrs. Dawes says okay, Coach Stone's gonna hit the roof. And this one" — she nodded toward the principal's door — "will run right to him to tell him. "So if you can talk her into it," she continued, "give me a call on Tuesday and I'll have you all set to go when school starts on Wednesday." "That's the only way?" I asked. "I'm afraid all of the other honors classes have prerequisites that you don't meet," she shook her head. "Even in the afternoon?" I asked. "I'm afraid so, Patrick," she said gently. "I'll be keeping my fingers crossed."

"So!" boomed Pete from his office doorway. "What do we need to do to make your schedule better, Drewster?" "You know," I said, "I think that Ms. Bhandari and I have got it all figured out. Turns out we can't make it any easier after all." Ms. Bhandari had the decency to blush as I stood up, and I thanked her and "Snake" and made my way out to the street.