Before the start of the series, fall '94; Jordan switching from remedial English to college prep.
Jordan's seated at the worn kitchen table that had years before belonged to his grandparents, eating scrambled eggs for dinner when he looks up. Through the doorless kitchen he can see straight through to the front room and Jordan looks to the source of the noise: the sound of a key turning in the front door. He drops his fork, letting it clangs sterilely against his ceramic plate. Jordan knows who it will be when the door does at long last open. His friends treat each others' homes as community property, but not one of them has a key to this house. Lisa hasn't carried a key to the old place in years, and Jordan's uncle, if he even has one, has — to the best of Jordan's memories — of yet to use it, preferring instead to make a nuisance of himself by pounding on the door in a shabby form of humor. No, when the door — that more than doesn't sticks when first it's being opened from the outside — opens, it will be his father. And then there he is, loudly shutting the door behind him, shirking off his jacket and moving through the living room brusquely. He enters the kitchen and moves past Jordan without casting a glance in son's direction. Jordan watches him wordlessly, waiting to see what he has to say. When he doesn't say anything and instead rifles through a kitchen cabinet for a pack of cigarettes, Jordan speaks up, "Hey." Jeff grants him the courtesy of a momentary glance, then grunts in the teen's general direction as he lights his cigarette. Jordan's watchful solemn eyes never stop following him. "Where've you been."
Jeff eyes him with disinterest, then exhales. "Don't worry about it." He'd meant for that to be the end of their exchange, but feeling Jordan waiting for more as he pours himself a cup of stale coffee, the weathered but handsome middle-aged man grunts irritably at his kid, "What?"
"It's been a week," Jordan dully points out.
His father turns to him, taking a long drink from his chipped mug, "And?" Jordan doesn't answer, just looks at him. "What?"
Thus pressed, Jordan loses steam, visibly deflating. "Nothin'."
But now irked Jeff doesn't let the matter lie there. He keeps his cool but he stares down his son, and with pointed rhetoric queries, "Did I miss all those calls when you stay out all night?" Jordan doesn't answer and Jeff isn't the least surprised. Both his kids run wild, staying out, partying, hanging with God knows who. He feels not in the least compelled to answer for his whereabouts when one kid ran off and the other's always disappearing with one friend or another. He's the adult. He looks the room over and then his son and dispassionately taps his ashes into a dirty mug left on the kitchen counter, remarking, "Kid, you look okay."
"Right," Jordan nods dryly.
Getting that Jordan's bitterness has not lessened he makes an exaggerated effort to survey their surroundings, "The house burn down or something?"
In answer, a doleful and resentful Jordan shifts his eyes around to begrudgingly acknowledge that 'Clearly no, the place had not suffered a disaster in his absence.' Feeling that his point's been made the father turns towards his bedroom, but Jordan only allows him several steps before he calls after him. "The school was trying to get ahold of you."
His father stops. "Why?" Since his kids had made it clear they were in no need of him, he's stayed as entirely clear of their educations as he is able. Jordan and school has always been a pain — grades, behavior, attendance, you name it.
"'Cuz," Jordan mumbles, betraying a note of insolence in his tone, "I need to change my schedule, and they need parent permission for that." Jordan takes a certain pride in pointing out all the ways this man is an absolute failure as a parent.
His father looks at him starkly, but not wholly unkindly — like he expects to get the truth, but doesn't expect to be fazed, "You fail another class?"
"No." Jordan's insolence is amassing (as much as he dares let it).
Jeff steps nearer, "Jesus, Boy." He takes another long drag off his dwindling cigarette, "How much longer you gonna be going t' that place. They're gonna start charging me soon."
Provoked, and spiteful, Jordan can't stop himself from pointing out, "It's a public school."
Jeff's eyes roll; not only is he sleep-deprived, he's tired of getting flack from his over-sensitive kid, "I know." He finishes his only warmish coffee with a large gulp. "My point is," he drags it out, looking at him, "you been there so long. I don't pay that much in taxes to keep you there forever."
Jordan doesn't find his father funny. "Wilson wants you to call him."
"You're eighteen," Jeff takes another puff, "can't you do this yourself?"
Jordan's irritated, but not surprised to have to correct him, "Seventeen. And they need you." He scoffs; the fact that he has to rely on his dad for anything is pretty much a joke to Jordan.
Jeff looks at him, flicks his butt into the kitchen sink, then grabs a scrap of paper from somewhere. Hastily he scrawls his messy signature across it then passes it to Jordan, "Here." On his way out he grabs a beer from the fridge and pops it open with his thumb as he shuts his bedroom door behind him.
"Great," Jordan grumbles.
At school the next day, Jordan knocks on the door jam of the open door to the AP's office.
Associate Principal Wilson looks up from his computer, "Hey, Kid."
Still lingering in the doorway, Jordan kind of glowers at him. "Whut?"
Wilson's unfazed by Jordan's moodiness; he shakes his head genially, "Just saying 'hi'."
Moving just slightly further into the room Jordan shoots him a surly look, "Yeah, wull, I gotta name."
Registering his sulkiness, but remaining upbeat, Wilson drums the desk, "Jordan, what's going on?" Jordan eyes him suspiciously, then drops a crumpled paper on the desk. Having done so Jordan backs away some. Wilson looks down at the paper then up at Jordan, "What's this." The guarded teen gestures for him to open it. After glancing once more at Jordan, Wilson does. Pressing it flat against his desk he looks it over, "What is this?"
Jordan watches him stoically, "Signature for the schedule switch."
"Oh." The administrator presses his lips and swallows. He looks up at the kid.
"You're not gonna get it on an official form."
Wilson smiles, "You doubting my ability to charm and disarm surly parents?" Jordan's eyebrows raise, stoically confirming just such a doubt. Wilson's good-natured expression curbs some but never altogether fades as he purses his lips and waves the paper once with a slight twist in the wrist, "I'll see what we can do with this."
Mildly bitter, Jordan raises the question, "Why do'ya even need a signature if I'm moving up a level?"
Acknowledging that this is a good point, Wilson shrugs amiably, "I don't know." He adds to that, "The public education system is well entrenched in its bureaucracy." Jordan eyes him, then heads out the door. Wilson calls him back, "Jordan—" The kid turns back; Wilson lifts the paper, "I like that we're not adding forgery to your resume." Jordan obligingly lifts the sides of his mouth into the shape of a smile, then walks away.
*Posted 9/23/12