This is a re-posting a story I started last summer that never got off its feet for various reasons. I'm changing tons in the original story line and all that.

DISCLAIMER: I get paid a buck more than Alaskan minimum wage……….there's no way I could afford the Newsies, therefore, I don't own them. And if you recognize anything else, it's probably accidental, because I own nothing.

STORY TIME!

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"It's you last chance," said the social worker. He was sitting in his office with a 16-year-old boy. Short, standing about 5'7" the boy had long black hair with blue streaks that was parted to the side and swept across the right side of his face. The longest parts reaching well past his chin, the shortest right above his ears. He had 9 piercings on his left ear, two rings and an industrial on his right, three on his left eyebrow, two lip piercings on the right side, and five more piercings that were covered by his tight black jeans and faded orange shirt bearing the name Sid Vicious. He slouched back in his chair and effortlessly held a smirk upon his young face. His appearance alone was enough to make most respectable citizens ferry their children over to the other side of the street and shake their heads in disapproval.

"What happens if I screw it up?" asked the boy.

"Juvenile hall until your 20," answered the boy's social worker.

"20, what the hell! Is that even possible, your a damn adult when your 18!" the boy exclaimed, leaning across the desk in outrage.

"The court ordered for you to be in certified care until your 20," the social worker said, having lost all patience with this boy long ago.

"What about when Dax gets out?"

"Your brother does not count as certified care."

So, it was decided. Bristol would be sent to Thornhill's Children's Academy for Free Thinking. He drove with his social worker to out his locker in the school he'd just been expelled from and retrieved his things from the last foster home on the east coast willing to give him a chance. All together, he had a trash bag full of clothes, a worn out skateboard, and a black messenger bag covered in patches and pins, holding everything else he owned and cared for.

They began the long drive towards Thornhill in silence. After about an hour, Bristol looked at his social worker and asked,

"So, tell me about this shithole yer taking me to again?"

"It's a school desinged to provide social stability, while allowing you to use free thinking and focus it into positive energy," he recited as if reading a brochure.

"Positive energy, what the hell?"

"Think artsy."

"Fantastic," Bristol said sarcastically, "There a lot of kids there?"

"About 15 such as your self," the social worker began to answer

"Fuck-ups then?" cut in Bristol

"Yes," sighed the middle-aged man "and then the people who run the school, the Mixners, have about 10 children attending the school. The whole extended family lives there."

"10 kids, that's sick." Bristol said, before turning on his headphones, drowning out all sound with the genius music of Thursday blasting into his ears, pushing his Chuck clad feet into the dashboard.