-Of Truths and Troublemakers-
"Anyone entrusted with power will abuse it if not also animated with love of truth and virtue, no matter whether he be prince or one of the people." –Jean de la Fontaine
(year: 1996)
"Ah, there's my baby girl!" Beneath a thick mustache of rusty-reddish whiskers, a broad smile appeared. Bright, white teeth flashing, toned arms gripped a little blond child. With a deep, booming clap of thunderous laughter, he swung her up into the air. As her eyes shone with glee, she clung to her dad's arms with a vice-like grip. Then, as he held her firmly around the waist with one arm, the man brought her down and used the other hand to tickle her mercilessly.
"No, no, no!" she shrieked, flailing wildly in her father's grip. "Daddy, stop it! Stop! No, don—aaaah!"
When the tickles and involuntary giggles ceased, the tall man dumped his large frame into the overstuffed armchair a few feet away from him. His child set on one knee, he looked down into her twinkling eyes and asked, "So, Car-Car, how was school today?"
Straightening up proudly, she stared directly into her dad's bright eyes. "Miss Daniels put a star by my name," the girl exclaimed in excitement. "She said it was 'cuz I was such a awesome helper."
"I already knew that about you," her father replied with a cheerful smile. "Did you draw any lovely pictures for me today?"
Though she tried, in her position the girl failed to look even the slightest bit intimidating as she curled her hands and set them securely on her hips. Or, rather, on her legs because, sitting down as she was, placing her fists comfortably on her hips would have made quite a feat indeed. "Da-ad," she whined, "I'm seven. I don't do baby stuff like that anymore."
Laughter dancing merrily in his hazel eyes, her father responded, "I'm sorry, Car-Car; I forgot."
Properly satisfied with the contrite apology, the mature and un-babyish seven-year-old went with a dignified, "Hmph."
Across the room, the front door banged open. Must be Jordan, the child thought; he's gotta do just 'bout everything real loud t'make sure everyone in the entire world notices him. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a well-toned, muscular teenager stepped into the room. Boots thick and clunky, they pounded heavily against the scratched, wooden floor. His backpack slung over one shoulder, he crossed the room and headed towards the hallway without so much as a single glance towards the two who currently occupied the room.
From the armchair, the man's deep voice called, "Jordan."
Stopping mid-step, the teenager turned to face his father and sister. "Oh, hi, Dad. Hey, Carmen." With one hand, he brushed out of his eyes the hair that matched his father's. Already he had begun to grow a miniature mustache, which he took pride in flaunting.
"Hey, Jordan," Carmen squeaked.
Resettling his daughter more comfortably on his knee, the father asked, "How was your history exam?"
A shrug. "Not sure. I think I did all right on the multiple choice, but I totally bombed that essay."
Looking somewhat uncertain, the man raised an eyebrow at his son. He glanced between his two children, noticing that Carmen didn't seem to possess his same bewilderment. At length, he asked his son, "Is 'bombed' a good thing or a bad thing?"
At the question, even Carmen's eyes widened in incredulity. A pair of large, hazel orbs and smaller, brown ones stared at the father as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra ear or two. Exasperated, the siblings cried in unison, "A bad thing!" as if the answer were that obvious.
"Wh—" he chuckled, staring at his daughter in wide-eyed disbelief that even she had known the connotation of the word more than he. "But… what if you say that something is 'da bomb'?"
"Dad!" Jordan groaned, clapping his hands over his ears as if doing so might ward off his father's words. When he moved his hands away, he dropped his head into them as if to conceal his mortification. He moaned, "Nobody says that anymore. That's from ages ago!" Right now his only consolation was that none of his friends had been there to hear his dad say that. Oh God, how embarrassing.
First nodding sagely in agreement, Carmen soon burst into giggles at the expression of mock affront written plainly on her father's handsome face. As Jordan turned around to leave, the girl wriggled off her father's lap and began to follow her oldest brother into the hallway.
"Did you finish all your homework, peach?" her father called after her before she could completely disappear.
Scrunching her nose and the foolish nickname, Carmen replied, "Yes, Daddy." Then, casting him an annoyed expression, she added in a huff, "Homework's easy." As she vanished through the threshold, her burly father began to chuckle.
(Wednesday, October 2, 2019)
When Chris entered his next classroom, it was to find the students in utter chaos. Three rambunctious, teenage boys chased each other around the perimeter of the classroom, pencils extended as if to defy the grandmotherly statement of "You'll poke and eye out if you run with that!" Out of the remaining seven, Brandon and Dustin found desks in the middle of the classroom and now worked diligently on homework. (Dustin worked on an assignment that had been due two days prior.) Excluding one, the remaining four—Mason, Timothy, Kevin, and George—clustered together towards the front of the room, chatting casually with five of the female students. Huddled together in the corner, Cecilia, Emily, Samantha, and Sheryl pored over their text books, obviously trying to assemble a quiet study group in the face of all the noise. The tenth female student, a serene girl named Rina, sat cross-legged atop the teacher's desk, leaning over a book so that long, ebony hair spilling into her face. One hand cupping her cheek, her eyes moved across the lines of her novel, deeply engrossed in the fantasy. With Mrs. Williams nowhere in sight, Chris let out a relieved sigh. At least something had gone his way today because certainly nothing else had.
From the back of the room, a lone Dwight waved him over. Reaching to his shoulder (damn, in his anger he'd forgotten his backpack), the witch trotted over to his friend. An affable pat on the shoulder loosened his tension a bit. Edgily, he offered a forced smile.
"That bad, huh?" Dwight asked with a sympathetic wince.
"Oh no, not at all," Chris snapped, sarcasm dripping from his words. He collapsed into an empty desk, watching Dwight do the same and turn to face him. "She's trying to help me." Rolling his eyes, he muttered, "Geez." At Dwight's half-bewildered, half-amused stare, Chris elaborated. "She just kept me there to explain how I'm screwing up my life, is all—to help me, she says… so that she can stay all self-righteous and high and mighty while she beats me to the ground. How wonderful for her," he sneered. Slamming his fist against the desk, he snapped, "What's it got to do with her, huh? It's not like I go out and get smashed or high or anything. For crying out loud, I—" He stopped suddenly, the anger seeming to drain out of him in an instant.
—save the world every other week! Those were the words that had almost slipped out, that he only just refrained from screaming to the whole teacher-less classroom. Because that he could not tell his friend—Dwight, the boy to whom he told everything… or that was what Dwight thought. Chris knew, though: there were things he could never tell his best friend.
"You what?" Dwight pressed, confusion creasing his brow.
Mind racing, Chris replied quickly, "My homework—I do all my homework." With a smirk he improvised, "Well, almost all. But if this is the way she wants to play it…" Unable to sit any longer with the pent-up nervous energy as a companion, he shoved himself out of the desk, posture rigid. On his face, a vengeful leer spread. "I can be the 'reckless, incorrigible teen who's on his way to Juvie.' Sure, if that's who she wants, no problem. Let's see how much she wants to help me then."
Eyebrows rising in concern, Dwight stared at his companion. Nervously playing with the dog tags around his neck, he cleared his throat. For a moment he seemed uncertain of how to proceed. At length he breathed out all at once, "Chris, she's gonna murder you. You won't make it out of there alive!"
A grim smile replacing his previous sneer, the witch heaved a sigh. "Whatever, dude," he muttered, glowering down at his sweaty palms. Absentmindedly, he wiped them on his pants. "I just don't see how my life is any of her freakin' business."
Taking this as a dismissal of the conversation, Dwight reached by his feet. While one hand dug around in his backpack the other motioned for Chris to reclaim his seat. "Poker?" he suggested, extracting a deck of cards from an unzipped pocket.
Already accustomed to the strange and random contents of his companion's knapsack, Chris didn't bother asking why Dwight would carry around a deck of cards. Instead, he nodded and sat. "Texas Hold-'Em," he said. Nodding, Dwight began to deal.
Earlier that morning…
On Wednesday morning Jake awoke feeling surprisingly well-rested. Oh, that's right, he reminded himself comfortably, eyes closed in content: Mom came back all cooled off and went straight to bed. What a nice change for the boy. With an almost imperceptible smile, he kicked back the covers and moved to slip off his bed. Suddenly, full in the face, a blast of pain hit him like a ton of bricks. Before he could bite his lip, a groan slipped past. Instantly, he clapped both hands over his mouth. If Mommy were currently sleeping off a hangover, it would not do to wake her.
Apparently, though, she was not asleep because Jake's bedroom door opened with a loud creak. Sucking in a breath, he held it as if physically clutching his lungs to keep them from releasing their air. When his mother stepped through the threshold, he noticed her concerned frown.
"Jake, honey, you okay?" she asked.
Fingers nervously picking at the bottom of his pajama shirt, the boy replied, "I don't feel too good." Without a doubt he knew he could not attend school today, not with a face that looked like it had been bashed in with a rock. After yesterday's incident with the vase, he knew his left cheek could not be a pretty sight to behold. People would wonder at it, which might get Mommy in trouble. That he could not allow to happen.
"Oh?" his mom questioned with genuine worry. "What is it that's bothering you? Your head? Your stomach? What is it?" Guilty eyes avoided his face, as if attempting to deny the existence of the bruises altogether. Jake let her go on pretending.
"My—uh—stomach," he lied. For good measure he wrapped both arms around his torso and let out a feeble moan. "Could I maybe stay home for the rest of the week?" Blinking innocently through his bangs, the nine-year-old watched his mother.
"Why don't we see how you're feeling tomorrow, hm?" she suggested, not unkindly. Motioning for him to climb back into bed, she offered a lopsided half-smile. "Go on and get some rest, Jake, all right? Maybe all you need is a few more hours of sleep." From the door she watched him clamor back into bed and drag the covers up to his chin. "Rest well." When she left, she closed the door behind her.
After forty-five minutes of a free period and another forty-five in his favorite class, the school finally released Chris from his prison. As the students filed out of the room, Mr. Randall called to their receding backs, "Don't forget to do the word problems on page sixty-seven for tomorrow." Following his students, Mr. Randall packed his notes into his briefcase and exited the room. Left behind the crowd, two boys packed away their books and notes and a leisurely pace. As they chatted, they started down the hall to their respective lockers.
"Did you see the movie last night?" Chris inquired when they stopped at his locker. Although he asked, he could already guess the answer. While Dwight had waited for months to see the movie, it lost its attraction with the prospect of nobody there to help him mock the actors and their parts. Chris knew Dwight long enough and well enough to know the answer before it came.
Casting a look at his best friend, Dwight snorted, "'Course not. How 'bout you—was your mom pissed about the whole detention thing?"
Selecting the text books he would need for homework, Chris purposely left his history text in his locker. Right now, he didn't really care if homework had been assigned; mostly he cared about annoying Ms. Gowell in any way possible. Noticing this, Dwight raised an eyebrow, though he wisely said nothing. Once Chris slammed his locker shut, they headed towards Dwight's in the next hallway over.
"Yeah, she was pretty pissed," Chris said as they went. "But whatever, she'll get over it as long as it doesn't happen again for a few weeks." In front of Dwight's locker, they stopped for the boy to retrieve his belongings. Afterwards, he shut it and casually spun the lock. Together the two headed out to the schoolyard.
Shading their eyes against the glare of sun, they stepped outside. With one arm blocking his face, Dwight pointed out, "But you got another detention today…"
"Yeah," Chris concurred with a shrug, "but it was an in-class detention. It doesn't bite into after-school time, so my mom won't find out about it. I'll just lay low for a few weeks until she forgets all about it." Pausing for a few moments, the teen's eyes swept the yard in search of a certain blonde. By the fence, Chris found his brother standing among a cluster of juniors. With a purposeful stare, Chris tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack, shot a "see ya tomorrow" over his shoulder, and crossed the grounds.
"Wyatt," he called when close enough to be heard. The older teen's head swung up, and Chris closed the distance between them. Eyeing the freshman for a moment, Wyatt's friends soon returned to their conversation, ignoring the brothers. "Can we go?"
With his own backpack slung over his shoulder, the blonde smirked. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, one hand reaching out to grab Chris's arm. Halfway turned around, Chris glared mutinously. "What's the rush?" Wyatt continued mockingly. "Yesterday I waited for like twenty minutes before your friend—what's his name?"
Dully, Chris supplied, "Dwight." How in the world had Wyatt lived with his brother for as long as he had without knowing Dwight's name? More likely he purposely pretended not to know because he knew it would irritate his brother. Yeah, that sounded more like the Wyatt Chris knew: obnoxious, not oblivious.
"Yeah, him. I waited for you for twenty minutes before he came by and told me you wouldn't be coming." Ignoring his brother's rant, Chris shrugged out of his grip and started back towards the building. After a moment of hesitance, the older Halliwell said a quick goodbye to his friends and trotted after his brother. "And why weren't you coming?" he pressed, the self-satisfied grin expanding with every word. "Because you had detention."
"It wasn't my fault!" the brunette exploded. Cheeks flushed with irritation, he wheeled around to face his older sibling. "I'm telling you Ms. Gowell has it in for me. Every single thing I do somehow lands me in detention." As he ranted, the two walked around the school building until they were concealed from prying eyes.
"Ms. Gowell," Wyatt said thoughtfully. "That's the new history teacher, right?"
Rolling his eyes, Chris sighed, "She's not new; this is her second year teaching. Just because you didn't have her…" Exasperated, he trailed off. As they stepped behind a cluster of trees the two witchlighters often found useful, he continued, "I swear her mission in life is to ruin my year." With a disgruntled 'hmph,' he glowered at Wyatt.
"Hm," Wyatt said, looking pensive, "Maybe she and Prue should get together and plot." Immediately after his jibe, the older teen vanished in a whirlpool of orbs.
"Not funny!" Chris yelled at the fading dots before mimicking his brother and dematerializing. Oh, Wyatt would so get it now.
Half a breath after Wyatt's orbs dissipated, Chris's began to twinkle in the foyer of the Halliwell manor. Once fully formed, the younger of the two shot his brother an annoyed scowl; it went ignored. Before the urge to childishly stick out his tongue could overpower his maturity, the fifteen-year-old stomped into the dining room. From the kitchen, dinner's aroma swept gallantly towards his nostrils. Hoping to scare his mother, the brunette crept quietly into the kitchen.
"It'll be ready in an hour," Piper said without looking up from the long tin pan sitting on the counter. From around her neck hung an apron long ago painted by three children aged two, four, and seven. Finger-painted in barely legible print were the words "we luv Momy."
"Damn, how'd you know?" Chris muttered in disbelief, moving to the table. Dumping his bag unceremoniously onto the tile floor, he collapsed into a pulled-out wooden chair. How was it that he could sneak up on even the most attuned warlock but his mom always knew he was coming from a mile away? For as long as he prided himself on being an expert predator, Piper seemed determined to knock him down a few notches.
What does that do for my self-esteem? he grumbled to himself: my own mother tries to get the better of me.
This time Piper did turn around, pausing only to fix him with a threatening stare. "Watch your language, mister."
With a half-contrite "Sorry," he dropped his head down onto his arms, which he folded on the table.
With her eyes focused on the spices she sprinkled one at a time over the pan, she asked her son, "So how was your day?"
In a falsely chipper tone, Chris answered, "Oh, it was just great! I absolutely love school; I only wish I could go every day of the year."
Snorting, Piper raised an eyebrow at the boy. He was way too cheeky for his own good. Dryly, she remarked, "I'm sure that can be arranged."
Shooting a hostile glance at his mom, the teen deadpanned, "You wouldn't dare."
"Mm-hm," was all Piper said with a non-committal smirk. Returning to her pan, she changed the subject. "Tell Wyatt we're having fish tonight."
At her command, Chris scrunched up his nose. "Fish?" he questioned in disgust, "But—"
"No 'but's," Piper interrupted smoothly, "and no faces either. I'm sure that at schools that run all year long, they never serve fish." As Piper knew it would, her concealed threat immediately shut Chris up. "Now," she repeated, "go tell Wyatt, please."
Without budging even an inch, Chris opened his mouth and hollered, "Wyatt! We're having fish tonight!" When he glanced over to find his mom's hands hugging her ears, he smirked, "Any school like that would throw me out in a day."
Fixing her son with a beady glare, she released one ear to point to the door. "Out," she ordered.
Calmly, he stood, snatching his knapsack off the floor. As he walked past his mother, he muttered, "Geez, I was just trying to help. If you don't want me to, next time just say so—"
"Out!"
Hurriedly, he orbed out of the kitchen. In his bedroom he reappeared just in time to hear Piper yell, "No orbing in the house!" As he always did under such circumstances, the cheeky teenager unapologetically called back, "Sorry!" After he dumped his bag in its usual corner, he collapsed onto his bed, grinning.
Since dinner, a couple of hours had passed. For his meal Chris had managed to choke down a few bites of fish. Thankfully, in order to provide her family with a well-balanced meal, Piper had also cut up a small salad. Eating mostly that, Chris had taken his fill without having to suffer through too much fish—except for what his mom made him eat for the protein. (He had tried to throw the "I turned vegetarian" card. Unfortunately, Piper didn't buy it… probably because he had eaten burgers a couple of nights ago. She did not believe his "those weren't veggie burgers?" remark, either.)
Now, sitting at his desk in his room, Chris had nearly finished all his homework. Aside from history, which he planned to leave undone anyway just to spite Ms. Gowell, he had only half of his math homework left. He always left his favorite subject for last because to him it was the easiest to accomplish.
A light rap on the door stopped him. Without looking up he called, "Come in."
Entering the room, Piper softly closed the door behind her. As Chris watched, she crossed the room and seated herself on his bed. Without a word, she watched her son scribble an equation into his notebook. Hearing her sigh, the teen turned around fully in his chair, facing her. Acting this way was her own special way of telling her children, "We need to talk."
Watching her closely for any sort of emotion, Chris cautiously said, "What's up, Mom?"
For a few solemn moments she said nothing. At length, she remarked, "I got a call from your teacher a few minutes ago."
Dully, Chris asked, "Which one?"
"The one that gave you another detention," Piper supplied in a tone that suggested she knew he had already known the answer before asking the question.
"Yeah, well," Chris began self-righteously, "Ms. Gowell is out to get me; she doesn't want me to be able to graduate and all just because I don't like the subject she teaches."
Wryly, Piper remarked, "I think all those demon attacks have made you paranoid." On a more serious note she continued, "Twice in two days, Chris? I know you don't like history, but this is ridiculous. I thought your father and I raised you better than that."
He hated when she twisted things around like that. Blushing, he muttered, "You did, Mom; it's not that." At least when he did something wrong, he deserved a lecture. This time his only crime was agreeing to help a future whitelighter.
"Then what, Chris? What's been going on with you? These past couple of days, you've been acting really strange. We've barely seen you around here—"
Crossly, Chris protested, "I was at dinner tonight."
Pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids, Piper grew quiet. At length she sighed, "Yeah," as if there were something more she wished to say but did not know how to express it.
Uncomfortable, Chris squirmed in his chair. With just a few expressions, his mom could make him feel like a little kid all over again; he hated it. Feebly, he mumbled, "Mom, I'm sorry. It's just…"
When he trailed off, she asked, "Just what, Chris?" Though he heard no malice in her voice, the blatant disappointment was somehow that much worse. Wanting nothing more right now than for his mom to understand – if only just to ease his guilt – he felt his resolve crumble. Though he told himself repeatedly that he wanted to do this on his own—to keep his privacy in regards to his charge, he could not stand that guilt-inducing look in his mom's eyes. How did she do that each and every time?
Slowly, eyes glued to the floor, he said, "Yesterday's detention wasn't my fault. Neither was today's."
Exasperated, his mother huffed, "Chris, we've been through this before: you need to learn to take responsibility for your—"
Before she could finish, he cut her off. "I know, Mom," he interrupted, running a frustrated hand through messy locks. "I know—be responsible, got it. But they really weren't my fault this time!"
"Oh no?" This time, arms folded across her chest, his motherlooked very much accusatory. "Whose, then? Your history teacher's?"
"No—the Elders."
Of all the answers she had half-expected, that one had not even made it to the top ten. Pausing briefly, she ordered in her no-nonsense tone, "Explain."
Taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the huge explosion, he began to talk. He told her of the past two days—of the Elders calling him out of class, of them assigning him a charge, of earlier that day when he had tried to check up on Jake. Purposely, though, he avoided describing Jake himself, avoided explaining his predicament, avoided the question of why he needed a whitelighter in the first place. Let Mom speculate; it's not my story to tell.
By the end he expected Piper to go off the deep end or at the very least ground him into the next century. While she did look royally peeved, she directed her scowl towards the ceiling rather than her son. A good sign if he had to figure. Hands on hips, she said resolutely, "Well, we're just going to have to orb the Elders' butts back here and get them to reassign this guy to someone else—"
Horrified, Chris jumped up from his chair. "Mom, no!" he cried, "You can't! I just started getting somewhere with him… sort of. If I leave now, he'll never trust another whitelighter as long as he lives!" A bit dramatic maybe, but he needed his mother to understand. This was not just some silly phase of his; this was a charge, someone he could actually help as long as he did his job right.
At first, as Chris held his breath, Piper said nothing, just raised a single eyebrow and pursed her lips. At length she demanded, "You want a charge?"
Conveniently forgetting that at one point he had argued her very same point, he shrugged. "Well, yeah… I guess… I mean the Elders"—he ignored whatever Piper grumbled under her breath at the mention of Their Royal Bigheads—"think I'm the best one for this job."
Through narrowed eyes, Piper pressed, "You know this isn't like owning a dog or something. This is a human being, Chris. Living, breathing, thinking, feeling… If you screw up even once, this guy could die."
Sufficiently knocked down a few pegs, Chris muttered dryly, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom."
Rolling her eyes, Piper countered frankly, "You know what I mean, Chris. This is serious business you're dealing with here. People die. And what happens if he gets sick or something and then dies after you two have gotten really close. Chris, that kind of grief…"
To the forefront of her mind rushed memories of innocents she and her sisters had lost over the years. Witches, mortals, cops—even those who had suspected them. Though frustrated at times, the sisters never wished harm upon them. Those weren't even people she knew for extended periods of time, people to whom she had grown close. If Chris did his job right, he would grow to care very deeply for his charge. As a future whitelighter, Jake was destined to die. Perhaps not soon but eventually. When that inevitable day arrived, the day he lost Jake… How could Piper knowingly let her little boy walk into certain pain? For all his fifteen years, to her he was still just a baby.
In the very first years with her powers, she remembered all too well the pain she endured. In the beginning, the first—and by no means last—big loss she suffered was Andy Trudeau, a man she and her sistershad known since infancy, a man who had been the brother she never had.
Though he hid it well, inside, Piper knew, Chris was a sensitive boy. He would bond quickly with his charge, build a close relationship. What if it became more than the relationship of a whitelighter to his charge, as often it did? What if he became a confidante, a close friend the way Leo had once become for the Halliwell sisters? During the aftermath of her older sister's death, Piper and Phoebe had it rough. Even preoccupied with her own grief, though, Piper saw how impossibly Leo dealt with his own sorrow. He tried to stay strong for his two living charges, for his wife; but the fact that he failed to save a loved one hit him hard. Losing a charge—it rarely got much worse than that.
In a desperate tone Chris tugged his mother's consciousness back to the present. "I've protected Innocents before, haven't I? It's the same thing, except more of a long-term arrangement. I can keep him safe; nothing's going to happen to him." Pleading, he concluded, "Mom, I can do this. Let me see this thing through."
Though reluctant, Piper knew she could not protect her children from heartbreak forever. Eventually, she would have to let them face the big, bad world—let them love, let them lose. Despite her hesitance, she conceded—on conditions. Rapidly, she began to tick the stipulations off on her fingers. "No more cutting classes for any reason whatsoever. If your grades start to drop, this whole thing is over. I'll change my mind in a heartbeat. Don't test me—I'll do it."
With a snort Chris retorted, "I know you will."
Smoothly, the long-time mother added, "And if there's any cheek from you, mister…" Threateningly, she let herself trail off. "So watch it, kiddo."
"Will do," he exclaimed, and saluted. Glad to have been given this opportunity, he honestly would have readily accepted almost anything. For a moment he pondered over exactly what he was agreeing to do: if he broke any of his mom's rules even once, she would snatch Jake from him in the blink of an eye. He could not let his work suffer, could not cut even one class—
"Wait," he said, looking up. At the door with one hand already on the knob, Piper turned around to face her boy. "If he calls me in the middle of class," he protested, "I have to be able to orb to him." When Piper opened her mouth to argue, he rushed to explain: "A charge's call trumps anything else, right?" Smirking, he challenged, "Ask Dad; I'm sure he'd say the same."
Scowling – after all, he was correct – she determined, "Fine, if he calls you. But one more phone call from a teacher and I am calling the Elders." As she closed the door behind her, she heard her mutter, "Idiot Elders think they can hire a fifteen-year-old boy for their dirty work… Child Labor Laws…" As she stormed down the hallway, her voice fading into nonexistence, Chris could not help but smile.
Reviews are like gold, spun from thread. I may be shallow, but would you really deny me the only gold I can possibly attain when fanfiction is free writing?
Replies to anonymous reviews:
brez - I am glad you liked it and reviewed. I am curious: what in specific do you like about the story? What don't you like? There must be something.
:-) - laughs. I really liked the name you signed with. A smiley face: very cute. grin. Oh, how it pains me that you skipped over my introduction in chapter one. That was some of my best work. wink. Seriously, though, I think you should read it. My own personal opinion, anyway. Even if you do not, I thank you for joining the story. Yes, this is a revamped version of a story I began to write quite a while ago.
firepony16 - Thank you. I take great pains to add imagery to my stories because there was a time when I wrote completely without detail, much like many writers here on fanfiction. No offense intended. It is just a fact - novices in all areas tend to lack imagery. Thankfully, while still a novice myself, I have begun to add more detail to my writing. With even more practice, I hope that I will continue to do so.
bahzad - As a teenage boy, Chris will not sit by so docilely and happily accept a teacher's attempt to help him. No, as a teenager, he will throw aside anyone's offer of assistance and fully believe he can accomplish anything and everything without any help at all. Jake may not have been harmed in the last chapter, but don't expect that to go on forever. He is a victim of abuse, and I do not plan to soften the "facts" because they are difficult to read. In fact, the difficulty is just the point: this is a statement against abuse. It is not acceptable in any way, shape or form!