When my parents said they were sending me to boarding school, they must have meant military school. Or psycho’s school. Or maybe even Masochism Mansion. I don’t know. But this year was not fun. No thanks, receptionist lady, I don’t want a yearbook. Thanks. I’m going to talk to my mom about homeschooling for my sophomore year.
Chapter 1 – The Bearer Of Bad News (I mean REALLY bad)
-August 6th
“Please, Mom! I can’t go to boarding school! What about my friends?! My social life? Four years to be at some crummy, dusty school for rich kids? I’ll be killed on day one!” I cried.
“Cameron, it’s for your own good. You’ve been given 5 infractions on your academic record. Bullying? I can’t believe you for that. Still.” Mom ranted.
I defended, “I didn’t bully anyone! Bobby The Bubblegum-Brained bullied me for months and I hit him once and now he plays baby bulldog?”
“It doesn’t matter, you have to be the bigger person. Besides, Bobby “The bubblegum-brained” won’t be at Lady Werfhenshire’s Academy,” she said.
“But what about my friends? You said no phones or “communicative devices” were allowed?” I protested.
“You’ll visit them at Christmas. And you can tell them about all the wonderful adventures you had at your new school! Maybe even get them to join. How awesome would that be?” she replied sweetly.
Maybe my mom was right. Maybe she was. Either that, or she had persuaded me. Her charming smirk with the soft voice, like fresh yogurt, always got to me.
“When do we have to go to the train station?”
“Four hours. Be ready and packed or off to military school.”
And with that, I rushed up the stairs. My room is super awesome, with posters for my favorite bands and TV shows. My bedspread was a simple color, but it was fine. It was gray, which is my favorite color. And in the morning, the sun rises high above the house in front of mine and the light trickles in, allowing me to wake up to the creamy pink and orange soda sky. But unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to see that anytime soon. Not at Madame Worcestershire’s Academy for Rich Children Who Have Way Too Much Money For Them To Do Anything With.
“It will be a-ok, right? A new beginning for you? Heck yeah!” My mom said, cheering me on. Her brown hair, styled wonderfully, perfectly accented her rosy cheeks, drawn neatly in a kind and warm smile. Ten minutes after I was done packing, (and after a long list of “did you get everything? Because you won’t be back till Christmas!”) Mom took me to the train station. At 3 PM sharp, a sleek silver train glided along the tracks, gracefully slowing to a halt. A slim, tall man (no older than 40) welcomed me aboard with a big, toothy grin.
“Hello, my boy! Welcome to the Werfhenshire Express! Ticket?” he said.
I checked my bag for a ticket. My mom had said it had been sent in a letter after she enrolled me.
“I’m sorry, sir, my mom never gave me my ticket. Is it OK if I grab it real quick?” I asked, embarrassed.
“Sure, sport! We’ll wait,” he grinned,
I rushed down the train steps to get it from her.
“Mom, you forgot to give me the ticket!” I yelled.
“Oh, no! Here ya go!”
From her purse she grabbed a ticket made of the finest, softest parchment to ever exist. I grabbed it and dashed back to the train. My bags were already set above my seat, which was indicated on the ticket.
“Seat 12B. Have a great ride!”
I sat down, and within 2 minutes, the train groaned and puffed a loud sigh. We sped up. My mom waved from the side as we sped out of view, past the remote train station, through cornfields, and away through a deep forest.
And I was on my way to what seemed like the greatest school in the world.
(continued: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1BWPMR4GsPzBXWXdKSqOYVQo3iHRZvK88KVYrchZgsJE/edit?usp=sharing)
