Post by ~Kristie Kay~ on Oct 6, 2008 14:56:24 GMT -5
Okay xD So in English, ya see, we read the book Catcher in the Rye. Really good story, go read it if you haven't yet. Anywho, we have to write a paper on it. It can be about the main charrie, Holden, about the writing style, or...really anything. I picked the choice to write a new story in the same style as Catcher in the Rye but from a different character's point of view. That being said, I'm writing my story as if Skie is the main character. Now, names have been changed a few times (only three names, actually) but I think you'll be able to figure out who's who xD Anyway, Skie seems a bit edgy and mean in this story. I had to make her more Holden Caulfield (the main character of Catcher in the Rye). But she's still her. She's got her Skie-moments, she's just a bit...angrier is all. And with good reasons. Oh, and I know that the paragraphs are loong. But that's keeping with the style of Catcher in the Ryle. It's supposed to do that. Okay, enjoy xD Enough with my rambling.
THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE. I'll post the rest up later 83
Dom is so gonna ground me.
There’s no getting around it. I am in so much trouble. But hell, I don’t regret what I did. I ‘d tell you, but I’m not a very good storyteller. I tend to get waaay off topic and ramble on about random crap. I got that from my mom. She rambled too. Like one time during Christmas when me, my mom and my dad were all sitting on the floor surrounded by mountains of wrapping paper, she started up talking about her own family’s old, funny Christmas traditions. Me and dad used to get so damn enthralled because my mom’s side of the family is amazing. They’d save up money for months and all march out and donate hundreds of dollars at once to a bunch of those bell-ringing Santa guys. Mom said their eyes would totally bug out when they put 200 bucks worth of tens in that little bucket. I went out with mom and did that with her once, except we only had a twenty to donate. The Santa guy smiled at me real bright. I was really little so I remember getting all shy and hiding behind mom’s big ol’ red coat. Dad hated that red coat. He’d always whine about it being too big. He was always bragging about how mom had the perfect figure. She was really pretty, I agree. She really was. I liked that coat though. When I got cold she’d pick me up and close up the coat in front of me (I remember the buttons being really big and black) and carry me around. Then we’d stomp around, calling ourselves ‘The Two-Headed Queen of Winter’. Thinking back on that I still laugh. Dad thought it was cute too.
She’s gone. My mom, that is. She was in the bank when a robbery broke out. From what I heard, mom fought back. She always was aggressive when she got mad –and totally impulsive—and managed to break an arm and two noses before one of the bastards up and shot her. Three times to the chest and one in the head. I think about that a lot. Why the fourth bullet to the head? She was probably still standing after the third. Probably still strong enough to break a few more of their limbs. So they shot her. And the cowards got away after that. I was fourteen years old.
Dad went crazy. I mean, he literally went crazy. He seemed sane enough the first week. He was just really quiet. Sometimes I caught him staring at me, and when I’d meet his eyes he’d give me this tiny little smile. And sometimes he’d just hug me. Just out of the blue. Like I’d be doing dishes and all of a sudden he had his arms wrapped tight around me from behind, and he would just hold me close for a real long time. Sometimes he’d cry and his tears would drip all over me. Sometimes I’d cry too and he’d just hold me tighter then. The second week he was just angry. Never at me, no, but at everything else. I’d come home from school and something was broken or I’d notice his knuckles were all bruised and cut up from hitting something repeatedly. The red-stained hole in his closet was proof enough. But he was still quiet, even when he was throwing things across the room. He tried not being like that in front of me, but sometimes I think he wasn’t even aware I was there. The third week he snapped. Like…really snapped. I didn’t see it when he did, but I came home from school one day and he wasn’t there. Which was weird ‘cuz he’d always be waiting for me to come home for a hug. I didn’t hear from him until the next day. He’d apparently found the people who killed mom. He had been a police officer a couple years ago, and had the connections to I guess. I won’t say what he did to those four bastards, but I’m happy to say they didn’t leave this Earth fast. He drew them out. It makes me smile. God damn, sometimes I think I’m crazy too. Maybe I am. A God damn nutcase. Ha. Well, dad’s in jail now of course. For life.
He didn’t just leave me all alone though. He got his one phone call at jail and called his brother. Some guy named Dominick that I’d never met before. I was at home when he showed up. I remember it pretty well. I was laying on the couch thinking about something—I can’t remember what; I thought about a lot of crap back then—when he came in. He’s a big guy. Six foot one, broad shouldered, well built… And he’s…odd. He was in a car accident a few years beforehand and ever since then his hair’s been growing back snow-white. The accident also messed with his eyes, and the sun hurts them real bad, so he’s always got these dark red sunglasses on. He was always wearing these super expensive looking suits too. Anyway, we just stared at each other for a second. We were both a bit surprised I guess. I was surprised ‘cuz there was a total stranger-guy in my living room staring at me, and he was maybe surprised ‘cuz of what I did.
“Get the hell out of my house,” I said slowly. I didn’t move from my comfy spot on the couch. I just laid there and glared at him. He smiled then. This cocky little smirk type thing. At the time it scared the hell out of me, but now I know he does that on a daily occasion and using it could mean he’s angry or happy. It’s weird. But, at the time, as I said, it scared the hell out of me. I’m sure you can figure as to why. He opened his mouth to say something—probably something along the lines of “Hey I’m your uncle, what’s up?”—but I was already on my feet. I’m not exactly the kind of girl who’d sit there and scream. I’m the sort of girl who’d throw a toaster at my attacker. Which, by chance, is exactly what I did. There happened to be a shiny silver toaster on the other side of the couch (dad had thrown it into the living room from the kitchen sometime earlier), and I picked the thing up, and lobbed it right at my uncle’s head. And hell, did it strike home. I remember the nose it made when that metal toast-making-machine bounced off his forehead. It was sort of a ‘twa-bang’. It was weird. I also remember how good I felt watching him hit the ground like a load of bricks. After that I grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the house and left him all sprawled out on the sidewalk. When I got back in I got the broom. Dad had broken the lock to the front door a few days back and hadn’t gotten around to fixing it, so if the big, tall guy came back in I had every intention on beating him with that broom. An hour later, I guess, he woke up all angry. I mean, I would too if someone knocked me out with a God damn toaster and left me outside. It had started raining too, so I’d be double pissed. I hate rain. It’s so God damn depressing, it’s like the sky’s crying its stupid eyes out all over you. Yeah, well, when he came back in, he pretty much almost kicked my damn door down. That was also prolly be something I would do. But, as soon as he did, I was standing right by the door, up against the wall so he wouldn’t be able to see me, and swung the broom towards his head again. Apparently he had pretty good reflexes, other than his little episode with not dodging the toaster, or he was just expecting me to do something. He caught the broom and yanked it out of my hands, which scared the hell out of me. And then he clapped his hands over my arms, so I couldn’t like, punch at him or anything, and that also scared the hell out of me. He glared down at me—I could see his eyebrows furrow over those red glasses—and bared his teeth. He was just having a party with scaring the hell outta me.
“Stop trying to kill me,” he told me. It made me feel a lot better seeing that big-ass bruise on his forehead as he glared at me.
“Get the hell out of my house,” I told him again, glaring back. I already told you I’m not the kind of girl to just sit there screaming.
“Look, Christine,” he started. I hate my name. Christine sounds so damn frilly, doesn’t it? I prefer being called Kristie. That’s been my real name since forever. “Your father called me from prison. I’m here to pick you up-“
“Let go of me!” I remember feeling panicked then, and I yanked myself out of his grip, almost falling down on like a clumsy, drunk idiot when I did. I put my arms around myself and stared at him.
“I’m your uncle, Christine. Your father asked me to look after you for a while,” he said gently. I hated it when people talked to me like that. Like they pitied me or thought I was breakable or something. Sometimes when people talked to me like that I felt like scratching their God damn eyes out. “Are you okay with that?”
I was going to yell at him before he said that. God. I mean, the guy like, barged into my damn house and expected me to just come along with him just like that? Uh-hell no. But asking me was what saved him from a possible black eye. Uncle or not, I thought he totally deserved one right then. “What about here? What about this house?” I liked that house. Despite all the things that had been broken as of late.
“Your father’s having it sold. The money is going to you when you turn eighteen.” He reached a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck, “You’re supposed to be staying with me until you turn eighteen. If you want to. There’s always,” he paused, swallowing. He was nervous. “There are always foster homes if you’d like that instead.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
He swallowed again before extending his hand to me, giving me a weaker version of that smirk he’d flashed at me before. “Dominick Adams,” he said. I didn’t shake his hand so he dropped his arm with a sigh. My last name is Jarrecks. Which is why I didn’t shake his hand. He said he was my uncle, but his name was different. Turns out the reason I’d never met him before was because he and my grandpa had some sort of big fight years back. He was mad enough to change his name and move out. But luckily for me he was still somewhat close enough to my dad to come and help me out. “Go…go get packed up,” he told me. “We’re going now.”
I did. I stuffed everything I could in a backpack and a couple suitcases and didn’t let him help carry any of them. I was pretty surprised when I went outside and saw that the fancy sports car out front was his. I’m not like, a big super car-fan or anything, but I thought it was nice. It was pretty God damn shiny, I know that much. I stuffed all my stuff in the back and got in the front seat with him. The car still smelled brand new, which was nice. I like brand new car smell. He drove really slow compared to how mom used to drive. She was a speed demon. He drove like dad; really, really safe. We got to an airport and I freaked again. I didn’t want to fly anywhere. I hated flying. We flew clear across the country. I hated it. But it gave us some time to talk about stuff. He was twenty four years old, single, loved coffee—he didn’t tell me but I knew he did because he had like six cups of the stuff during the flight alone—and was totally rich because he owned this high-class security company. I told him I was fourteen, hated flying, loved chocolate and that I was sure gonna miss all of my friends back home. He looked all guilty after I said that, and after he started sulking so did I. I mean, he was just trying to help and all and I was make him feel bad. We landed and a bunch of crud happened like getting lost in the damn airport. Well, I got lost. He told me to stay put while he went to get our luggage and I didn’t. Not my fault I was hungry and there was a Cinnabon on the other side of the airport. After he tracked me down and scolded me about stuff we got in a limo—which was pretty damn cool—and a God damn five hours later we reached his big-ass mansion, complete with one of those big metal gates out front and you had to talk into a little speaker to get the gates to open up.
I didn’t really mind moving, even though it was so sudden. I had sort of drifted from my friends anyway, after everything that had happened. So the break wasn’t so bad, and I felt like I needed a change. Something to take my mind off of all the bad stuff for a little bit. That’s prolly why I just up and agreed to fly with this guy I didn’t know across the stupid country such short notice (more like no notice at all). Dominick kept me home from school for a few weeks. He said I could use a vacation or something like that. I didn’t mind. He stayed home a lot then too, and mostly spent his time following me around when I explored his big house. He seemed all curious about me. It was damn annoying. Like he’d never seen a fourteen year old kid before. It…didn’t really take very long for us to get close. I guess I needed someone to lean against. I really did think I was going crazy before Dom showed up. I think he stopped me from going completely whacko. I think I still am sometimes, but I’m not as bad as I could have been is what I mean. During that little no-school vacation we got comfortable enough around each other to actually joke around and laugh. It felt really good to laugh again. You have no damn idea how good it felt to laugh again. I hadn’t laughed in a long time, and it actually hurt my throat at the time, but it felt good. Not that I’m like, all into pain. That’s creepy as hell. Dom seemed to like me too, which felt nice. He got into this really annoying habit though where he’s always ruffling my hair up whenever I did something he thought was funny or amusing. I kinda like it when he does that, but I act as if it’s the most annoying thing in the world.
When I finally did get back into school, everyone suddenly had this big interest in me. I was ‘That Rich Guy’s Kid’. Morons. I told them all I was just his niece, but they said that didn’t matter. I still lived in that house and had my own room inside of it, so I was still hounded upon by the curious idiots. My room’s nice. It’s really, really big, and chock full of a bunch of stuff Dom thought I’d like when I first arrived. Video games, books, a giant (and I mean God damn giant) stereo system, and a big TV. I barely use anything except the books. TV has never really been my thing. It’s a load of crud, what you see on the TV. That’s what mom always said, anyway. Video games were fun. Me and Dom would play those sometimes together. I usually always won. But yes, the kids at school were all annoying, and always hounding me to go with them to places after school or to let them come over to Dom’s house. I always flat out said ‘no’ but that didn’t seem like enough. They didn’t seem to get what ‘no’ meant. Once or twice a few of them would get a bit pushy, and I was forced to beat them down to get them to understand me a bit better. I don’t mean talk them down. Sometimes they got so damn pushy I had to literally beat them in the face to get them to back the hell off. Dominick got angry whenever I got into fights at school. He told me he wasn’t angry at me for fighting, though. He agreed the little jerks deserved a few broken noses. He was mad at the kids who started it. But he still yelled at me, telling me I needed to be careful and crap like that. I’d just smile at him and tell him I was fine—because I was, it was only a stupid fight—and he’d just sigh, or groan, or ruffle my hair up, or chug the mug of coffee he’d have in his hand down as if it was the last bit of coffee in the world. One time he actually walked away from me to the door and started thunking his head against the wood. I had been sent home early with a bloody nose and a black eye that day. I think raising a kid like me was tough work for a newbie like him. I hugged him after he starting hitting his head on the door. He did stop, once I hugged him. I don’t think he expected me to hug him. I don’t think I expected me to hug him at that moment either, but I did. Guess I liked him a lot more than I first thought. I don’t just hug anyone. He turned and hugged me back and we just stood there hugging, being all annoying and quiet. First hug between us ever. God damn, I’m glad nobody started crying or anything like that. That would have been just great if we started getting all damn emotional. And it was just a hug, anyway. I got all guilty when I got my stupid blood all over the front of his fancy shirt. Not that he really cared. He had a giant closet chock full of copies of the same exact outfit anyway. So I guess I felt all guilty for nothing.
THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE. I'll post the rest up later 83
Dom is so gonna ground me.
There’s no getting around it. I am in so much trouble. But hell, I don’t regret what I did. I ‘d tell you, but I’m not a very good storyteller. I tend to get waaay off topic and ramble on about random crap. I got that from my mom. She rambled too. Like one time during Christmas when me, my mom and my dad were all sitting on the floor surrounded by mountains of wrapping paper, she started up talking about her own family’s old, funny Christmas traditions. Me and dad used to get so damn enthralled because my mom’s side of the family is amazing. They’d save up money for months and all march out and donate hundreds of dollars at once to a bunch of those bell-ringing Santa guys. Mom said their eyes would totally bug out when they put 200 bucks worth of tens in that little bucket. I went out with mom and did that with her once, except we only had a twenty to donate. The Santa guy smiled at me real bright. I was really little so I remember getting all shy and hiding behind mom’s big ol’ red coat. Dad hated that red coat. He’d always whine about it being too big. He was always bragging about how mom had the perfect figure. She was really pretty, I agree. She really was. I liked that coat though. When I got cold she’d pick me up and close up the coat in front of me (I remember the buttons being really big and black) and carry me around. Then we’d stomp around, calling ourselves ‘The Two-Headed Queen of Winter’. Thinking back on that I still laugh. Dad thought it was cute too.
She’s gone. My mom, that is. She was in the bank when a robbery broke out. From what I heard, mom fought back. She always was aggressive when she got mad –and totally impulsive—and managed to break an arm and two noses before one of the bastards up and shot her. Three times to the chest and one in the head. I think about that a lot. Why the fourth bullet to the head? She was probably still standing after the third. Probably still strong enough to break a few more of their limbs. So they shot her. And the cowards got away after that. I was fourteen years old.
Dad went crazy. I mean, he literally went crazy. He seemed sane enough the first week. He was just really quiet. Sometimes I caught him staring at me, and when I’d meet his eyes he’d give me this tiny little smile. And sometimes he’d just hug me. Just out of the blue. Like I’d be doing dishes and all of a sudden he had his arms wrapped tight around me from behind, and he would just hold me close for a real long time. Sometimes he’d cry and his tears would drip all over me. Sometimes I’d cry too and he’d just hold me tighter then. The second week he was just angry. Never at me, no, but at everything else. I’d come home from school and something was broken or I’d notice his knuckles were all bruised and cut up from hitting something repeatedly. The red-stained hole in his closet was proof enough. But he was still quiet, even when he was throwing things across the room. He tried not being like that in front of me, but sometimes I think he wasn’t even aware I was there. The third week he snapped. Like…really snapped. I didn’t see it when he did, but I came home from school one day and he wasn’t there. Which was weird ‘cuz he’d always be waiting for me to come home for a hug. I didn’t hear from him until the next day. He’d apparently found the people who killed mom. He had been a police officer a couple years ago, and had the connections to I guess. I won’t say what he did to those four bastards, but I’m happy to say they didn’t leave this Earth fast. He drew them out. It makes me smile. God damn, sometimes I think I’m crazy too. Maybe I am. A God damn nutcase. Ha. Well, dad’s in jail now of course. For life.
He didn’t just leave me all alone though. He got his one phone call at jail and called his brother. Some guy named Dominick that I’d never met before. I was at home when he showed up. I remember it pretty well. I was laying on the couch thinking about something—I can’t remember what; I thought about a lot of crap back then—when he came in. He’s a big guy. Six foot one, broad shouldered, well built… And he’s…odd. He was in a car accident a few years beforehand and ever since then his hair’s been growing back snow-white. The accident also messed with his eyes, and the sun hurts them real bad, so he’s always got these dark red sunglasses on. He was always wearing these super expensive looking suits too. Anyway, we just stared at each other for a second. We were both a bit surprised I guess. I was surprised ‘cuz there was a total stranger-guy in my living room staring at me, and he was maybe surprised ‘cuz of what I did.
“Get the hell out of my house,” I said slowly. I didn’t move from my comfy spot on the couch. I just laid there and glared at him. He smiled then. This cocky little smirk type thing. At the time it scared the hell out of me, but now I know he does that on a daily occasion and using it could mean he’s angry or happy. It’s weird. But, at the time, as I said, it scared the hell out of me. I’m sure you can figure as to why. He opened his mouth to say something—probably something along the lines of “Hey I’m your uncle, what’s up?”—but I was already on my feet. I’m not exactly the kind of girl who’d sit there and scream. I’m the sort of girl who’d throw a toaster at my attacker. Which, by chance, is exactly what I did. There happened to be a shiny silver toaster on the other side of the couch (dad had thrown it into the living room from the kitchen sometime earlier), and I picked the thing up, and lobbed it right at my uncle’s head. And hell, did it strike home. I remember the nose it made when that metal toast-making-machine bounced off his forehead. It was sort of a ‘twa-bang’. It was weird. I also remember how good I felt watching him hit the ground like a load of bricks. After that I grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the house and left him all sprawled out on the sidewalk. When I got back in I got the broom. Dad had broken the lock to the front door a few days back and hadn’t gotten around to fixing it, so if the big, tall guy came back in I had every intention on beating him with that broom. An hour later, I guess, he woke up all angry. I mean, I would too if someone knocked me out with a God damn toaster and left me outside. It had started raining too, so I’d be double pissed. I hate rain. It’s so God damn depressing, it’s like the sky’s crying its stupid eyes out all over you. Yeah, well, when he came back in, he pretty much almost kicked my damn door down. That was also prolly be something I would do. But, as soon as he did, I was standing right by the door, up against the wall so he wouldn’t be able to see me, and swung the broom towards his head again. Apparently he had pretty good reflexes, other than his little episode with not dodging the toaster, or he was just expecting me to do something. He caught the broom and yanked it out of my hands, which scared the hell out of me. And then he clapped his hands over my arms, so I couldn’t like, punch at him or anything, and that also scared the hell out of me. He glared down at me—I could see his eyebrows furrow over those red glasses—and bared his teeth. He was just having a party with scaring the hell outta me.
“Stop trying to kill me,” he told me. It made me feel a lot better seeing that big-ass bruise on his forehead as he glared at me.
“Get the hell out of my house,” I told him again, glaring back. I already told you I’m not the kind of girl to just sit there screaming.
“Look, Christine,” he started. I hate my name. Christine sounds so damn frilly, doesn’t it? I prefer being called Kristie. That’s been my real name since forever. “Your father called me from prison. I’m here to pick you up-“
“Let go of me!” I remember feeling panicked then, and I yanked myself out of his grip, almost falling down on like a clumsy, drunk idiot when I did. I put my arms around myself and stared at him.
“I’m your uncle, Christine. Your father asked me to look after you for a while,” he said gently. I hated it when people talked to me like that. Like they pitied me or thought I was breakable or something. Sometimes when people talked to me like that I felt like scratching their God damn eyes out. “Are you okay with that?”
I was going to yell at him before he said that. God. I mean, the guy like, barged into my damn house and expected me to just come along with him just like that? Uh-hell no. But asking me was what saved him from a possible black eye. Uncle or not, I thought he totally deserved one right then. “What about here? What about this house?” I liked that house. Despite all the things that had been broken as of late.
“Your father’s having it sold. The money is going to you when you turn eighteen.” He reached a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck, “You’re supposed to be staying with me until you turn eighteen. If you want to. There’s always,” he paused, swallowing. He was nervous. “There are always foster homes if you’d like that instead.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
He swallowed again before extending his hand to me, giving me a weaker version of that smirk he’d flashed at me before. “Dominick Adams,” he said. I didn’t shake his hand so he dropped his arm with a sigh. My last name is Jarrecks. Which is why I didn’t shake his hand. He said he was my uncle, but his name was different. Turns out the reason I’d never met him before was because he and my grandpa had some sort of big fight years back. He was mad enough to change his name and move out. But luckily for me he was still somewhat close enough to my dad to come and help me out. “Go…go get packed up,” he told me. “We’re going now.”
I did. I stuffed everything I could in a backpack and a couple suitcases and didn’t let him help carry any of them. I was pretty surprised when I went outside and saw that the fancy sports car out front was his. I’m not like, a big super car-fan or anything, but I thought it was nice. It was pretty God damn shiny, I know that much. I stuffed all my stuff in the back and got in the front seat with him. The car still smelled brand new, which was nice. I like brand new car smell. He drove really slow compared to how mom used to drive. She was a speed demon. He drove like dad; really, really safe. We got to an airport and I freaked again. I didn’t want to fly anywhere. I hated flying. We flew clear across the country. I hated it. But it gave us some time to talk about stuff. He was twenty four years old, single, loved coffee—he didn’t tell me but I knew he did because he had like six cups of the stuff during the flight alone—and was totally rich because he owned this high-class security company. I told him I was fourteen, hated flying, loved chocolate and that I was sure gonna miss all of my friends back home. He looked all guilty after I said that, and after he started sulking so did I. I mean, he was just trying to help and all and I was make him feel bad. We landed and a bunch of crud happened like getting lost in the damn airport. Well, I got lost. He told me to stay put while he went to get our luggage and I didn’t. Not my fault I was hungry and there was a Cinnabon on the other side of the airport. After he tracked me down and scolded me about stuff we got in a limo—which was pretty damn cool—and a God damn five hours later we reached his big-ass mansion, complete with one of those big metal gates out front and you had to talk into a little speaker to get the gates to open up.
I didn’t really mind moving, even though it was so sudden. I had sort of drifted from my friends anyway, after everything that had happened. So the break wasn’t so bad, and I felt like I needed a change. Something to take my mind off of all the bad stuff for a little bit. That’s prolly why I just up and agreed to fly with this guy I didn’t know across the stupid country such short notice (more like no notice at all). Dominick kept me home from school for a few weeks. He said I could use a vacation or something like that. I didn’t mind. He stayed home a lot then too, and mostly spent his time following me around when I explored his big house. He seemed all curious about me. It was damn annoying. Like he’d never seen a fourteen year old kid before. It…didn’t really take very long for us to get close. I guess I needed someone to lean against. I really did think I was going crazy before Dom showed up. I think he stopped me from going completely whacko. I think I still am sometimes, but I’m not as bad as I could have been is what I mean. During that little no-school vacation we got comfortable enough around each other to actually joke around and laugh. It felt really good to laugh again. You have no damn idea how good it felt to laugh again. I hadn’t laughed in a long time, and it actually hurt my throat at the time, but it felt good. Not that I’m like, all into pain. That’s creepy as hell. Dom seemed to like me too, which felt nice. He got into this really annoying habit though where he’s always ruffling my hair up whenever I did something he thought was funny or amusing. I kinda like it when he does that, but I act as if it’s the most annoying thing in the world.
When I finally did get back into school, everyone suddenly had this big interest in me. I was ‘That Rich Guy’s Kid’. Morons. I told them all I was just his niece, but they said that didn’t matter. I still lived in that house and had my own room inside of it, so I was still hounded upon by the curious idiots. My room’s nice. It’s really, really big, and chock full of a bunch of stuff Dom thought I’d like when I first arrived. Video games, books, a giant (and I mean God damn giant) stereo system, and a big TV. I barely use anything except the books. TV has never really been my thing. It’s a load of crud, what you see on the TV. That’s what mom always said, anyway. Video games were fun. Me and Dom would play those sometimes together. I usually always won. But yes, the kids at school were all annoying, and always hounding me to go with them to places after school or to let them come over to Dom’s house. I always flat out said ‘no’ but that didn’t seem like enough. They didn’t seem to get what ‘no’ meant. Once or twice a few of them would get a bit pushy, and I was forced to beat them down to get them to understand me a bit better. I don’t mean talk them down. Sometimes they got so damn pushy I had to literally beat them in the face to get them to back the hell off. Dominick got angry whenever I got into fights at school. He told me he wasn’t angry at me for fighting, though. He agreed the little jerks deserved a few broken noses. He was mad at the kids who started it. But he still yelled at me, telling me I needed to be careful and crap like that. I’d just smile at him and tell him I was fine—because I was, it was only a stupid fight—and he’d just sigh, or groan, or ruffle my hair up, or chug the mug of coffee he’d have in his hand down as if it was the last bit of coffee in the world. One time he actually walked away from me to the door and started thunking his head against the wood. I had been sent home early with a bloody nose and a black eye that day. I think raising a kid like me was tough work for a newbie like him. I hugged him after he starting hitting his head on the door. He did stop, once I hugged him. I don’t think he expected me to hug him. I don’t think I expected me to hug him at that moment either, but I did. Guess I liked him a lot more than I first thought. I don’t just hug anyone. He turned and hugged me back and we just stood there hugging, being all annoying and quiet. First hug between us ever. God damn, I’m glad nobody started crying or anything like that. That would have been just great if we started getting all damn emotional. And it was just a hug, anyway. I got all guilty when I got my stupid blood all over the front of his fancy shirt. Not that he really cared. He had a giant closet chock full of copies of the same exact outfit anyway. So I guess I felt all guilty for nothing.
