The Publicist's Plight (Book I in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Thirty Eight: Let Him Eat Cake

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October 14th, 2000 
Los Angeles, California
SEBASTIAN

                 
"Okay, Sebastian. You can do this. You can do this."

I'm looking at myself in the mirror in the bathroom of my new school. Great. Just what I need—people thinking I'm a freak during my first day for talking to myself. Of course I would be used to people thinking this since that's what the entire freshman class at my private school thought. An entire year of being thrown onto the ground, punched around exactly every Wednesday of each month (I started to count after the second month) and lonesome lunches and group projects until my Mom...or actually Gloria convinced my mom to convince my dad to pull me out and place me into an actual public school for a "change in environment," with free dress code and rusted lockers. And out of all days to make this decision, it was well into the beginning of the school year...on my birthday.

So now I'm here.

I've been in a private school my whole life, with the doctrines of Christian behavior and rich stature drilled into me. But I guess since that's never appealed to me, I was a target. Hopefully that "was" doesn't become an "am."

I look at myself one last time right when the bell rings for first period, my school schedule tight in my hand. Jeans, a t-shirt, and converse sneakers is what I'm wearing. Much different from my collar and tie attire I would have to wear, but still odd on my body, given my clothes hang loose on my skinny frame. Gloria says that I'm just a "late bloomer" to make me feel better, but how late do I have to wait before my limbs of noodles start to bulk up like the guys I see on MTV?

But most importantly, how long do I have to wait until I'm...you know...hot? At least decent enough to not hate what I see when I look in the mirror?

I do a teeth check, seeing if anything is hidden between my braces, and start out of the bathroom. The halls are dark, themed a gold and cardinal color, similar to the rest of the school. "Alexander Hamilton High," a sign says outside. "Home of the Bruins."

At least this school has a mascot.

My first class is Art 7-8, which calms my nerves a bit. But it doesn't help that the halls are crowded with people. No one moves when I walk by, almost like I'm invisible. People hang around classrooms, laughing and eating bits of their breakfast or reading magazines with Britney Spears or *NSync plastered on the front cover. This is definitely much different from my private school, who would have us wait outside in a single file line until instructed to enter the class.

I finally make it to my first class. The smell of paint reminds me of my attic hideaway, filled with oils and acrylics. For a moment, I'm not too scared once I know I'm where I belong.

"Oh, dear God. Another new student?"

I snap my head up. There's a man in front of me, who is definitely the teacher—Mr. Kong, it reads on my schedule. Mr. Kong is a short Asian man who dresses as if he's in his mid-twenties.

Oh, he's an artist, alright.

"Mr. Kong, you're so mean," a girl passing by with a dirty pallet filled with blue and yellow acrylic paint says. Seeing the colors makes my hands shake with anticipation.

Mr. Kong laughs, and immediately the rude nature is discovered to be all fun. I smile awkwardly.

"Oh, he knows I'm joking," Mr. Kong says. "Welcome, good sir."

"H-Hey," I manage to stammer out. I look around the class of wide white tables, paintings hung up on all the walls, and materials vaster that the ones I have at home.