Days went by as I tried my best to avoid my parents by spending my time outside - until eventually came the day when my mom told me to stay inside and 'start packing, for Christ's sake!' I had quite a handful of clothes and I couldn't help but think it was impossible to get everything into those two suitcases Mom had dragged from the attic. Mom just snorted as I complained about my problem.
"You won't need them all, you'll have to wear a school uniform anyway during the school days," she stated.
My expression was probably just priceless.
"You have got to be kidding me!" I snapped. A school uniform? That too after all the other crap I had to stand? Great. Just plain great.
Sulkily I pulled few shirts from the suitcase and heaved them back into the closet in a complete mess. Mom shot a death glare at me and marched out of my room muttering something about ungrateful little brats under her breath. I poked my tongue out at her distancing back and then continued my futile attempts to shove everything into the suitcases, including my collection of CD's and a CD player, my writing instruments and countless books.
The teachers at the school would've probably fainted had they known how much I read. That didn't, however, include school books, and that's probably why they concluded me to be one of those back-row guffawers who had no idea who the heck was Chuck Palahniuk or Albert Camus, not to mention who wrote Snow Crash or a genius masterpiece called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
With a sigh I left off a few books to get few more shirts into the empty space they left behind, at the same time swearing eternal vengeance and infinite bitterness if that stupid high society school didn't have a decent library. What else than reading would I be doing there whole year long, among all those British dickheads? I could bet not one of them would be interesting in any way, the least in sexual. I sighed and woke back to reality only to heave a few 'not-so-important' objects out of my suitcase just to make room for those classified as 'important'.
By lunch I had managed to pack nearly everything, and marched sulkily downstairs to eat. Mom threw a warning glance at me as I sat at the table and started poking my food with my fork.
"George Ryan Ross, don't start a demonstration at lunch table!" Dad grumbled as he saw the look on Mom's face. My little sister Joanna sneered maliciously and I grimaced at her. It was easy for her to sneer like that - she could stay in Vegas whereas I had to travel up north to in the middle of nowhere Minnesota.
After lunch I managed to escape and marched to Spencer's house. We had hardly spoken in the past few days, since Spence kept on acting as if I had betrayed him and abandoned him to death.
Mrs. Smith opened the door, and I used my charm - the one that makes all the middle-aged hags sigh in delight and clutch your cheeks and so on - as I talked her into letting me inside and to the basement, even though Spencer had said he didn't want to meet anyone. Finally Mrs. Smith let me in because 'maybe you can cheer him up, I don't know what has gone into him these days...'
I knew, but I wasn't going to let Spencer's mood to ruin my last days in Vegas. I rattled the stairs down to the basement and encountered Spencer sitting on the couch, playing with his drum sticks. I grinned as he flipped them in the air and they nearly landed onto his head.
"Still circus tricks, eh, Spence?" I asked carelessly as I leaned onto the doorframe. Spencer startled and turned to face me, his expression grim.
"Didn't my mom say I don't want to see anyone?" Spencer growled and turned back to his sticks.
"She thought I might be able to cheer you up." I smiled obliquely.
I managed to coax Spencer out of his cave and to the sunshine. He looked pale and tired, and I would've nearly wanted to hire a bodyguard for him while I was gone. As much as he sometimes annoyed me, I still wanted to find him in about one piece and functional when I'd return. I had plans for him - us - for even though he didn't manage the throwing of drum sticks that well, he sure as hell could drum. That again reminded me of my own precious guitar, which I had set on the 'definitely important for survival' pile of stuff as I had packed. One more thing to comfort me besides my books, if the whole population of that stupid school would turn out to be as dim-witted idiots as I suspected.
