Constillations of us

Miles

I'm standing by the admissions desk of South Valley Prep when I see a face I somehow immediately begin to hate. She's tall, dark-haired and somehow has one of the smuggest looking expressions I've ever seen. She's staring at me through the blinds of the office while my dad fills out the admission papers. As her green eyes meet mine, her expression changes. A look of pity forms on her face. I'm aware I look like shit, but she doesn't have to make me feel bad about it. I can't help that I haven't been able to get a good night sleep in 4 days. That's what happens when I stay over at my dad's house.

He and his military buddies love staying up till the early hours of the morning, drinking rum and cokes and having slightly racist conversations about their supposed "superior combat capabilities." That sums up most nights at my dad's house. And to top it all off, speakers blaring Jimmy Hendrix (Ironic I know) practically shake my room so much that the pencils on my desk fall to the floor. Even though it's hell, I'd take it over being at my mother's house any day. She's recently gotten a new boyfriend that looks as shady as a willow tree, and he somewhat terrifies me. He exudes toxic masculinity, a trait that funny enough got my biological father kicked out of the house. He's got a short temper and I think I've heard him slap my mother once after an argument. I want to help, but I just can't. I'm not physically fit, I'm mostly bone and I have zero to no muscle. He'd knock me out before I even got a chance to hit him. All I can do is not bother them too much and always do what he asks of me. If he needed a cold beer from the fridge, I'd get it for him. If he needed me to mow the lawn in eighty-degree weather, I'd do it.

"Mister Arthur, could you please follow me to your locker?" The lady at the admissions desk snaps me out of my self-pity and I nod. My father pats me on the back and makes his way out of the front entrance. I begin to walk towards my new locker and I'm surprised by how nice South Valley Prep is compared to my old school. Here the ceiling was nice and plastered. In my old school, the lamps that hung were old and yellow and were suspended by one single wire on the verge of breaking. Half of the lockers wouldn't open and everybody's shit always got stolen. This situation is ideal compared to the last, but I can't help but worry that I will stand out. My clothes are not designer, they're from Target. My hair isn't cut like a shiny, new paintbrush, and I don't have a nice car. I'll be an outsider, regardless of how well I assimilate into their culture.

"Here's your schedule Mister Arthur. If you need anything else you know where to find me," the admissions lady says. I nod and thank her as she hands me my paper. I can't help but want to tell her that she's got something green in her teeth, but I don't wanna seem like an asshole. I already had a bad reputation in Greenfield High. There I was the troubled kid-genius with a smart mouth. I'd always pick fights with the kids and get into heated arguments with my teachers. It was just who I was. I couldn't change it nor did I want to, until now. Here I'm gonna have to behave myself considering I'll be watched closely. One single slip up and I might immediately get expelled. If that happened you'd most likely find my body somewhere in a ditch.
My dad wasn't rich like the rest of the parents whose kids attended South Valley Prep. The only reason I got in was because of my smarts.

I check my schedule and head to the class I was supposed to be in 30 minutes ago, AP Calculus. Even though it sounds intimidating, it's actually pretty simple once you get the gist of it. Not much to do except to think it through and count. When I arrive and enter the class, everyone's focus shifts to me. The teacher standing by one of the student's desks clears his throat.

"Ah, and you must be?'' The teachers asks bluntly. His hair is whiter than snow and his face covered in wrinkles and age spots. His glasses are large, black and round and he has a well groomed mustache. He kinda looks like a hygienic Einstein. To put it in words, he looks like he knows his shit.

"Miles Arthur, Sir. I just transferred from Greenfield High,'' I say as I fix the buttons on my shirt. The students softly gasp, then they begin to whisper among themselves. I know what they're saying, I'm from the ''bad'' school. The school of druggies and people from the wrong side of the tracks. The school full of future criminals and McDonald's workers. Not that there's anything wrong with working at McDonald's.

"Great. I'm Mr. Price. Now please take a seat and take out your notebook, and try to keep up if you can. Also, next time you enter my class I expect you to be wearing a proper uniform.'' He says as he looks me up and down. I have not yet purchased the school's pricey uniform, I hoped the teachers wouldn't notice. Guess they care more about appearances than I thought. Mr.Price is oddly intimidating, he scares me in ways that other teachers have never been able to.

I look around for a seat. This class isn't as full as the others. There's 6 guys and four girls, all of them well-groomed, all of them decked out in full uniform, tie and all. I sit down next to a girl with long, red hair, and freckles. Her glasses are the size of my head, and they do nothing to frame her face. I wanna tell her that, but then I remember I'm no longer Miles from Greenfield High. First impressions are important, and I want people to see me differently here. I'm no rude narcissistic trouble maker. I'm a nice, smart, resourceful member of South Valley Preparatory School.

The hours go by painfully slow. Calculus was relatively easy, English was uneventful, and Global Studies bored me to death. While doodling in my notebook, the school bell finally rings and my torment has come to end. I swiftly stand up from my seat and stuff the papers on my desk in my schoolbag. I dart outside the class and take in a deep breath as I reach my locker. I try opening it using the code given to me by Miss Green Grills (the lady from the admissions desk) but it just won't budge. I don't bother asking anyone. That'll draw too much attention to me, which is the exact opposite of what I'm trying to do. Guess I'll just have to carry around half a ton of books.

I walk outside and look around for my dad's car. It's nowhere to be seen, so I walk over to what appears to be a recently vandalized statue and sit down on one of its steps. I'm starting to think this school isn't as perfect as it presents itself to be. I take out my phone, plug in my headphones and listen to some Bon Jovi. While kicking my legs around in boredom, my feet hit a small, metal object and it lands next to my bag. To my surprise, it's a lighter with the words Key West written on it. A name is messily scribbled on the back, Donna Waver.

Donna's an idiot for leaving it here, I think to. If I bring this in I'll get a firm pat on the back, and it might help me look like a commendable student to the teachers. On the other hand, whoever owns this lighter will probably have a grudge against me for the rest of the year.

I take about two minutes to weigh out the pros and the cons, then reach a verdict. I'm taking the lighter to the principal.