Creaks and groans fill the house as I slowly push the front door open. I doubt anyone will be awake right now, but I still take my shoes off so they won't squeak against the kitchen floor.
When I start crawling into my bed, Milo's eyes flutter before finally focusing on me as I sprawl out onto the mattress across the room. He inspects me from the top bunk, glaring through the darkness with his judgey little eyes.
I squint back and, when I flick him off, he rolls back over to face the wall. He's a pain in the ass do-gooder, but I don't mind having him around most of the time, I guess. It wasn't always like that, though.
He's one of those stupid miracle stories you always hear about. Parents never wanted him, so they dropped his ass off at a firehouse after he was born. Bounced around between abusive homes for fifteen years, overcame the odds, made straight As, yada yada.
All the shit you see in those cheesy Hallmark movies I've caught Taylor watching on her days off.
We're opposites in almost every way, and our entire relationship was built on giving each other shit. At first, it was pretty serious.
Milo is the epitome of a nice kid, but he doesn't step down or bite his tongue either. Therefore, we were at each other's throats day in and day out. Wade thought he would have to send one of us back just to calm the situation down, and I knew it would be me.
One day, I walked in on him reading a book about guns, and we started bonding over the common interest. He wanted to join the military and was studying up on the shit they're strapped with, and I withheld the fact that my fascination with rifles stemmed from a criminal background with my dad.
I'm sure he knew my interest was for less than respectable reasons compared to his, but he never brought it up. These days, almost all our fights are good-natured.
I don't particularly like the crowd he runs with, but at least it keeps him from getting involved with mine.
I've calmed down a lot since moving into the Mitchell household, and a big part of that is because of him.
I used to see every minute of the day as an opportunity to cause discord. It took a couple years of watching Taylor and Wade throw money they didn't have at lawyers they couldn't afford so they could keep me out of juvie - along with a fuck ton of annoying lectures from Milo - before something in my head finally clicked.
But addiction is hard to beat, and money is my vice. The hair on my arms still stands at attention when I pass a car. My blood still simmers beneath the surface until I get my hands on whatever is inside. A habit I just can't seem to kick and don't really see a need to, as long as I don't get caught.
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The next morning, I wrangle the kids up so we can walk to school after Milo reheats the breakfast Taylor left for us.
She doesn't usually get home from her waitressing gig until midnight, but she always cooks breakfast for everyone and stores it in the oven. Despite knowing the routine at this point, there's always a sticky note on the counter telling us to heat the food and to have a good day. She's back at work before the sun even comes up.
While we drop Gracie off at the doors of her elementary school, Leon runs off to middle like he can't get away from us fast enough. He always gets embarrassed when we walk with him, so he takes off every chance he gets, trying to impress some punk ass kids he has class with.
Once Gracie makes it safely inside, Milo and I make our way through the doors of the high school, emptying our pockets into small baskets. I curse under my breath when I forget I have a belt on and have to go through the metal detectors twice.
When retrieving my house keys from the container, I spot Slim standing by his locker, struggling to pry it open. Not sure why he hasn't figured out the system yet.
After approaching him, I slam the side of my fist against the locker twice and watch his scrunched face as the door comes unhinged.
"Now some broke motherfuckers gonna steal my shit!" He waves his hands around in an agitated manner.
"You are the broke motherfucker. You think someone's gonna bother stealing from you?"
"Man, you know I got menthols in here. Every bitch jonesin' for a nicotine fix is gonna sniff them out."
When he's done retrieving his books, he tries to slam the door shut. The metal clangs against the frame before swaying open again. I wrap my fingers around the bottom of the locker and pull up at the same time I push in, the door settling into place.
"Easy as that," I say as if it's a completely reasonable method of accessing a locker.
"You'd think they'd replace these things now that all the West Side kids are invading," he grumbles, still pulling on the handle to make sure the door is locked in place.
The upstanding, rich-ass citizens who live on the West Side have their own school, but some kid ended up catching half the building on fire during a science lab experiment gone wrong. Now that it's closed for renovations, they've graced us peasants with their presence.
The look on some of these kid's faces while they do their walks of shame through the metal detectors is priceless. It's more dramatic than reality television, and I can't help but watch.
We start to curtsy at every intruder passing by, apologizing for our degenerate existence with proper English accents. Most of them don't even glance in our direction.
"Ezra, you better be in class today," one of the teachers sings to Slim as she walks by.
"Damn, she saw me. Can't skip with you now."
"All good. Gotta go to class today anyway. Try to figure out a way to keep my outstanding D average so I can get the hell out of this place. See ya later, Ezzzraaa." I repeat his name with the same catchy tune the teacher used.
He shoots me the middle finger before scurrying down the hallway.
As soon as I step foot in the classroom, my brain seems to fizzle out as I realize what this new merger means. I can't help but stand frozen in place, not comprehending where to go from here.
With the new influx of students, it's packed from wall to wall. Half the kids are using their laps as makeshift desks, and I bet you can guess which ones swarmed like vultures to the actual desks.
Snapping out of the haze, I realize there are only two chairs available. I take the one at the back of the room.
"You can have my desk if you want," the girl next to me says as soon as my ass lands on the hard plastic.
Her annoyingly cheery voice sends a shiver of irritation up my spine. It's so crowded that our shoulders are squished together, and I'm struggling to focus on anything other than the grotesque feeling of skin-to-skin contact with this bitch.
"Nah, I'm good here."
I pull a black hoodie out of my backpack - pretty much the only thing I have in there - and throw it on, but I can still feel her through the fabric.
"I feel bad just showing up and taking all the desks from you guys. Please, switch with me."
For the first time, I look over to see the pale face of the girl speaking to me. A long, brown ponytail dangles over her shoulder, and her ice-blue eyes piss me off. They're too bright, like the world hasn't been shitting on her throughout her entire life.
"Yeah, well, we're probably a lot better at working with what we got than you guys. I'm fine."
She ignores my passive-aggressive insult and continues talking. I guess I didn't make it clear enough that I want her to shut the fuck up.
"I'm Adeline. What's your name?"
"Vete a la chingada," I mumble under my breath.
If we weren't in such close proximity to each other, she probably wouldn't have even heard me. When she starts giggling, I'm knocked off kilter.
"Did you just tell me to go fuck myself?" she questions, not sounding at all offended as she appears to run my words through her head a couple times.
For once, I don't have a snide comment lined up, so I just don't respond.
None of my friends speaks Spanish, so it's usually how I get away with talking shit. It's almost like a little chunk of my bubble of solitude was ripped away from me. I stare straight ahead, feeling kind of violated, and tune out the chaos around me until the teacher starts his lesson.
Every time the girl who must be short a few brain cells rushes to take notes, her arm jabs into mine. It doesn't matter how small I try to make myself; we're always touching.
When Mr. Weston hands out tests, I cringe at the sound of her pencil tapping against the desk as she thinks over each question. I breeze through it, as always. People may think I'm an idiot because of where I come from or how little I apply myself, but I could dance academic circles around a good portion of them.
Glancing around, I see frustrated faces as people try to claim their own elbow space. Maybe I should just drop out. I could pick up more hours at work or find a second job to bring in extra cash. Picturing the rest of the year being as annoying as today is has me seriously reconsidering.
Instead, I use every bit of restraint I have to manage sitting still for the duration of class.
A loud squealing sound blares over the speakers, and all the new kids duck, shielding their ears. They don't catch on that it's the bell until they see everyone else collecting their shit and moving on.
Mr. Weston almost looks panicked as I approach his desk, causing a sly grin to form on my lips.
"What can I do for you, Woodly?"
"Is there something I can do to make sure I graduate this year?"
"Show up more than once a week." His voice is flat and annoying.
"Yeah. Anything that requires less work than that?"
He eyes me over his glasses, unamused by my sense of humor. It almost looks like he's scheming up some sick way to torture me.
"Turner, come up here, please," he calls out over my head.
None other than Adeline comes scurrying up to the desk, waiting for him to speak. He goes on some weird power trip, never breaking eye contact with me as he continues.
"You're on the list of after-school tutors. You feel like helping Mr. Woodly get his grades up?"
"Uhh, no. That's okay," I interject, waving a hand through the air. "I'm good."
She turns to face me. "I don't mind. I can help with whatever you need."
Before I can turn this fiasco down again, Weston cuts me off.
"If you think it's not worth your time, I'll make sure to fail you. You will repeat your senior year. I have triple the number of students right now, and I don't have time to hold your hand to make sure you graduate. It's your choice."
"But I'm not even failing. I just wanna keep it that way," I argue back.
"Your choice," he repeats, going back to gathering the papers on his desk.
Translation? I don't have a choice. This asshole is going to change my grade if I don't agree to this tutoring shit. This is exactly why you don't go to authority figures for help.
They'll fuck you every time.