Regenitation: Chapter One

Chapter One: Found (adj.) having been discovered by chance or unexpectedly

Waking up is the worst part. Mainly because the second I do I realize that I have to go through another elongated, tiring, pointless day. And it’s not like the torture ends at a certain time like school or work. It NEVER ends. Why? Well because I’m homeschooled. So my “online lessons” start and end whenever my dad wants them to. Oh joy.

First, I decided to look at the clock, 11:43. Knowing my dad would be coming back at 12 for lunch break, I decided now would be the best time to actually get up, and the best time to get out, before he puts the “iron bars” on the door.

I dragged myself out of my bed, hunched over like a depressed loser with no life ahead of him. I wouldn’t say I’m completely depressed though. I’ve always had some sort of boldness and persistency hidden under my hoodie. And I’m certainly not a loser, but I guess since I’m homeschooled I give off that impression.

I could hear the blow dryer on full blast through the door. Heck I bet my dad could’ve heard it from his work office. I made my way to my bathroom door and pulled on it. “Bina would you be so kind as to not take 10 hours styling your hair!?” I yelled, my hand still clenching the locked door handle. No answer. Typical. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I yanked open my drawer and pulled a blue t-shirt over my bare chest. I took off my sweats and pulled on an old pair of jeans. By the time I had zipped on my sweatshirt my sister had come through door, her hair so fluffed up a dog could have been hiding in it. “Where are you going, Vegas?"

She laughed like it was actually a joke, “Where are you going, hell?”

I rolled my eyes and mumbled under my breath, “Already there.”

...

I walked into the compacted and somewhat spotless kitchen. How my father manages it alone, I have no idea. All I know is that I don’t do any of it, and neither does my sister, so my dad manages to keep it looking that neat on his own. It’s never “sparkly clean” though. It always gives off a dull appearance, like it’s been overused, overdone. Maybe we’ve cursed the entire house to stand in our family’s shadow. If I could talk to the house, I’d apologize to it.

I passed swiftly through the kitchen, which only took about three steps. I was about to turn the knob to walk out the door when a familiar and deep voice stopped me in my tracks. “Just where do you think you’re going, Tristan Lloyd Belock?”

I smiled under my hood. His voice patterns had been reminding me of mom lately. They never did until she left. But like they say, you never know what you have until it’s gone.

I turned to face my dad and looked up at the tall figure. He was wearing a dark grey suit and maroon tie, pressed to perfection. He carried his briefcase in his hand, old fashioned and completely outdated. He had my fair skin and my sister’s dark brown hair, glistening from the gallons of hair gel combed into it. How he gets all of that gunk out at the end of a day, I have no idea.

He put his briefcase down and stood up tall and aligned, shoulders so broad and high that it looked uncomfortable. Maybe he’s trying to be upfront with me, trying to look stronger maybe? Yeah, sorry dad. That used to be intimidating, but I’ve learned better.

Or I’ve seen better. In my mom.

“Hood off. Now.” Oh yeah, I remembered. He always hated my hood. I guess it’s a “no covering your blonde girlish locks of hair when you’re inside because we’ve already seen them and we know they’re bad” type of thing. I flipped my hood back and smoothed my hair down. My dad nodded approvingly, but his mouth stayed as straight as a blade.

After a three second awkward silence, I started to tap my foot. “So… can I go now?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Where are you going? To the school? Because you know how I-“

I cut him off, “No dad I’m not going to the school I get it I’ve heard this lecture twenty thousand times-“

My dad’s face turned beat red, “Don’t you talk back to me kid! You better be back here before I get home or I’m locking you in your room again, and this time for good! You got that sport?”

My dad’s bullet hit me immediately as I heard the word. And I could tell that my dad had just noticed that he had called me sport a second after it came out of his mouth.

It was as if my ears had just decided to wake up again after hibernation, because he hadn’t called me that nickname in years. He didn’t have the right to call me that anymore. Not after what happened with mom.

Without a second thought, I rushed out the door and grabbed my scooter, propped up on the side wall of the house. I decided now was probably the best time to get as far away as possible from my house, to avoid more awkward tensions and weird flashbacks.

And it’s kind of ironic where I go for that kind of escape. While other kids go home to escape school, I go to Henderwolf High to escape my home.

Yeah, I know, it’s kind of contradicting. But I have a reason to. A good one in fact. See I wasn’t always a homeschooled “living-under-a-rock” kinda guy. I was pulled out of Becken Academy right after Junior High ended, because my dad couldn’t afford it anymore after my mom had… left. And all the people from my Junior High go to Henderwolf High School. Doesn’t mean I walk up to them and strike up a conversation though. I mostly just… watch.

Hey, what do you expect from someone who “lives under a rock?” Plus it’s not like I’m a stalker or anything. I just hang out and watch them.

Well, more like, I watch her.

See, I don’t have any guy friends from my junior high. All I really remember was a girl. My best friend, in fact, so don’t get all girly and chick-flick with me. Plus, I’d be surprised if she remembered me anymore. Even if she did I’m probably just at the back of her mind. She probably has tons of guys waiting in line for her, stopping at every door just to open it as she steps in. It doesn’t bother me though. On the outside, at least.

I pulled up to the high school and set my scooter down by the entrance. Students were just getting out of their classes, bolting to their cars to grab something decent for lunch. Immediately I pull up my hood. It’s not that I don’t want to be recognized, it’s just that, yeah I don’t want to be recognized. I head for the boy’s bathroom, maneuvering my way through all the crowds. They all give me weird looks. Maybe it’s because of the hood, or the sweatshirt in the middle of spring, but I don’t care. It’s not like they know it’s me… right?

I leaned up against the wall by the boy’s bathroom, near the parking garage. Hey, at least it’s not as creepy as standing by her first class. And what guy doesn’t notice an attractive girl with a red Camaro? Yeah, that’s what I thought. After that, I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

I guess I’ve gotten into a bit of a routine of calling her when she passes by. It gives me a chance to catch her attention without her knowing it’s me. It also feels good to know I can be a part of her life without her having a clue.

See, I only have her number, so she doesn’t necessarily know it’s me. At least, I don’t think she does. I’ve been as cautious as I can possibly be in this situation. And the couple times that she’s answered I’ve immediately hung up, because if she heard my voice once she would know for sure who it was.

I waited for the phone to start ringing, and just as I look up, she passes by.

Isole Perrica. It’s a weird name, but it’s a sure mark of her personality. And I can’t get enough of it. She brushed her long dark chocolate locks off of her shoulder, and wore a weaved thin sweater that revealed her bare shoulders, tan from the heat. She smiled at people passing by her who waved back, completely unaware that every single move she made drove me crazy. As she walked, you could tell she wasn’t in a rush, taking each step as it came. She flowed like a river; none of her was pushed to rethink any second of the past.

But I knew there was more to her personality than that. I was one of the only people that knew her under her skin. She was persistent when she needed to be. She never regretted decisions, and didn’t need any one of those “Road to Happiness” books to show her how to have a good time. She was daring, suspicious, talented. To sum it all up, she was perfection. Heck, she’s a knockout.

And then she looked down at her cell phone, and smiled. I leaned forward, eyes wide, pressing for any other signals. Did she know? Why was she smiling? Did I give it away?

She looked up, and at that point I knew she found out, because she was looking straight at me. Her smile never left her face, but stretched slightly, a distinct look I had seen before. Her expression was like reading an open book, a mental message, like “Gotcha Belock.” Or maybe “Why do you hide from me?” I heard her voice repeating those words in my head. Then, with one last look, she looked down and forward in one swift motion. She clicked her key, and climbed leg first into her cherry red car. And you don’t know how much I wanted to climb in there with her. No, not just because it was a Camaro. Because after our eyes locked, I knew I was done hiding. Because I had been found.

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