wasn’t quite ready to relinquish the comfort of his bed. He let out a long yawn and stretched his hands to the sky . The last day of freedom, he thought.
The sun had barely peeked its head out, sprinkling drops of light as the calming rush of the waves collided violently with the rocks below. It was just another day in North Shore for Anthony Dimair, the eclectic fourteen year old. He was set to embark on his first day of high school in less than twenty-four hours.
A bronze skinned adolescent with wiry hair and an athletic build that betrayed his true clumsy nature. He looked to have a maturity beyond his years, but it was just a facade to hide his childish nature. A lifetime of hanging with older kids gave him a cynical outlook that he twisted with a perverse sense of humor.
Anthony’s room was littered with soccer posters and gear that hadn’t been washed in months. Video games and old socks covered most of his bed. His laptop was still streaming Netflix videos and an empty bag of Doritos had been stuffed inside of a tennis shoe.
Two French doors led out to a balcony, which was now off limits to Anthony. No one aside from him and his parents knew the exact reason why, but it was suspected that it had something to do with water balloons and a makeshift catapult.
As Anthony lay on his bed in a semi-conscious state, something smacked into the window and he jumped up. Another thud crashed into the door and he dove off of the bed and onto the ground. Army crawling across the floor, he moved towards the balcony.
"Mikey, you idiot!" he grumbled.
Jumping to his feet, he yanked the door open. The rush of the sea drenched wind smacked him in the face and he collapsed to the deck gripping his forehead. A searing pain ripped through him and he let out a stifled growl. His agony was met by an all too familiar laugh.
Stumbling to his feet, he eyed his best friend, Mikey. He was giggling below, holding a few jagged sea shells. Steve, one of his other friends was beside him, trying to hide the smirk on his face.
“Dude, didn’t expect you to open the door,” Mikey said with a laugh.
Anthony glared at him and rubbed his forehead. "You make it hard to not kill you Mikey, real hard."
"Yeah, yeah, just hurry up and get down here."
"What's the rush? I'm not interested in stalking any of your neighbors and my mom's sick of you stealing all the juice boxes."
"I took two, get over it. Dude just get out here."
"Fine. Stop throwing rocks at my window idiot."
Fuming, Anthony headed back inside and closed the door. He threw on a pair of tattered shorts and some sneakers. Then stormed out of the room with a t-shirt half on his head.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he tripped on the last one and fell head over heels. He slid across the cold, tile floor and came to a stop at his mother’s feet.
“How many times have I told you about running on the stairs?” Anthony’s mother peered down on him, shaking her head.
Mrs. Dimair was a gentle yet complicated lady who Mikey often referred to as a Rubik’s cube wrapped in a cardigan. She moved to California by way of Virginia when her husband took a job as sales manager with Brothers and Brew. Now she spent her days juggling the duties of team mom, booster mom, PTA mom and any other volunteer organization she could find.
“I wasn’t running, I just fell,” Anthony cowered, rubbing his head and pulling the t-shirt from over his eyes.
His mother looked at him momentarily, her hazel eyes now the color of crimson. She had an uncanny ability to break Anthony down with a simple gaze. He quickly looked away and with a “humph,” his mother turned and headed into the kitchen.
Anthony jumped up and made his escape for the door. The mat slid from under his feet and he nearly tripped again before stumbling outside.
“Breakfast,” his mom yelled after him.
“I’m not hungry, going out with Mikey and Steve,” Anthony yelled
The sun had barely peeked its head out, sprinkling drops of light as the calming rush of the waves collided violently with the rocks below. It was just another day in North Shore for Anthony Dimair, the eclectic fourteen year old. He was set to embark on his first day of high school in less than twenty-four hours.
A bronze skinned adolescent with wiry hair and an athletic build that betrayed his true clumsy nature. He looked to have a maturity beyond his years, but it was just a facade to hide his childish nature. A lifetime of hanging with older kids gave him a cynical outlook that he twisted with a perverse sense of humor.
Anthony’s room was littered with soccer posters and gear that hadn’t been washed in months. Video games and old socks covered most of his bed. His laptop was still streaming Netflix videos and an empty bag of Doritos had been stuffed inside of a tennis shoe.
Two French doors led out to a balcony, which was now off limits to Anthony. No one aside from him and his parents knew the exact reason why, but it was suspected that it had something to do with water balloons and a makeshift catapult.
As Anthony lay on his bed in a semi-conscious state, something smacked into the window and he jumped up. Another thud crashed into the door and he dove off of the bed and onto the ground. Army crawling across the floor, he moved towards the balcony.
"Mikey, you idiot!" he grumbled.
Jumping to his feet, he yanked the door open. The rush of the sea drenched wind smacked him in the face and he collapsed to the deck gripping his forehead. A searing pain ripped through him and he let out a stifled growl. His agony was met by an all too familiar laugh.
Stumbling to his feet, he eyed his best friend, Mikey. He was giggling below, holding a few jagged sea shells. Steve, one of his other friends was beside him, trying to hide the smirk on his face.
“Dude, didn’t expect you to open the door,” Mikey said with a laugh.
Anthony glared at him and rubbed his forehead. "You make it hard to not kill you Mikey, real hard."
"Yeah, yeah, just hurry up and get down here."
"What's the rush? I'm not interested in stalking any of your neighbors and my mom's sick of you stealing all the juice boxes."
"I took two, get over it. Dude just get out here."
"Fine. Stop throwing rocks at my window idiot."
Fuming, Anthony headed back inside and closed the door. He threw on a pair of tattered shorts and some sneakers. Then stormed out of the room with a t-shirt half on his head.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he tripped on the last one and fell head over heels. He slid across the cold, tile floor and came to a stop at his mother’s feet.
“How many times have I told you about running on the stairs?” Anthony’s mother peered down on him, shaking her head.
Mrs. Dimair was a gentle yet complicated lady who Mikey often referred to as a Rubik’s cube wrapped in a cardigan. She moved to California by way of Virginia when her husband took a job as sales manager with Brothers and Brew. Now she spent her days juggling the duties of team mom, booster mom, PTA mom and any other volunteer organization she could find.
“I wasn’t running, I just fell,” Anthony cowered, rubbing his head and pulling the t-shirt from over his eyes.
His mother looked at him momentarily, her hazel eyes now the color of crimson. She had an uncanny ability to break Anthony down with a simple gaze. He quickly looked away and with a “humph,” his mother turned and headed into the kitchen.
Anthony jumped up and made his escape for the door. The mat slid from under his feet and he nearly tripped again before stumbling outside.
“Breakfast,” his mom yelled after him.
“I’m not hungry, going out with Mikey and Steve,” Anthony yelled
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