Broken Wings 2 - Midnight Flight, Andrews, C. [classic books for 10 year olds .TXT] 📗

“If you lie and I find out you have lied in this introductory history, you will be fined ten full demerit points. Remember, I know much about you. This is both a test of your veracity and a chance for you to think about yourselves.”

We looked at each other in disbelief. Write our histories? Surely, this was a joke.

“I see you are not taking me seriously,” Dr. Foreman said. “I assure you that you will all remain here until you are all finished. Until then, no one will get anything to drink or eat, nor will anyone”—she centered on me—“use the bathroom. That's academic anyway since there is no bathroom,” she added dryly.

I felt my face flush. No bathroom? Reminding me 1 had to go built the pressure inside me. I felt myself breaking out into a sweat, my heart pounding. Didn't the other two have to go? If they did, they didn't show it.

“Finally, let me remind you that no one is to speak toanyone during this exercise. One of your buddies will monitor you, and should anyone speak, you will all remain here one hour longer for every word uttered.”

Then, as suddenly as she finished speaking, she smiled warmly at us and in loving tones said, “Welcome, girls. Welcome to my school. I truly hope this will be a lifesaving experience for you all.”

With that she turned and walked out, her heels clicking and echoing around us until she was gone and it was deadly silent.

It was as if all clocks had stopped. Nothing beat anymore.

Not even our own hearts.

Broken Wings 2 - Midnight Flight

Dr. Foreman's Funny Farm

A wo of the so-​called buddies left with Dr. Foreman, but M'Lady Three remained behind, her arms folded, her back against the door, glaring at us, the corners of her mouth dipped with annoyance at what I was sure she considered baby-​sitting duty.

“This is so stupid,” Teal muttered.

“Did someone speak?” M'Lady Three chimed. Like a hungry cat she was so eager to pounce.

We all looked down ashamed of our fear. That was when I saw that someone probably feeling as desperate as we did had carved the word help into my old desk. I felt like adding my own cry of rage. I would carve in betrayed. When I looked up again, I saw Robin open her composition notebook and begin writing. She shrugged at me as if to say, what else can we do? Humor her. Teal, on the other hand, remained stubborn, her head in her hands, the notebook still closed. I opened mine.

My life story?

Where do I begin? I was born in Atlanta. My daddy was an auto garage tool salesman and my mama worked as a waitress in one dump after another, drinking up most of what she made and sometimes not coming home until morning. It was one thing to remember it all, to think about it, but another to actually put it in writing. It made me more angry than ashamed to see it in black and white. Perhaps that was Dr. Foreman's purpose: to get us to hate who we were, who we are. I suppose I couldn't blame her. Why else would we work on changing ourselves?

It was funny though how tears came into my eyes after I began to describe our apartment in that rat-​infested building, described my room, the crippled kitchen with the stove that worked when it was in the mood, and the living room with the threadbare rug where Daddy sat and watched television alone so many nights. Why would I cry over and long for a return to the life I used to hate? Why would I want to be back in that two-​by-​four room of mine where I could hear pipes groaning at night like someone with a bellyache, and people in other apartments yelling at each other and clawing the walls the way prisoners going mad might?

I wasn't in a good place to grow up. Even as a little girl, I knew bad things happened in our building. Someone I only knew as Mr. Rotter died of a drug overdose in the apartment directly below ours. It was the first time I saw a dead person. I stood on the stairway and watched them taking him out on a stretcher, the sheet over his whole body. The police said the apartment stank. He had been dead for nearly a week, but he had no relatives in Atlanta. Only in his midthirties, he was already dead.

That was when I first understood what Daddy meant when he said we were living in a cemetery. The doors of the apartments should look more like tombstonesand read their names and born in 19__; died in 20__.

Rest in peace because that's the only peace you 'II have.

No wonder I didn't want to come home nights or stay there on weekends. No wonder I took advantage of Mama being at work and staying out to all hours and Daddy being on the road, away from home. I shouldn't have been blamed for that. Anyone living like I was living, seeing the things I saw, would have done the same thing.

The only excitement and happiness I had were what I had with my friends. So we smoked and shoplifted and drank at parties. So what? We didn't hurt people badly, did we? Well, maybe we hurt ourselves somewhat, but we weren't on anyone's Most Wanted list. Teachers barely tolerated us, were happy when we didn't bother them, and swept us along like so much dust from one room to another, one teacher to another, as if everyone was to share the burden.

Yes, I wrote in the notebook, it's true I did get arrested more than once. I was put on probation. I did violate it and I was in danger of going to a real prison. Yes, I knew why Daddy felt he had to place me with my uncle and aunt after Mama ran off