Chapter Two

Toby

I wake up with the feeling that my childhood has been swept out from under me.

I don't really understand why I am having this feeling now, considering I'm no longer the little scrawny boy with floppy brown hair that I was. I'm way past that time in my life, and clearly I have transitioned into the years of a teenager. Not so scrawny anymore, not so little, but still floppy brown hair. I should really get a haircut.

So why exactly is this such a big deal for me, and why now?

Oh, that's right. It's because I'm turning 18 next week.

The number 18 shouldn't really be a big deal. Technically, I'll still be a teenager. It sounds like I'm a teenager. But the fact that the big and terrible one-eight expects kids to act like adults and obey the rules of the adults is what scares me. It's not because I can't get away with things anymore because frankly, I wasn't doing drugs or drinking alcohol or entering private properties or being rebellious at all. I'm still not.

It's the part where I have to have adult responsibilities is what concerns me.

I don't want to deal with taxes, or jobs, or college—which I'm not even ready for. Hell, I can't even drive yet. I want to savor and enjoy my childhood until I am ready to be an adult. But clearly, that's not going to happen, and I only have a week to enjoy the freedom I have left.

I better make it last.

"Toby, honey?" My mom says as she raps her knuckles lightly on my bedroom door. "It's almost eight."

I fumble my hand lazily across my dresser, grasping my phone and illuminating my lock screen. It's 7:52. And once again, I have failed to set the alarm.

I groan into my pillow, dropping my phone onto the carpet floor as I try to crawl back into the depths of sleep. But I know I can't. I shouldn't.

"I have to go and take the early shift again. Poor Barbra just came down with an awful flu and can't come in this morning." My mom says. "Lunch money is on the counter, and please remember to take the keys. I wont be back until later tonight."

I groan again, and I hear my mom sigh. "I love you honey. I'll see you later, okay?"

I don't give her an answer, and she doesn't give me the time to. The front door slams and she's gone.

I lie there and gaze up at the ceiling, the sleep slowly starting to leave my system as I prepare for another endless day. I click my phone awake again. It's 7:54.

Sighing, I throw the covers off my body and rise up into a sitting position. I stretch once, then stand, and make my way over to my dresser to find a fresh set of clothes. I glance at myself quickly in the mirror, only to find that my brown hair is disheveled severely, and not in the way that is attractive. I run my hand through my hair a couple times before it looks decent enough. My blue eyes are still a little puffy from sleep, so I rub at them. I check my jaw for any fuzz that needed shaving, but there wasn't any, so I turn my attention back to what I am going to wear. I decide on the basics: white t-shirt, blue jeans, and a green parka. It's high school, not a pageant show.

I dress quickly, slipping on my faded blue Vans with a hole at the toe before I leave the house, grabbing the twenty sitting on the kitchen counter and my backpack that was casually thrown onto a chair as I walk towards the front door. I slip outside, mount my bike parked on the porch, and push off the ground as I pedal towards school.

Usually I would walk to school, since it's not a far distance away. But considering it is now 7:57, I know walking isn't the fastest mode of transportation. I can't afford to get another tardy.

I am just locking up my bike as the minute bell rings, so give the lock one last security tug before I rush off to my first class, pulling the classroom door open and stumbling into my seat.

"It is nice of you to finally join us." My teacher, Mr. Bullock says. He glowers softly at me under his thick-framed bifocal glasses.

I look to the clock, and then back at the old man. "I'm not late this time, sir."

The bell rings, and his frown increases. He is quiet for a moment, before he erases something on his clipboard and sets it down on his desk. "It may be the first, Mr. Baxter, but certainly it will be the last."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he moves gingerly towards a wooden podium in the corner of the room. He switches off the light and turns on the projector, drawing everyone's attention to the Times New Roman black font

displayed on the white canvas screen. Psychology: the study of mental functions and behaviors, it reads.

Mr. Bullock curls his leathery fingers around the lip of the podium, leaning heavily against the wood. "Psychology." He states, slowly scanning his milky eyes across the room. I sigh. "A study that explores phenomenology, sociology, and neuropsychology." Mr. Bullock says, spacing each word with a considerable amount of silence.

I slouch lower in my chair, twirling my pencil around my fingers.

"To those who are more..." he pauses for a moment, and in the stillness someone coughs. He continues anyway. "...simple minded, it is the study of the human brain."

This time I do roll my eyes.

Mr. Bullock takes a deep breath. "This semester, we will be focusing exclusively on this subject matter. I expect each and every one of you to be experts on this topic by the end of the year." He picks up a small remote from the podium and clicks it, and the words on the screen change. "Your final exam will be 50 percent of your grade, so I expect you to take this class seriously."

The class does not respond, making the room deathly silent. The only sounds audible are the cars passing outside the window and the scribbling of pencils on paper. I know I should be taking notes, but I don't want to. Why do I need to know what stuff means going through my head? It's not like I will use this information in my own life.

I sit like this for the rest of class, staring blankly at the board and twirling my pencil over and over in my hand. Mr. Bullock was in the middle of a speech about behavior when the bell rings, releasing my anxious classmates from this prison of an education.

I stand and collect my things—which only consists of my pencil—and sling my backpack strap over my shoulder. I shove my pencil behind my ear as I exit the class, and from the corner of my eye I can see Mr. Bullock give me a disgusted look. We don't get along very well.

The rest of the day passes with ease, each class the same boring thing. The teacher talks, the class listens, and I just sit. I should be taking notes, or be doing something, but I'm not motivated. I'm not usually motivated at all.

At lunch, I enter the cafeteria and buy a chicken sandwich and a soda before I head outside. I find a bench to sit on and unwrap my sandwich, taking a large bite. Usually I would sit with my friend Cameron, but I think he's having some quality time with his girlfriend in a library cubicle upstairs.

Lunch ends as quickly as it started, and before long the day is over and I'm unlocking my bike from the bike rack. When my padlock clicks open, I sigh with relief. I can finally go home.

I pedal as quickly as I can, desperately wanting to meet the warm interior of my house instead of the bite of the cold February air. Even though it is the middle of the year, winter still has a long way to go in Philadelphia.

I jump off my bike swiftly, dropping it onto the lawn and racing toward the door. I fumble my hands inside the front pockets of my jeans, only to find them empty. I then realize that once again, I forgot to pick up the keys before I left the house.

I'm such an idiot.

I jiggle the door handle, hoping it will give and open, but it doesn't budge. I groan in annoyance, knowing exactly what I have to do now.

I pull out my phone with a sigh and call my friend on speed dial. It rings a couple times before he answers.

"Yo." Cameron says, his tone light and playful.

"Hey," I say, scratching the back of my neck. "I, uh..."

"You're locked out again, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

There is a pause. "You're an idiot."

"I know."

I get the sense he is shaking his head at me from the other end of the call. "It surprises me how many times you forget a simple piece of metal."

"Hey c'mon, I don't mean too."

"It's common sense Toby."

"Well, I—"

"I mean, how are you going to survive life?"

I sigh. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Cameron is silent for a moment, before I finally hear him take a breath.

"Be there in ten."

****

I lean back against the wall of my house as I stand beside Cameron, he fiddling the lock of the front door with a pick and a tension wrench.

"You are hopeless." Cameron mumbles as he jiggles the pick inside the lock with delicate precision. This isn't the first time he has done this for me.

I roll my eyes. "You don't have to remind me every five seconds."

He stops his movement, turns and frowns at me. "Apparently I do, because you still don't remember your freaking keys."

I raise my hands in defense, smirking lightly. "Okay, okay."

He nods, before he goes back to work.

Cameron is of African American decent, with chocolate brown eyes and equally brown curly hair. The right side of his head has three saved sections, which apparently is the new trend going around in school. We've been friends since middle school, around the time when he moved here from Indiana, and we have been inseparable since. Well, that's a lie. He has a girlfriend now, so there's that.

A couple more minutes pass, before the lock finally gives and clicks open. We both sigh with relief, and Cameron smirks at me as he swings the door wide open.

"Thanks." I say, walking through the door and throwing myself onto the couch.

"If this happens again, get a lock smith because I'm done."

I watch as he strolls into the kitchen and makes himself at home. He pulls open the refrigerator door, leaning his head far inside the metal box and rummages through the contents. A couple minutes later he joins my side with a bag of chips and a jar of salsa between us.

"You really need to stock up that thing." He says, ripping the bag open and shoving several chips in his mouth, chewing loudly.

"Gee, I wonder why we are so low." I mock, gesturing with my eyes towards the food in his lap.

Cameron points a finger at me. "Hey, I unlocked your door with my bare hands. That was hard work." He shoves another chip in his mouth, this time loaded with salsa. He scrunches his nose and coughs. "Ugh, spicy."

"Sure Cameron." I roll my eyes. "I bet you are exhausted."

He nods enthusiastically. "I am. You really don't give me much credit, you know."

I laugh, and reach into the bag of chips. "I wonder why."

We sit and chat like that for a while, mostly about anything. Anything but school: school is boring.

Before long, his girlfriend, Jessica, texts him and Cameron immediately stands up. "I better go." He holds his phone in the air and smirks. "Duty calls."

I walk him to the door and yell something about him to be safe. He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, taking out the car keys from his pocket and unlocking his car. I watch him back out and drive off, playing music loudly from his stereo.

By then it is around 6:30, so I take out leftover Chinese food and heat it up. The microwave dings a couple minutes later, so I open it and remove my steaming dish of noodles and sit at the kitchen table to eat. Unusually mom doesn't get home until around 11, so I've given up waiting for her. And my dad is always away on business trips, so I don't expect him to have a quality meal with me anytime soon. It is just another typical night.

After dinner, I try to do some homework. But considering I wasn't listening to any of my classes today, I found it pointless, and so I just scribble random symbols in my notes and left it at that.

I brush my teeth, change, and then plop down onto my bed. I scroll on my phone for a while, up until I hear my mom unlock the front door. I put my phone away and closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I hear my mom walk towards my door and stop, before she continues on toward her room. It is easier that way.

When I hear my mom's bedroom door close, I turn onto my side and open my eyes. I think about my day, and how it was uneventful and how I forgot my damn keys, again. Less than a week left of freedom huh? Way to start off the first day.

Clearly I'm not ready for adulthood.

I sigh, and then turn over again in my bed, finding a more comfortable spot. Once I've settled in, the effects of weariness start to kick in, and before long I find my eyes drooping and my mind beginning to wander into the place of my dreams.

I fall asleep.