The School of Rock!, chapter 1
"No!! I'm not moving again! Mom, don't you understand, I HAVE A LIFE TOO. Oh my god go to college here, but no, you have to move out of the state to go to California and I will never se my friends EVER! I'll miss Zach, Mick, Alexa, Kelly, Mary...wait I don't know a Mary...But that's besides the point! I'm sick of this!" and with that, I slam the door to my bedroom shut.
I was going to be moving to California, don't know exactly where in California but all I know is I'm going today right after school. Minutes upon minutes passed in the day, thinking what I should do, or possibly say, to stop this from happening. Finally, my last class arrives. It's gym class. Wait now that I remember, now I can't play football next year. Wow this bites. 5 minutes left. Then it goes to 2 minutes as long as it took you to snap your fingers. Then it happened. I burst out crying. Crying at the world. Crying at this problem. Crying because of me.
I had a gathering in my yard to say a last good bye. Some people I knew from school, others neighbours, others...I don't know where the hell came from. Well, I waved and got inside the Blue Honda Civic and I drove away with my Mom. My sister drove her own car.
The journey had begun...completely boring. I had two choices: to talk to Mom, or to pout a lot. I chose to sleep. When I woke up, I finally talked to Mom.
"So, uh, where we going to in California Mother of mine which I am very angry at right now?"
"Oakland."
"Well at least it's the home town of the Oakland Raiders. And...where Billie Joe lives, well close to there, somewhere, oh to hell with it!"
I was back to being miserable until we got to California...3 days later. Yep that's right, we rode our cars the whole way.
The next day, which was a Friday, Mom signed me up for school. It took forever until we got to go home. Oh yeah we are renting a house. 3 bedroom, 2-story. Costs a fortune...but we'll manage.
On Monday, Mom dropped me off at school. But we needed to meet the principal first. When we went in to see him, His chair, along with him faced the wall. I glimpsed at his ID sign: Mr. Armstrong. Common name. But then it happened: he turned around. And there I was, face-to-face with Billie Joe in person.
I was going to be moving to California, don't know exactly where in California but all I know is I'm going today right after school. Minutes upon minutes passed in the day, thinking what I should do, or possibly say, to stop this from happening. Finally, my last class arrives. It's gym class. Wait now that I remember, now I can't play football next year. Wow this bites. 5 minutes left. Then it goes to 2 minutes as long as it took you to snap your fingers. Then it happened. I burst out crying. Crying at the world. Crying at this problem. Crying because of me.
I had a gathering in my yard to say a last good bye. Some people I knew from school, others neighbours, others...I don't know where the hell came from. Well, I waved and got inside the Blue Honda Civic and I drove away with my Mom. My sister drove her own car.
The journey had begun...completely boring. I had two choices: to talk to Mom, or to pout a lot. I chose to sleep. When I woke up, I finally talked to Mom.
"So, uh, where we going to in California Mother of mine which I am very angry at right now?"
"Oakland."
"Well at least it's the home town of the Oakland Raiders. And...where Billie Joe lives, well close to there, somewhere, oh to hell with it!"
I was back to being miserable until we got to California...3 days later. Yep that's right, we rode our cars the whole way.
The next day, which was a Friday, Mom signed me up for school. It took forever until we got to go home. Oh yeah we are renting a house. 3 bedroom, 2-story. Costs a fortune...but we'll manage.
On Monday, Mom dropped me off at school. But we needed to meet the principal first. When we went in to see him, His chair, along with him faced the wall. I glimpsed at his ID sign: Mr. Armstrong. Common name. But then it happened: he turned around. And there I was, face-to-face with Billie Joe in person.
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