punishment was public school.
The private academy asked me not to come back when the tenth grade term ended and she wasn’t going to pay for me to “act like a hooligan” at another school.
Didn’t make me miss England less, though.
Why she moved us back to California and away from all my friends and the familiar, I still didn’t know. We left Los Angeles when I was ten and after four years in London, I finally felt at home, then yank—right back across the Atlantic and a whole ’nother country again.
Felt like a bleedin’ yoyo.
So I acted up a bit at school—what did she expect?
London gave me my identity. At twelve, I discovered punk and metal and devoured every disc I got my hands on, much to the Head Boy’s chagrin. What better appealed to a teenager than loud music and authority-shunning lyrics?
These California prep school brats didn’t understand. They thought punk was Green Day. Needed a bath just from thinkin’ of it.
So, anyway, here I was at a new school again with no friends or allies and prob’ly stickin’ out like a sore thumb.
I snuck in the house, trying to get to my room without being noticed.
“Jacob…how was your first day?” her lovely, proper voice rang out.
Sighing, I walked into Mother’s bedroom. “Every teacher but one had me introduce myself.”
She looked up from her needlepoint. “Did you make any friends? You’re welcome to have guests provided your homework is done first.”
”I had friends. You keep pulling me away from them.”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Jacob. Your choices put you in your current situation.”
I stood my ground, nails digging into my palms. “It wasn’t my choice to leave England.”
She sighed. “I know, dear. Some day you will understand. Do you have homework tonight?”
“Little bit.”
“Then I won’t take up more of your time.”
“Yes, Mum.”
I turned on heel and went to my room, shutting the door and cranking up the stereo.
My studies weren’t difficult—just didn’t want to be doing them here.