HOME | DD

Description
My alarm is blaring in my ears. I groan and slam my hand down on the clock until it stops, but the note still rings in my ears-a dissonant B flat. (Right, I forgot to mention-I have perfect pitch, the ability to recognize notes by name. Of course, this made Dad even more excited when he discovered it.) I roll over in bed and slap a pillow over my face. Happy birthday to me.

"Hunter!" My father calls from downstairs. "You better be getting dressed!"

I grumble something of an understanding and gingerly get up. It's still dark out, only the very first rays of dawn daring to peek out from behind the clouds. I get up and shuffle around my room, throwing on my school uniform; dress pants, white shirt, dark vest and tie. Across the hall, I can hear Taylor running around. "Hunter! It's your sweet 16!"

I open the door and start down the stairs. "Tay, guys don't HAVE sweet sixteens."

She frowns and opens her mouth, but I cut her off. "Go have breakfast, squirt." Taylor scampers downstairs, and I follow her. There's a weird buzzing in my head, but I write it off as what's left of last night's weird-as-hell headache.
Downstairs, there's a heaping plate of waffles at my spot at the table, as well as two gift bags. I grin and open the first one--new hockey skates I'd been eyeing for months.

"Oh wow, thanks Dad!" I cheer, opening the other present. It's a pad of score paper--the really good kind, that you need to go all the way downtown to get. I'm a little confused. "But Dad, I've never written before in my life."

He smiles. "Sometimes all it takes is a little inspiration. Now eat your waffles before they get cold."

I obediently stuff my face with waffles. My mom had the best waffle recipe ever, and we still use it. Within 5 minutes the waffles are gone.
Dad grabs his coat and keys. "I'm driving your sister to school," he announces. "Don't miss your bus!"

"I won't," I reply, and the door swings shut behind him. The house is totally silent... except for the strange noise in my head. Is it just me, or is it getting louder? Another sound cuts off my thoughts; the roar of the bus coming down the block. "Shitshitshit!" I yell, throwing my shoes on. I grab my backpack and throw in my phone, wallet and papers, and bolt out the door.

"Hey, birthday boy!" Shiloh tosses me a muffin as I plunk myself onto the old, worn out seat on the bus beside him. I grin and take the extra coffee he's holding.

"Thanks."

"No biggie. Hey, you feeling better?"

I frown. "Sort of, yeah. Probably just a cold. You know, post-exams syndrome.. not used to having nothing to do."

Shiloh laughs. "Well you shouldn't be bored anymore! Hear your science teacher gave you a lab first day back."

I groan. "Let's not talk about that. Let's talk bout music class!"

"OH HELL YES!" he shouts, attracting slightly disturbed looks from the other kids on the bus. Mr. Callows, the music teacher, is notorious for bring our school band to national competitions and coming home victorious. Plus, he's as cool as teachers get. Yesterday, he kicked off the semester with a game of "name that Beatles song," with chocolate for the winners.

"Man, I'm glad Callows is our homeroom," Shiloh says (more quietly this time).

I nod, taking a swig of my coffee. The bus lurches to a completely non-elegant stop in front of the school. There's a snowman on top of the roof with horns and a sign saying "Welcome Back to Hell, Kiddies!"

You gotta love high school.

Description
My alarm is blaring in my ears. I groan and slam my hand down on the clock until it stops, but the note still rings in my ears-a dissonant B flat. (Right, I forgot to mention-I have perfect pitch, the ability to recognize notes by name. Of course, this made Dad even more excited when he discovered it.) I roll over in bed and slap a pillow over my face. Happy birthday to me.

"Hunter!" My father calls from downstairs. "You better be getting dressed!"

I grumble something of an understanding and gingerly get up. It's still dark out, only the very first rays of dawn daring to peek out from behind the clouds. I get up and shuffle around my room, throwing on my school uniform; dress pants, white shirt, dark vest and tie. Across the hall, I can hear Taylor running around. "Hunter! It's your sweet 16!"

I open the door and start down the stairs. "Tay, guys don't HAVE sweet sixteens."

She frowns and opens her mouth, but I cut her off. "Go have breakfast, squirt." Taylor scampers downstairs, and I follow her. There's a weird buzzing in my head, but I write it off as what's left of last night's weird-as-hell headache.
Downstairs, there's a heaping plate of waffles at my spot at the table, as well as two gift bags. I grin and open the first one--new hockey skates I'd been eyeing for months.

"Oh wow, thanks Dad!" I cheer, opening the other present. It's a pad of score paper--the really good kind, that you need to go all the way downtown to get. I'm a little confused. "But Dad, I've never written before in my life."

He smiles. "Sometimes all it takes is a little inspiration. Now eat your waffles before they get cold."

I obediently stuff my face with waffles. My mom had the best waffle recipe ever, and we still use it. Within 5 minutes the waffles are gone.
Dad grabs his coat and keys. "I'm driving your sister to school," he announces. "Don't miss your bus!"

"I won't," I reply, and the door swings shut behind him. The house is totally silent... except for the strange noise in my head. Is it just me, or is it getting louder? Another sound cuts off my thoughts; the roar of the bus coming down the block. "Shitshitshit!" I yell, throwing my shoes on. I grab my backpack and throw in my phone, wallet and papers, and bolt out the door.

"Hey, birthday boy!" Shiloh tosses me a muffin as I plunk myself onto the old, worn out seat on the bus beside him. I grin and take the extra coffee he's holding.

"Thanks."

"No biggie. Hey, you feeling better?"

I frown. "Sort of, yeah. Probably just a cold. You know, post-exams syndrome.. not used to having nothing to do."

Shiloh laughs. "Well you shouldn't be bored anymore! Hear your science teacher gave you a lab first day back."

I groan. "Let's not talk about that. Let's talk bout music class!"

"OH HELL YES!" he shouts, attracting slightly disturbed looks from the other kids on the bus. Mr. Callows, the music teacher, is notorious for bring our school band to national competitions and coming home victorious. Plus, he's as cool as teachers get. Yesterday, he kicked off the semester with a game of "name that Beatles song," with chocolate for the winners.

"Man, I'm glad Callows is our homeroom," Shiloh says (more quietly this time).

I nod, taking a swig of my coffee. The bus lurches to a completely non-elegant stop in front of the school. There's a snowman on top of the roof with horns and a sign saying "Welcome Back to Hell, Kiddies!"

You gotta love high school.