Chapter 1

A Chapter by Damon Favreau

Previous Version
This is a previous version of Chapter 1.

Practically drooling from boredom, I stared at the clock. With its dusty hands,

it read 3:00. Great, another fifteen minutes of school. Slumped in my chair, I had my

black converse shoes worn in from the long school year pushed as far away from my desk as possible. The last thing I want is to be trapped at school on its last day. This desk is very uncomfortable; funny that I haven't really noticed these four years of high school hell until now.

3:05. Sheesh, could time go a little faster? It's always a bad sign when you can hear the clock ticking, urching you on to just scream as time passes. CLICK. 3:06. Ugh. I looked away from the clock before it would drive me to insanity.

"Pssst!" whispered my best friend, Archy. He sat normal...with his bottom half; perfectly straight legs with his feet together. The rest of his body was thrown across his desk with his arms folded, like a drug dealer that you could find just about anywhere outside of school. He wore a black t-shirt that said "Duct tape fixes all" with a stickfigure with duct tape over his mouth, and he had worn out jeans made into cut-offs for the new weather as apposed to my black skinny jeans. I just wore a regular black shirt; it's easier to hide with.

"Martha wanted me to give you this." Archy said, flicking a piece of paper at me like a paper football. The college-ruled paper looked like it had been crumpled, uncrumpled, then folded a bajillion times. I opened it slowly to find words with hearts over i's and little smilie faces all over it. Crap. I already knew what it said, because I've recieved maybe twenty others identicle to this one over the past two weeks. It must've been something like "Dear D, blah blah blah, I'm really sorry, blah blah blah, get back together?" Ugh. We'd been apart for a month now, and now she wants back together just because she's sorry for cheating on me? No way! I promised myself that I was done dating for now.

I tore the paper to pieces. "You'd better pick that up when you're done with it, Demon!" Yelled Mr. Sparky, my English teacher. Everyone laughs at his name because everyone in our class other than me ends up Spark-noting the books he assigns. I've been called Demon since the forth grade, but my real name is James; I like Demon better anyways. I picked up a handful of the paper shreds with my fingerless-gloved hands and blew it like pixie dust towards the teacher just as the bell rang, and I took my bag in one hand and bolted out the door.

School was out.