Tina…

I wake up early to the shrieking of my siblings screaming. I don’t even have to check my alarm clock to know it’s not yet seven o’clock. Every morning our family goes through the same routine-Martha and Frank fight, Mom screams, Dad yells at her to shut the kids up, I wake up, end of story.

Usually I join in on the scream-fest, adding my own shut-ups and goddammits. But for once, I am actually pleased that I am up early. It’s the first day of school you see, and I am new to town. You might think I’m nuts, being so hyped up about going to a new school and shit but when you’ve just lost forty pounds, are in a completely new town where no one’s seen your fat past, of course you’re going to be happy. Nothing is going to spoil my day, not even-

“MOOOOOMMMMMM!” I screech at the top of my lungs, my eyes catching sight of the outfit I’d carefully laid out on my desk after a whole morning’s worth of digging through my boxes.

The denim fabric of my jean skirt, short for the first time in my life, is cut at the hem and there is sparkly green glue smeared across the back. A couple of googly eyes are stuck onto the belt loops and stare at me, making me even angrier than I already am. Frank or Martha, maybe both, has scrawled pictures all over my white European-style tunic in their stupid Crayola smelly markers and more googly eyes stare at me from the fringe.

“MOM!” I scream again when nobody answers. “MOM!”

Finally, Mom tramps into my room looking wild-eyed. By now I am breathing heavily, my nails digging into my palms in my attempt to control my temper.

“Look, I spit forcefully, “at what they’ve done!”

I end up wearing a stupid pair of my mom’s corduroys and a plain old t-shirt because all my stuff, new and old, are still unpacked and lying around in boxes somewhere. I shoot dirty looks at Frank and Martha as I eat my cereal and accidentally-on-purpose trip the terrible two as we make our way down the street to where the bus is supposed to pick them up. I, whoopdeedoo, get a ride from my dad. I’m seventeen for Christ’s sake.

Benjy

I’ve been up all night, thinking. I know, surprising, right? Most people think that I am only capable of downing more beer than Homer Simpson on a good night and getting girls. Well they can shove their opinions up their asses because I, Benjamin Adonis Browning, can think. In fact, I was on top of every damn class I took last year except and I don’t even have to crack open a book, I’m that good. Not that any of the bastards at school know. Intelligence is power, man, and if I say I don’t want my name posted up on every geek-sheet in school then my name isn’t posted. The do-gooders, they’ve been putting themselves in a frenzy for the past three years trying to figure out who out-does them in every exam. Fuckers.

I walk up to the bathroom and run my hand through my hair. It’s black, kinda curly and the chicks dig it completely. I make a couple faces at myself in the mirror and nod when I’m satisfied. Then, I get ready for school and make my way into the dining room to grab some grub.

I live in my best friend Dave’s house. His parents are the coolest ever and they completely hate my parents and vice-versa. My parents are freaks, see. We live in a small town. There’s rich side, poor side and the regulars. My folks and Daves’ live in south side but the difference is they live on the east end of it with all the other jerks obsessed with racial purity and all that other crap. I mean, they don’t say it publicly, but you know. It’s kinda obvious. But Dave’s parents, they’re all “liberal junkies” as my old man used to say. I’ll take liberal junkies over ass-fucking bastards any day.

So why do I live at Dave’s? Well obviously my parents and I don’t get along all that well. They disowned me and I disowned them. I probably would still be living with them now (or dead) if my great-great aunt Ethel didn’t kick the bucket a few months back and leave me everything. So I’ve got this real nice house waiting for me in some other town and a shitload of money and other stuff in a bank vault and I only have to wait one more year to my hands on it. Aunt Ethel hated my parents too. She was smart, I have to say, because she thought up every way to get them to keep their paws off my goods.

Anyways, I promised the Hills I’d pay them back once I it eighteen but they’re pretty rich as it is (old money, like my ex-family) so they didn’t really care. What’s a couple thousand bucks when you’ve a couple million?

Mr and Mrs. Hill are already seated and eating. They insist I call them Bob and Margaret (I know, I cracked up when I found out about the show too) but in my head they’re still the Hills. They smile at me when I enter and Mr. Hill gives me a once-over as Mrs. Hill dishes out some food.

“Are you all ready for school, then?” Mr. Hill asks as I wolf down some waffles. I nod.

“I suppose you’re both joining up in soccer again, then?” Mrs. Hill says.

She always puts on this great show about how worried she is about me and Dave playing soccer and rugby but secretly she cheers us on. How do I know? Because when the play-offs got cancelled last year because of some of the idiots on our team she flipped and had the parent council protest and blah blah blah. We’re that good. Anyways, now that me and Dave are seniors, we’re going to kick more ass than ever. Senior year is going to be the best year of my life. I can’t wait.

Kelly…aka Ice

I wake up right on time. It’s the first day of school so I don’t really care if I’m early or late-the teachers won’t notice if one kid’s missing or whatever anyways, especially if it’s me, Ice Queen. Kelly Queen if you want a broken nose.

They call me Ice because they don’t know me. They all think I do crack or smoke dope or whatever, that I sleep around, blah blah blah blah blah. Frankly, I’m not really interested. I call myself Ice because I have a heart of ice and I know it. I don’t care if your legs broken-it’s not my fault you decided to get high and jump off your roof. Take the fucking elevator if your leg is that dysfunctional. I don’t give a shit if you have a cold-stay at home. I’m a bitch and I’m proud of it. If you don’t like it, don’t talk to me.

I sound like a loser, right? That’s because I am. I’m a class-A loser and I like it. You think I want to hang out with those ass-fucking bastards? Those kids think they’re all that but they’re not. I live with my three brothers and I’m the only girl. Clark’s a cop, Max is eighteen, deals everything under the sun and is smart as a whip. And Flynn’s exactly a year older than me to the date (he’s sixteen) and a bit on the dumb side. Not that anyone else seems to mind-he apparently contributes to the school by being the goalie of our soccer team, being a kick-ass pitcher on the baseball team and, according to bathroom citations, hot enough to melt a car. Yeah, I don’t even want to go there. I stopped going to the bathrooms at school in the second week of freshman year.

Anyways, I roll over in my bed and throw off my covers. The town’s sweltering hot from late-May until mid-Septemberish so there really isn’t much need for them. My room’s covered in clothes, papers and pens and books. There’s a strong odour coming from one end of the room and it’s been floating around for a few months now. I think it’s a lunch baggy from last June but I haven’t yet had the guts to go check it out.

Max is a neat freak so our entire house is more or less spotless. Except for my room of course. Nobody dares to venture into my lair. Not only does it smell like hell, it’s dangerous. I’ve fallen on my ass countless number of times and I’m still going strong.

Sighing heavily I pull off my PJs and throw on a pair of Clark’s old khaki shorts. Most of my stuff comes from my brothers and I don’t mind because frankly I find regular girl clothes extremely constricting.

I finish getting dressed and I saunter down into the kitchen where Max and Flynn are inhaling coffee and toast. I can’t stick coffee so I drink chocolate milk. It costs a little extra but that’s what I like about Clark-he’s not a complete tight-ass about things like that. I mean, the four of us have to work to keep up the house payments and I still have a year to go before the government stops swooping down on us to take me away but life’s good. More or less.

“Drive me to school,” I say, sitting down across my two brothers.

“Get your own ride,” is Max’s typical response. He always drives me anyways.

Max missed Junior Kindergarten because he got sick just before the school year started, so he’s a year behind everyone else his age who’ve already graduated. But he’s not the only one who’s eighteen and in grade twelve this year because some illness was going around at the time so a lot of them are eighteen. Well, three that I know of, but I’m not exactly a social butterfly so what do I know?

Stupid question. I know the law, I know drugs, I know booze and I know death. Oh, and I also know a little bit about school. Assuming that I was paying attention.

Brendan

What do I wish for? Every morning when I wake up it’s the first thing I ask myself. Sometimes it’s just to get out of the school happy, normal, fine. Other times I wish for things like a million bucks, or magic, or one hundred percents on my tests without working for them. Oh, and of course, to find out who always bests me on the end-of-year exams.

But every year without fail on the first day of school I wish for only one thing-to be noticed. Pretty sad, eh? But it’s a nice wish. Because nobody notices me. I’m not the smartest kid (remember, there’s the mystery-kid who always scores the top place on the best list), I’m not a jock, I’m not handsome, I’m not super rich or super poor. I’m nothing. I’m invisible. Even my parents don’t know me.

Every morning, like right now as I sit here eating my breakfast, we got through the same routine.

Mom and Dad: Good morning, son!

Brendan: Good morning mom and dad.

Mom: How did you sleep last night, Brendan, honey?

Brendan: Good.

Dad: Well that’s good, son. A good night’s rest helps you have a good day.

Notice how we always repeat the word “good.” It’s because my parents don’t know any other word besides “good.” I can say that I got wheeled around in the trash can like I did back in the eighth grade and my parents will say, “good.” I can tell them I just failed an entire year and they’ll say, “good.” So I don’t bother telling them the truth. I just tell them “good” and they’ll say it right back. Because they think that they’re good parents and as long as everything I say is “good,” then life’s good. For them, at least. They don’t know me. They don’t know anything about me. I’m just a random person who lives in the smallest bedroom of the O’Hara household, lives off of O’Hara money and occasionally sits and watches TV in the O’Hara living room.

This is what I think happened at my birth:

Nurse: It’s a boy!

Mom and Dad: Good.

Nurse: What would you like to name him?

(Pauses and looks confused)

Dad: Good?

Mom: Good’s not a name…

Grandma: How about Brendan?

Mom: Hmm….Brendan…

Nurse and Grandma: Brendan’s a nice name.

Mom and Dad: Good.

So that’s me, Brendan “Good” O’Hara, age sixteen and invisible. That’s good. That’s real good.

Archer

This entire town is a shithole. It’s about one-fifth the size of the city and a million times worse. It looks like it came straight from a fucking movie, you know, the ones with the rich bastards driving in and out of school in their gay-ass Beamers? The whole place reeks of hicks and rednecks. Of all fucking places to send me it had to be this hell in the middle of nowhere. Fuck the government.

I glare at the Michigans, the ass-fucking family that’s “housing” me for the time being. I have one year to kill until I get kicked out of the foster home system, one last fucking year. My social worker, this fat-ass bitch named Ellen said this was my last chance, this or juvie hall. I’ve been here for three days and juvie hall is looking more and more appealing. The Michigans homeschool their three freak kids and if it weren’t for the fact that I have some rights, I’d probably be home schooled right alongside them right now.

Just thinking about it makes me cringe. I need a smoke before I erupt. Stupid fuckers.

The Michigans crinkle their noses at my smell when I walk back into their stupid little house.

“Have you been smoking, son?” Mr. Michigan asks me sternly.

I want to tell him I’m not his fucking son and I never will be but I don’t. I just shrug.

“Maybe.”

“Now, son, you know smoking isn’t good for your health. Mrs. Michigan and I, we’ve been praying for you since before you arrived…”

I tune him out by the time he hits the word ‘praying.’ I really don’t care what he has to say. For the first time in my fucking life I’m actually desperate to go to school. This just shows you how freaky these Michigans are. They’re fucking kids are like that too. Weirdos, the whole lot of them. They’re thirteen, twelve and ten and I think they’re lecturing me about smoking. I’m not sure though because they’re using weird, really long words and quoting too many numbers so I just nod at odd intervals like I care. Fuckers.

Apparently there is no bus that drives people to and from school in this town. At least, not for the high school people. Mr. Michigan explained this to me on the first day of school but he repeats again because I wasn’t exactly listening. Then, for some reason, he tells me to grab my backpack because we’re going across the street. It’s eight fifteen in the morning, okay? My brain isn’t working properly. So I just do what he says because I’m too tired to argue and follow him across the street.

When I first came to town I knew immediately that I was staying in the cheapside of it. But Hicksville’s cheapside is in pretty good shape compared to some of the shit I’ve seen in the city. It’s kinda run-down and there’s a bit of litter but overall it looks okay. Actually, the entire town reminds me of the one in this book called the Outsiders that my ninth grade teacher forced us all to read.

I yawn a couple times as Mr. Michigan starts to knock sharply on the door. I hear some people start to yell inside and I wonder if they’re beating the crap out of each other. Mr. Michigan looks slightly disapproving but overall unconcerned by the yelling. I guess it’s normal. I wouldn’t know-I spent the last few days locked up in the dumbass room I have to share with the oldest Michigan kid, Mathias.

Finally, after what feels like an hour, the door cracks open before swinging aside completely.

Ice…

I finish my toast and chocolate milk, just as somebody starts knocking on the door. I glance at my brothers worriedly because what is it’s a government social dude on a surprise visit? The house is in pretty good shape but my room sure as hell isn’t! We swallow hard and dart our eyes towards the window but we can’t see anything. Suddenly, there’s a crash and I fall out of the chair because I leaned to far back.

A whole commotion starts up then, with us yelling across the kitchen at each other. Then, I finally get up to go answer the door seeing as to how I am the only one fully dressed and hiss at my brothers to run and get changed.

I swing the door open a crack and peek out. But instead of a primly dressed pole-up-the-ass social person it’s Mr. Michigan, looking down at me stiffly. I swing the door open reluctantly.

“Hi Mr. Michigan,” I say robotically.

Mr. Michigan isn’t exactly the first person I want to see outside of the family in the mornings. He’s like Ned Flanders from the Simpsons only less gay and more of a stiff. He’s huge, too, like six feet something and he’s got a bit of a belly. Mrs. Michigan is like the perfect housewife. Everybody in the neighbourhood calls her Miss Fifty because she’s like one of those fifties, you guessed it, housewives. She bakes pies in the summers and doles them out around the neighbourhood to everyone in her favour. We usually get one or two since Clark’s a cop.

Suddenly I notice that Mr. Michigan isn’t alone because he shifts slightly and I catch sight of slightly hairy legs, black baggy shorts and scruffy old shoes that look like they came from a garbage bin. Not that I’m one to talk. I probably look exactly like that, minus the hair legs.

Mr. Michigan shifts completely now and says stiffly,

“Kelly, this is Tom Archer, the foster child Mrs. Michigan and I have taken in as I’m sure you already know…”

I ignore him but examine Tom Archer. No, in fact I didn’t know the Michigans were taking in a foster kid and…

“…drive him to school, as your brother may have told you.”

…no, I didn’t know we were supposed to take him to school.

“Well?” Mr. Michigan says.

“Huh?”

Thankfully, my brothers swoop in and save my ass.

“Hey Mr. Mich,” says Flynn, “who’s the dude?”

Mr. Michigan frowns.

“Michigan, son, my name is Mr. Michigan. And this boy,” he says, stressing the words Michigan and boy, “is Tom Archer, whom I expect the three of you will be taking to school. I have already discussed it with your brother, Clark.”

“Um, well, you see, Clark didn’t exactly say anything to us but whatever. Tom can hitch a ride,” says Max.

“It’s Archer,” Tom Archer mutters under his breath, glaring at Mr. Michigan.

I smirk. Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks the Michigans are freaks.

“And I’m Ice,” I say smoothly. “Let’s just keep it at that.”