Read Online Farsighted (Farsighted Series) by Emlyn Chand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emlyn Chand
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the poor, tired vehicle away faster than it’s meant to go.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Dad mutters under his breath as the car gives signs of a possible rebellion.
I smirk. Guess the van and I have similar allegiances these days.
“Hey, you seem upset lately,” Dad says, changing his tone. “What’s been going on?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounded genuinely concerned for my wellbeing.
“Oh, you know. Just busy with the new school year and falling a bit behind because of the fight and being sick yesterday. I’m much better today,” I say, patting my chest in what I hope is a display of the virile strength of youth.
Dad grunts in affirmation.
Good. He bought my explanation. No way am I telling him about my feelings for Simmi or about the hallucinations or about spending time with Miss Teak and Shapri. Absolutely no way.
Dad coughs and chokes on some spittle, like something on the road has surprised him. “So, you made any new friends?” he asks in a strained voice. “Or how about girls? Any cute new girls at school this year?”
“No,” I affirm. “No friends, no girls. Just some very interesting classes.” I’m not telling Dad about Simmi, and what is going on with that accent of his anyway? It comes out more often than not now, when he used to only slip-up on rare occasions.
Dad inhales. He’s probably about to go into some unprovoked rant or long-winded story.
Instead of giving him the chance, I decide to elaborate on my very interesting classes. “Like Advanced Chem, I can tell it’s going to be great. The teacher Mr. Brown, well, actually, he insists we call him Dr. Brown, he seems really smart. We’re going to be learning about acids and alkalis this week, you know, rookie material, before we can move into more advanced chemical compounds, isotopes alloys—all the good chemistry stuff.”
“That sounds great, Alex. I was never very good at chemistry. I was always better in social studies, learning how the human brain works, why certain people do the things they do, why—”
I can see what Dad’s trying to do, trying to segue into a discussion about my so-called problems. No, thank you. “I’m not much a fan of the social sciences,” I say, raising my voice up and down in an imitation of excitement. “This semester, Mrs. Warszynski is teaching World History. Man, she is tough. Goes on and on about dates and figures and important people and whatever. It’s hard to type as fast as she speaks, and I can type pretty fast. Well, you know, you converted the notes from when I was absent. She’s something else, she is, Mrs. Warszynski. On the first day of class, the first day, she jumps into a lecture about Tsarist Russia…” I recall every piece of information I remember from that lecture and keep talking, barely pausing long enough to gasp for air between my hap-dash run-on sentences.
Finally, we arrive at school. I’ve successfully held off Dad’s questioning, at least for today, at least for this car ride. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away with doing the same thing on the way home. I reach for the door handle, eager to be free, but at that exact moment all the locks on the van click shut.
“Alex, I got a call from your guidance counselor yesterday. She said that you weren’t just sick. Said you had a mental episode of some sort.”
What? She said she wouldn’t call. God, I don’t want to deal with this right now. I decide to sit and listen until he’s done, then make a break for it as fast as I can.
“Listen, I understand. It’s hard growing up and all of that. But I really need you to quit making a public spectacle of yourself. I haven’t told Mom, because there’s no point in upsetting her over this. But you need to get a better grip on reality, okay? And I need you to be honest with me and willing to talk about whatever you think is going on here. Got it?”
I snap my fingers in assent and return my hand to the door handle.
Dad unlocks
“C’mon, c’mon,” Dad mutters under his breath as the car gives signs of a possible rebellion.
I smirk. Guess the van and I have similar allegiances these days.
“Hey, you seem upset lately,” Dad says, changing his tone. “What’s been going on?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounded genuinely concerned for my wellbeing.
“Oh, you know. Just busy with the new school year and falling a bit behind because of the fight and being sick yesterday. I’m much better today,” I say, patting my chest in what I hope is a display of the virile strength of youth.
Dad grunts in affirmation.
Good. He bought my explanation. No way am I telling him about my feelings for Simmi or about the hallucinations or about spending time with Miss Teak and Shapri. Absolutely no way.
Dad coughs and chokes on some spittle, like something on the road has surprised him. “So, you made any new friends?” he asks in a strained voice. “Or how about girls? Any cute new girls at school this year?”
“No,” I affirm. “No friends, no girls. Just some very interesting classes.” I’m not telling Dad about Simmi, and what is going on with that accent of his anyway? It comes out more often than not now, when he used to only slip-up on rare occasions.
Dad inhales. He’s probably about to go into some unprovoked rant or long-winded story.
Instead of giving him the chance, I decide to elaborate on my very interesting classes. “Like Advanced Chem, I can tell it’s going to be great. The teacher Mr. Brown, well, actually, he insists we call him Dr. Brown, he seems really smart. We’re going to be learning about acids and alkalis this week, you know, rookie material, before we can move into more advanced chemical compounds, isotopes alloys—all the good chemistry stuff.”
“That sounds great, Alex. I was never very good at chemistry. I was always better in social studies, learning how the human brain works, why certain people do the things they do, why—”
I can see what Dad’s trying to do, trying to segue into a discussion about my so-called problems. No, thank you. “I’m not much a fan of the social sciences,” I say, raising my voice up and down in an imitation of excitement. “This semester, Mrs. Warszynski is teaching World History. Man, she is tough. Goes on and on about dates and figures and important people and whatever. It’s hard to type as fast as she speaks, and I can type pretty fast. Well, you know, you converted the notes from when I was absent. She’s something else, she is, Mrs. Warszynski. On the first day of class, the first day, she jumps into a lecture about Tsarist Russia…” I recall every piece of information I remember from that lecture and keep talking, barely pausing long enough to gasp for air between my hap-dash run-on sentences.
Finally, we arrive at school. I’ve successfully held off Dad’s questioning, at least for today, at least for this car ride. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away with doing the same thing on the way home. I reach for the door handle, eager to be free, but at that exact moment all the locks on the van click shut.
“Alex, I got a call from your guidance counselor yesterday. She said that you weren’t just sick. Said you had a mental episode of some sort.”
What? She said she wouldn’t call. God, I don’t want to deal with this right now. I decide to sit and listen until he’s done, then make a break for it as fast as I can.
“Listen, I understand. It’s hard growing up and all of that. But I really need you to quit making a public spectacle of yourself. I haven’t told Mom, because there’s no point in upsetting her over this. But you need to get a better grip on reality, okay? And I need you to be honest with me and willing to talk about whatever you think is going on here. Got it?”
I snap my fingers in assent and return my hand to the door handle.
Dad unlocks
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