Threads of the Tapestry

Heaving a heavy sigh of defeat, Mesha tossed the black and red toned backpack lazily over his back. It\'s contents of books, binders, pencils, papers, and school-use electronics weighed heavily and improperly slung over his left shoulder. All of the writing was in English, and Mesha never really learned much of the dumb language. He knew Arabic, Israeli, and Russian; but English, he never really paid much attention to. Set in a thick Russian accent from living born and raised as a Russian schoolboy, Mesha sneered at his father.

"But, why I have to go learn here? I have no need to learn this country. I am not good with English, see?" Luckily for him, his father had both hands full of dishes.

"You little PUNK," came the retort, in perfectly accented Arab-toned English. "It is not that hard to pick up the local language." Quickly, the man switched to Arabic, his own most comfortable tongue. "You will learn English, and learn it well. You will be as American as you can get, boy, even if I have to whip it into your brain. There will be no more Russian in the home for you; and no more Arabic or Israeli. You hear me? For every syllable that is not English, I will put a bruise on you!" Mesha rolled his eyes. He knew his father would do it; just because he was in a calmer mood at the moment, didn\'t mean he did not mean business. He had to hand it to his mother; she sure knew how to keep him in a better mood - in the morning. That usually wore off around eleven. He\'d just be coming home when his father was ripe in his foul mood - oh joy.

Sighing defeatedly, he tugged open the ugly, elaborate crystal and brushed steel door, and stepped outside onto the cobblestone walkway. His mother had been spending her time helping the gardener, a quiet older American man named Paul. Neither of his parents could let other people do all the work for them; that was why they both found things to do that the staff hadn\'t done yet. Honestly speaking, his father selling the plant was the best thing that\'d ever happened to them; but even still, his father was bitter. 17 million soon grew to 22 million, along with a 5 million dollar home, 6 cars, and no job to bother with to bring home the money. Mesha could get used to this life, and rather liked the fact that the staff did all the work he was supposed to be doing. Of course, he was still forced to clean his room, and fix whatever his father knew he saw needing done. Mesha\'s attitude was \'there\'s staff, why bother?\' but he argument always ended up in a few wounds for Mesha, and the claim that he was instilling values in his son.

Annoyed, Mesha trudged along the roaming grasses of their property, and finally reached the gate. He had half a mind to pretend to go to school far enough that his father believed he was going, and ditch it; but, thanks to the stupid call-back system that America had, he couldn\'t. The iron gate opened slowly after he struck the button. He was supposed to wait long enough to see that it\'d closed itself, but he really couldn\'t give a flying fuck about the stupid gate. So, as soon as he\'d gotten enough space to slip through, he did so, and kept on going towards the general direction of the school. This street was hideous, or so he thought. The area was most definitely the upper end of the city, and everyone had their gates, manicured lawns, frou-frou dogs, and well-dressed children. He himself would much rather live in a little dark apartment somewhere, all on his own. But he had no choice yet, and he\'d soak in the life while he could - even if it was dull. Even the trees down this road was immaculately perfect; he hated it. He wanted to take a hack-saw to them, and show people that all this was only skin deep, that there was more to life than cushy living, and feeling that drug-induced state of happy that wasn\'t real. He wanted everyone down this God-forsaken street that life was a huge pile of horse shit, in which we wallow and roll about in like flies, and then we die. That\'s it. No after life, no joy, no point in existence whatsoever. Just horse shit. But, he never did. He\'d get murdered by his father the second he knew that he\'d done something like that.



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Lazily, Mesha slouched into his chair, set behind a tiny-ass little desk only big enough for half a book. He felt awkward in the steel desk, like he was being caged and forced to slouch and feel one of the masses, like a member of the Borg. He was going to have a rough time putting up with these seats; his temper would be short.

"Anna Gales?" spoke out the bookish looking Homeroom Teacher, whose voice was quite nasal.

"Here." the corresponding female called out, whom was dressed in a red dress that resembled a picnic blanket.

"Avery Ball?"

"Here."

"Brandon Flotsam?"

"Yo." This was going to take forever, Mesha thought, as he closed his eyes. Now, to them, he was James Steel; M was much quicker than J.

"Chelsea Magnum?....Chelsea?" the teacher glanced up, and her eyes fell upon a young girl, whom had fallen asleep. "She\'s here...at least. Christopher Longham?" a few students giggled at the last name, to which the teacher simply rolled her eyes.

"Yeah." This one was obviously a sports guy; he was ripped, and looked like he had the IQ of a gnat.

"Derrick Starve?"

"Whatver." Now him, Mesha might be able to get along with. Goth most certainly; but at least he was just was resisting of being here. He looked like he was about to cry or something; perhaps that was just the makeup. He\'d have to see more about this one, he thought, as the teacher asked for a few more people. All four weren\'t present.

"I guess we\'re having a small homeroom today, kids. Henry Mark?"

"Here!" exclaimed the nerd in the front row. Mesha was surprised that the kid didn\'t have a computer with him, or some scientific calculator.

"Jeniviv Du Quatre?" Mesha glanced around for a response, but no one said anything. "Jeniviv?" the teacher glanced up, a curious expression on her face. "That\'s odd, Jeniviv never misses a class...Hmm. Okay. James Steel?" Now was his chance to really make sure no one took him too lightly. For emphasis, he stood.

"My fuckin\' name is Mesha. James is legal name. Call me James, I kill you." sure his accent and poor English was terrible; but at least he got the point across.

"...Right. Mesha. Don\'t swear, and don\'t threaten anyone. Maybe in Russia threatening other people to get your way is common, but here it isn\'t. That\'s your only warning. I hope you can get used to American customs quickly, for your own good."

"Yeah. Sure, whatever lady." he sat down, ignoring the amused glances of the students around him. One girl glared at him, as if she was ashamed or embarrassed that he\'d taken such an attitude. Goth-boy Derrick gave him a slight thumbs up, which Mesha acknowledged with a smirk of his own.

"Okay, moving on...Kait-" the teacher begun, but was interrupted by a mass at the door, which Mesha couldn\'t quite see from his perch at the back of the class. "Oh. Jeniviv. Come in." The girl who walked in was beautiful; she had long, straight brown hair, accented with tones of lighter and darker streaks. Her eyes were crystal blue, and her skin was pale and tanned. What he liked more though, was the look of absolute unamusement; the same one he\'d had up until now. She was dressed in an anti-feminine leather jacket, and flared blue-jeans.

"Sorry. Dad\'s car broke down a mile off." she spoke dully, and took the seat 2 rows beside Mesha, behind Goth-boy. "That\'s fine, Jeniviv. I know telling you the dress code is pointless, but you know that we don\'t allow leather here." Mesha\'s eyebrow rose. He was wearing a leather trench coat himself. "You too, Mesha." Well, that answered his question. He wasn\'t about to take off his identity; maybe he could pass it off as some kind of religious dress or something.

"Oh please, Miss Harvey. As if we\'re going to change our clothing because the principal is some chicken-ass old man who thinks leather means we\'re in a gang. Just try to pass that off with our parents. They\'re not going to enforce that stupid rule."

"Jeniviv, language..." the teacher spoke, ignoring her little confrontation. Interesting, Mesha thought, smirking at the teacher\'s response to her. This one didn\'t care if her students were lippy, it seemed. Perhaps this country wasn\'t so bad after all.



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AN: First, the chapter name is symbolic, not literal. Second, I don\'t know any language accept English, so everything spoken in other languages will be in English. Lol.



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