Biting The Hand That Feeds One

Chapter 1

In the detention room of a local high school in Jamaica, a teenager was perched on a desk awaiting the bell. His dark brown eyes were glued to the clock, as the ticks and the clicking of a detention teacher typing away were the only sounds heard.
The teenager had on a black hoodie, with blue navy jeans and rugged sandy boots. His face showed boredom, as his lips would smack after several minutes pass by slowly. His hair was braided into cornrows, which he’d redo and undo at a snail’s pace to kill time. His criminal like appearance revealed a vague personality of his true self, as no conversation occurred with the teen or the teacher.
His teacher continued to work on the desktop computer, his lips moving tranquilly as well as his thin goatee. He was large man; chunky at the waist and hips, with a blue collared shirt and brown khakis, plus brown shoes. His expression was neutral, as it almost appeared that he could care less of the teen’s being.
The teenager’s dark brown eyes locked on the occupied teacher as he slowly placed his brown boots on his desk. Purposely performing this to spark a feud, the teacher glared at the boy. “Feet off the desk, Mr. Anthony.”
“It’s Tyrell,” said the teen, putting only one leg down.
“We go through this episode with you everyday, Mr. Anthony.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” smirked the teen known as Tyrell. He realizes the teacher’s annoyance, as he finally drops his remaining leg. “Say Mr. Jones, something wrong with your clock. This period is taking too damn long!” Mr. Jones, the detention teacher, doesn’t reply. He returns back to typing on his computer, adding another detention day on Tyrell’s record.
“I know you hear me,” said Tyrell, forcefully. Tyrell lets out a tedious yawn stretching out his upper body. “Damn, this clock is taking too long!”
“Well,” blurted Mr. Jones, “considering how many times you’ve been in my detention room, I would think that you’ve calculated the minutes for you to leave by now.” Tyrell scowls at Mr. Jones, parroting his remark. He then intimidates Mr. Jones by setting his boots back on his desk.
Unexpectedly, Mr. Jones ceased his typing slamming his rough hands on his counter. He arises from his seat, with his eyes burning with rage while Tyrell looks at him with amusement. “Look at yourself, Tyrell. Here’s what’s wrong with the black community today.”
“Aw, shit,” groaned Tyrell. “Here we go again.”
“That’s right, here I go again. And I’m going to keep preaching it, until it soaks into that impenetrable head of yours. What’s happened to you? Your grades have practically diminished; your attendance is not worthy of being called satisfying, and you always find yourself in my detention room. Dammit, I get tired of seeing your face in here!”
“It’s fun here,” joked Tyrell. “As a matter of fact, if more teachers spend their time talking about nothing like you, I wouldn’t be in here from the start.” Mr. Jones face bloated rouge red, infuriated at Tyrell’s comical statements. He rubs his head frantically, trying to pierce into the hard skull of the lost student.
“Do you even hear yourself talking that bull, Mr. Anthony?” Tyrell doesn’t answer, instead his eyes shifted back on the clock awaiting the bell to mute the teacher. “I mean I just don’t understand you anymore. Surely you weren’t like this before. You were never like this. Ever since your father…”
Mr. Jones instantly stopped, as a defiant and cold stare was made by Tyrell. It almost seemed as if the anger has been transferred from teacher to student. Tyrell’s glare completely diminished the teacher’s voice, as the bell rang furiously. Packing up, he still glowered at him exiting out of the detention room.
Tyrell approached face to face with a furious crowd of students, rushing to the buses. Sucking his teeth in displeasure, he slowly slipped with the flow of traffic. As he heads for the exit door, he thought about what Mr. Jones said. He was right unfortunately—ever since his father was found dead, he did lost control with his academics. Yet the shock of the death still affected him as he now hustles in the streets, selling drugs and robbing small stores.
Finally slipping out of the pack, he heads for the school parking lot. As he puts on a black cap on his head, he pinpointed his vehicle. It was an old rusty Chevrolet, with tainted rims and dim tan paint. The antennae of the car had been snapped off by a margin, and the front glass window was grimy around the edges. Tyrell slowly enters the car stating the ignition; a huge ball of smoke from the exhaust pipe would always be presentable before the car began movement.
Tyrell, examining anything near him from the rear view mirror, quickly snatches a bag of marijuana from his pocket. As he opens the glove compartment, several items slipped out plopping on the floor. He cursed under his breath, as one of the items that fell was a pistol, which was one of the first scooped back into the slot.
He began shoveling the falling objects back inside the compartment gradually. When he reached the last object, he stopped to examine it closely. The color presented a weak contrast, but Tyrell could see with ease that it was picture of his father. Beside him was a younger version of Tyrell; they were both gripping a brand new football. Their expressions brought a warm feeling through the picture; regrettably it wasn’t warm enough to infiltrate the bowels of Tyrell’s cold soul. His eyes flashed as he flipped the picture back with the rest of the items.
He suddenly realized that his vehicle has turned off, another decrepit effect from the car. He cranks it backs up as he rolled out of the school premises and onward to his house.