Wuthering high: a bard academy novel by Cara Lockwood

Author:Cara Lockwood [Lockwood, Cara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Illinois, Horror, English literature, Horror & Ghost Stories, Boarding schools, Schools, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Stepfamilies, School & Education, Mysteries & Detective Stories, United States, Fantasy & Magic, People & Places, Fiction, Family, High school students, General, High schools, Juvenile delinquents, Ghosts, Maine, Adolescence
ISBN: 9781416524755
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2006-07-03T23:00:00+00:00

Dear Mom and Dad:

Thanks for sending me to school with felons and drug dealers. I’m learning all the basic life skills, including setting fire to objects and how to make deadly weapons out of my hairbrush. I’ve met my husband-to-be here. He’s 28, a pyromaniac, and a convicted felon, but we’re in love and we want to get married.

If I play my cards right, my stay at Bard Academy will be no longer than a week.

I glance out the bus window and see the ferry leave. There goes my chance for escape, I think.

Pyro, the guy with the lighter, is staring at me rather intently. Those boots he’s got on are weird. Maybe that’s the trend among gangbangers this year. Dress like Charles Dickens.

Thompson — the weird driver — slides into his seat, still smoking, and slams the door shut.

“I’d tell you to fasten your seat belts, but there aren’t any,” he says, grinning mischievously. “So you brats better just hang on to something.”

He grounds the gears of the bus and takes off with squealing tires, lurching from side to side, nearly flinging me out of my seat. I watch as he blows right past a STOP sign without even slowing down, and nearly careens into the gates by the port.

Unbelievable. My parents have sent me to Nowhere Island to die. I grab hold of the seat in front of me. The Goth kids blow clove smoke at me and seem unperturbed. Pyro scowls.

This is so going in the letter. Thompson has broken at least four rules of the road in the last five minutes, not to mention reckless endangerment of minors. I take a picture of Thompson with my camera phone. He’s rummaging around in the glove compartment and not even paying attention to the road. I look at my phone, but his face is all blurred, his features indistinguishable. Odd.

I look at the signal bars on the phone. I get one every now and then, but it doesn’t stay long enough for me to make a phone call. I am convinced I’m going to die on this bus.

No one in the bus but me seems at all disturbed by Thompson’s driving. I guess they don’t have anything to live for.

We drive for what feels like days down a winding, two-lane road. Luckily, we pass no other cars because Thompson is weaving in and out of his lane like my paternal grandma after she’s had one too many Amaretto sours. We nearly avoid careening off a cliff when one side of the road crawls up a mountain, giving the guardrail a slight dusting. I’m beginning to feel very car sick. I don’t know if it’s Thompson’s driving or the fact that I’m frantically writing down every new near-death experience in my letter to Mom.

I take a break from writing and watch as tree after tree whizzes by my window. The forest is so thick that it’s grown out past the side of the road, over the guardrails, and a few branches are so long that they whip against the windows of the bus.

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