True Intentions Read Online Free Page B

Apparently, Grandpa is right: no inner-city kids here.
    My 1999 black Jeep looks so plain compared to the other cars. Guess I'm the needle. I'm not complaining. I'm actually grateful my grandfather has this older Jeep versus me being without a car or stuck driving their Buick Regal. I'm not sure which of those two options is worse? But thankfully, Grandpa thinks I need a vehicle with four-wheel drive in this mountain community.
    There really must be a God.
    My Jeep does have one big drawback; it's a five speed. A video with me driving a stick shift has to be worth some sort of prize as a funny video for YouTube . I barely have any driving experience to begin with, much less with a five speed. I've only read about them in driver's education. Never in a million years did I think I'd someday actually drive one. Luckily, Gramps has been very patient, taking me out driving for several hours a day. But today, I'm completely on my own . . . . Yikes!
    The noises of some other cars pulling into the lot interrupt my thoughts.
    "Thank God," I mutter, realizing some students here actually have normal looking cars. At least now, there are a couple more needles. Maybe I'll eventually fit in here after all. I turn off the ignition and make my way toward the front office.
    Rim of the World, here I come . . . .
    The weather is extremely pleasant, considering its February and over 60 degrees.
    It's usually only in the 10-20 degree range back home this time of year. At least I have that benefit working in my favor.
    How can I stay depressed with great weather?
    I open the large, framed door to the school with my hunter green backpack strung across my right shoulder. I brought this backpack 'cause it matches the atmosphere here. After all, I'm in the middle of the San Bernardino National Forest.
    Plus, I'd rather carry a backpack over a purse any day.
    There it is, I think to myself, noticing the office sign up ahead.
    I walk briskly to the office, fearful of drawing too much attention from students out in the halls.
    "Miss O'Brian?" a tender voice says in a low tone from behind the desk. I have to search around the counter to see who is actually talking to me. Yet she has a clear view of me coming inside the door.
    "Yes." My voice is barely audible.
    "We have been expecting you. Welcome to Rim of the World High School." A slight smile sweeps across her face while she looks me over. I'd guess she is in her late twenties or early thirties. A stunning diamond sits on her ring finger.

    "Thank you very much," I manage to spit out, attempting an artificial smile. I'm trying not to appear as miserable as I feel starting a new high school in the middle of the year.
    "Here is your welcome packet," she exclaims. Her enthusiasm is nauseating.
    "Enclosed are several important items: a map of our school, your class schedule, your parking pass application, your locker number, and combination, and, lastly, a contact directory of the school faculty."
    By her exaggerated expression to a simple welcome packet, it must be her creation.
    "Oh, uh . . . thank you. This valuable information will be very helpful," I agree, once again throwing out my fake smile.
    Maybe an Oscar could be in my future? I am pretty close to L.A.
    "Please let us know if you have any questions or concerns." Then she looks down, getting reabsorbed with whatever project she was working on prior to my arrival.
    For several moments, I stand against the counter not wanting to leave the safety of the office.
    I think I can, I think I can, I remind myself, remembering my dad reading the story about the little, blue train that overcame self-doubt.
    I can do this.
    I tuck the informational packet under my arm and head out into the unknown.
    It's like driving in a strange, new city without a real-time GPS. Once outside the office, I sit on an older, wooden bench and look for my first classroom on the overly complicated campus map.
    "I wouldn't even bother looking at that dumb thing," says a young,