Playtime

"Lucas, c'mon buddy, time for school." Horace Mason's gruff, tired voice broke his 11 year old son's slumber almost instantaneously. The sleeper groaned and shuffled underneath his covers in a lazy protest.

"Hey, I'm not gonna ask again nicely," The tired voice turned irate almost immediately, "If you get late again, don't count on me to bail you out of detention, mister." Even in his sleepy state, Lucas knew how legitimate that threat was. He hand instinctively flopped around his nightstand for his glasses. Content that his message went through, Horace's leaning form retracted outside and he trudged down the stairs with heavy steps, muttering expletives about having to wake up early each morning.

Lucas sat up and stared at the door from his single bed that was tucked against the far wall. He dreaded the process of getting ready for school, because it'd make him a step closer to actually going to school. Just the thought of it made him queasy; walking through the wrought iron gate, up the rough grey stairs, the fourth step of which was chipped, so you had to either go over it or around it; then through those choking hallways with all those kids. He tried his best not to think about Lionel Hernandez and his cronies prowling about, looking for prey. And past all that were the classes he so loathed. He could almost see Mrs Paul's evil eyes scanning his English homework and reading it aloud for the class to giggle and laugh at. He hoped against hope that some divine force would wipe that dreadful building off the face of the planet, but Brahms Public School had probably stood faithfully against worse calamities.

He sighed and stood in front of the mirror. Short and slightly pudgy, he tried his best every morning to hide his attributes. Messing with his hair to take the attention away from his thick, round glasses, tugging his t shirt to hide the baby fat that made him bear the brunt of the jokes from other classmates, standing on his toes to appear taller, all of these were a part of Lucas Mason's morning ritual of getting himself ready for school.

Walking down towards the living room, he passed his sister's bedroom and heard the subdued sound of rock music seeping through the closed door. Aubery's door was always closed whenever she was in the house, which was a rare occasion in itself. Once almost inseparable in their adventures and gallivanting, his sister nowadays seemed content in denying Lucas's existence altogether, be it in school or anywhere else. Except, of course, when she dumped his chores on him or yelled at him to get out of her room.

He came down to the usual scenery of his father sitting on the couch in his boxers and vest, angrily staring at the newspaper with squinted eyes, and his mother scurrying about the place, already dressed for work. She saw Lucas come in and smiled at her son.

"Good morning Mr. sleepyhead." She sang in her pleasant voice, "Come, sit." Lucas pulled back a chair and sat down as a plate slid in front of him. Gianna scurried to and fro from the table and the kitchen and soon enough, Lucas forgot about his daily torment as he saw his smiling mother heap his plate full of steaming pancakes.

"Thanks mom." Lucas beamed and dug into his breakfast, after draping it with copious amounts of syrup. His mom ruffled his hair and served the next batch to his dad. "Horace, I'm running late. The clients are already at the site. Will you tell Aubery that her pancakes are in the casserole on the kitchen shelf?" She spoke urgently while running about, gathering her keys and purse. His father grunted bitterly, having his attention broken from the crossword for a single, crucial moment.

"Mom," Lucas spoke timidly as she passed by him in a blur, his mouth full of pancake.

"Yes, honey?" Gianna replied, distracted as she was looking in the mirror near the key holder and tying up her frizzy hair with commendable dexterity, moments away from stepping outside the house.

Lucas swallowed, "I had that dream again last night." In the background, His father sighed indignantly. Lucas made sure to only talk to his mom about his bothers. His father, for some reason, got inexplicably angry whenever he approached him with anything.