Nt1310 Unit 6 Assignment 1
Assignment One
Charlotte Johnston been sitting at a black top table surrounded by a group of chatty students her own age. And hadn't been paying much attention to what the teacher was saying, because everything zoned out, besides appearances and movements. Mr. Hube was wearing a bright purple sweater with tan khakis, and was extra fidgety. Something got him all hot and bothered, and it was obvious. His pale blue eyes glanced the room, and the pauses, he worried his lower lip, driving Charlotte crazy, that his outfit choice was bold for a teacher and that he appeared nervous to speak in front of his own class.
“Lottie,” an intrusive voice said.
“She’s in her own head. She can't hear you,” a know-it-all voice said.
Charlotte with a jerk of her head, faced the two voices. Jessamine and Lucy. …show more content…
There's Jessamine, a tall dainty girl with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a “pretty” smile, that would have looked genuinely pleased and woman like, if it wasn't for pompous personality and snobbish looks, she flashed at her “in superiors.” On the other hand, Lucy was the opposite. Standing at an average height, some would call her height, medium, and curvy with medium brown hair, that looked black, and light brown eyes. She was always been easy to get along with, and you could laugh and talk anything with.
“See, she heard me.” Lucy offered Charlotte a smile.
“Eventually.” Was all Jessamine had to say.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Oh, the homework. Did you -.”
A woman in a dull classical gray pants suit walked into the class and up to the teacher, and whispered something in the teacher’s ear. The room had gone silent, and Mr. Hube’s anxious eyes, were anxious than they were before, when they landed squarely in Charlotte.
“Someone’s in trouble.” Jessamine had folded her arms over her chest and stuck her chin up.
Lucy behind Jessamine’s back rolled her eyes. The pantsuit woman with her steely gray eyes and indifferent looks, glanced at Charlotte.
“Charlotte, Mrs. Blanchard from Social Services would like to speak to you,” Mr. Hube said.
Charlotte couldn't have dreaded this moment more than she had now. Twirling her hair rainbow striped hair, she got up, avoiding all contact, Jessamine’s judging look, that was burning through her. Walking out, she braced herself against a table and stared at the ground.
“Charlotte, I don't have any good news for you and I just want you to know that the school is here for you,” Mrs. Blanchard said.
Sounds like every school's motto, Charlotte thought, instead said: “And what's the bad news?”
“We just got a call that your mother died on the way to the hospital, after she got into a car accident.”
The person Charlotte ever liked at home was her mother. Tessa Johnston was described as beautiful - or at least Charlotte thought so -, with chestnut-brown hair that flowed in waves down her back, with matching brown eyes and a cheerful smile - or was cheerful. Charlotte saw Tessa change. It all began when her dad, Rich Johnston, lost his job a few years ago, and instead of telling Tessa, and finding a new job, had decided to resort to going to bars, during the day, to act like he was at work, which had led to his abusive alcoholic personality. Asking how his day at work was, the response she would get was that his day was “fine”. It has not at all been “fine,” and never had been. Rich would come home and would take his rage on whoever was near him, which had ended up being Tessa or Charlotte, herself. But Charlotte had avoided her family since then. Her mother been too busy crying in the locked up bathroom, makeup smearing down her cheeks, revealing the purple and blue bruises of abuse, never noticed, nor did Rich, too busy wasting to liquor and breaking furniture. Charlotte stayed at a friends’ houses, the parents had many concerns for her, like “aren’t your parents wondering where you are?”, and the typical answer was “oh, no. It's fine.” That was a lie, but her parents never wondered. She would either spend the night into morning at a friend’s house or come home late and sneak into her bedroom window. A typical routine for her. Go home with someone, sneak into the bedroom, and listen to her mother cry through the walls.
“Oh.” Charlotte said.
“The thing is…” Mrs. Blanchard trailed off, as if she was coming to a topic that was sensitive.
Charlotte just scuffed the toe of her boot into the odd colored carpet.
“The thing is,” Mrs. Blanchard restarted, “you can’t live at home anymore. With your father’s condition, he can't claim you.”
Rich wouldn't claim her anyway; he treated her as if she were a fly on the wall, that was bugging him. She could find a friend's house to live in for the next few years, until she turned eighteen.
“I could stay with a friend,” Charlotte offered.
“A friend’s house?” Mrs. Blanchard raised a brow.
“Yeah, I have friends who wouldn't mind.”
“I’m sure you do.” Mrs. Blanchard crossed her arms. “It is best if we find a home for you.”
“What you mean?” Stammered Charlotte.
“I believe it would be best if we put you in a foster home.” A hopeful smile appeared on Mrs. Blanchard’s face.
“I...I can't!”
“It’s not that bad. You’ll be with people who will love you, you might even have a sibling or two.”
“Not that bad? What do you mean?” Charlotte also crossed her arms. “I will have a family, but I will be away from here - from school. I have friends here.”
Mrs. Blanchard glanced skyward and then at the ground, all while letting out a deep sigh. “It'll be hard at first. I don't know what it's like, but the first time is always the hardest, and hopefully it'll be the last.”
“What will happen today? I just go home, grab my things, and find a group home?” Charlotte’s heart had started a race in her chest, and her mind couldn't comprehend what was happening.
“No. We already found a group home for you. All you have today is grabbing your things and find the address we give
you.”
Charlotte Johnston been sitting at a black top table surrounded by a group of chatty students her own age. And hadn't been paying much attention to what the teacher was saying, because everything zoned out, besides appearances and movements. Mr. Hube was wearing a bright purple sweater with tan khakis, and was extra fidgety. Something got him all hot and bothered, and it was obvious. His pale blue eyes glanced the room, and the pauses, he worried his lower lip, driving Charlotte crazy, that his outfit choice was bold for a teacher and that he appeared nervous to speak in front of his own class.
“Lottie,” an intrusive voice said.
“She’s in her own head. She can't hear you,” a know-it-all voice said.
Charlotte with a jerk of her head, faced the two voices. Jessamine and Lucy. …show more content…
There's Jessamine, a tall dainty girl with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a “pretty” smile, that would have looked genuinely pleased and woman like, if it wasn't for pompous personality and snobbish looks, she flashed at her “in superiors.” On the other hand, Lucy was the opposite. Standing at an average height, some would call her height, medium, and curvy with medium brown hair, that looked black, and light brown eyes. She was always been easy to get along with, and you could laugh and talk anything with.
“See, she heard me.” Lucy offered Charlotte a smile.
“Eventually.” Was all Jessamine had to say.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Oh, the homework. Did you -.”
A woman in a dull classical gray pants suit walked into the class and up to the teacher, and whispered something in the teacher’s ear. The room had gone silent, and Mr. Hube’s anxious eyes, were anxious than they were before, when they landed squarely in Charlotte.
“Someone’s in trouble.” Jessamine had folded her arms over her chest and stuck her chin up.
Lucy behind Jessamine’s back rolled her eyes. The pantsuit woman with her steely gray eyes and indifferent looks, glanced at Charlotte.
“Charlotte, Mrs. Blanchard from Social Services would like to speak to you,” Mr. Hube said.
Charlotte couldn't have dreaded this moment more than she had now. Twirling her hair rainbow striped hair, she got up, avoiding all contact, Jessamine’s judging look, that was burning through her. Walking out, she braced herself against a table and stared at the ground.
“Charlotte, I don't have any good news for you and I just want you to know that the school is here for you,” Mrs. Blanchard said.
Sounds like every school's motto, Charlotte thought, instead said: “And what's the bad news?”
“We just got a call that your mother died on the way to the hospital, after she got into a car accident.”
The person Charlotte ever liked at home was her mother. Tessa Johnston was described as beautiful - or at least Charlotte thought so -, with chestnut-brown hair that flowed in waves down her back, with matching brown eyes and a cheerful smile - or was cheerful. Charlotte saw Tessa change. It all began when her dad, Rich Johnston, lost his job a few years ago, and instead of telling Tessa, and finding a new job, had decided to resort to going to bars, during the day, to act like he was at work, which had led to his abusive alcoholic personality. Asking how his day at work was, the response she would get was that his day was “fine”. It has not at all been “fine,” and never had been. Rich would come home and would take his rage on whoever was near him, which had ended up being Tessa or Charlotte, herself. But Charlotte had avoided her family since then. Her mother been too busy crying in the locked up bathroom, makeup smearing down her cheeks, revealing the purple and blue bruises of abuse, never noticed, nor did Rich, too busy wasting to liquor and breaking furniture. Charlotte stayed at a friends’ houses, the parents had many concerns for her, like “aren’t your parents wondering where you are?”, and the typical answer was “oh, no. It's fine.” That was a lie, but her parents never wondered. She would either spend the night into morning at a friend’s house or come home late and sneak into her bedroom window. A typical routine for her. Go home with someone, sneak into the bedroom, and listen to her mother cry through the walls.
“Oh.” Charlotte said.
“The thing is…” Mrs. Blanchard trailed off, as if she was coming to a topic that was sensitive.
Charlotte just scuffed the toe of her boot into the odd colored carpet.
“The thing is,” Mrs. Blanchard restarted, “you can’t live at home anymore. With your father’s condition, he can't claim you.”
Rich wouldn't claim her anyway; he treated her as if she were a fly on the wall, that was bugging him. She could find a friend's house to live in for the next few years, until she turned eighteen.
“I could stay with a friend,” Charlotte offered.
“A friend’s house?” Mrs. Blanchard raised a brow.
“Yeah, I have friends who wouldn't mind.”
“I’m sure you do.” Mrs. Blanchard crossed her arms. “It is best if we find a home for you.”
“What you mean?” Stammered Charlotte.
“I believe it would be best if we put you in a foster home.” A hopeful smile appeared on Mrs. Blanchard’s face.
“I...I can't!”
“It’s not that bad. You’ll be with people who will love you, you might even have a sibling or two.”
“Not that bad? What do you mean?” Charlotte also crossed her arms. “I will have a family, but I will be away from here - from school. I have friends here.”
Mrs. Blanchard glanced skyward and then at the ground, all while letting out a deep sigh. “It'll be hard at first. I don't know what it's like, but the first time is always the hardest, and hopefully it'll be the last.”
“What will happen today? I just go home, grab my things, and find a group home?” Charlotte’s heart had started a race in her chest, and her mind couldn't comprehend what was happening.
“No. We already found a group home for you. All you have today is grabbing your things and find the address we give
you.”