After bidding Jimmy farewell, I walked into the Boy's Dorm - this time, the real one - and looked at the room number on my papers. I almost didn't need it, as it was a pretty small dorm, maybe about the size of a large diner. I took my suitcase into my room and schlumped onto the bed. It was a pretty simple room; apart from the bed, there was a bedside table with a lamp, a chair, a desk, a dresser, and a bookcase. As it was the room where I would be spending the forseeable future, it wasn't a very good omen that it smelled musty and that there was a mysterious stain on the rug. Regardless, I decided to give it my own little touch, with the few possessions I had with me. I hid my paintball gun under a loose floorboard beneath the bed (it wasn't loose initially, but wrenching out the nails in a floorboard tend to loosen it), I placed my pride and joy, my laptop, on the desk, I put the one book that I had on the shelf, and dropped a pair of underwear on the lamp. Why I did that, I'm not really sure, but it seemed like a good touch. Now, it was the time in the afternoon (around 4:30) where I feel extremely lethargic and just want to lie around, so I did just that once more. For some reason, I started reflecting on where I had come and gone in the last couple of months. Really, I had been happy where we lived in Liberty City when my Mom and real Dad were still married. Dad was a lawyer, Mom owned the Superstar Cafe, my younger sister Catherine and I were both doing well in school, and we lived in a nice house in Beachgate. Actually, what was kind of weird was that we lived right next to some bigtime Russian crime boss. Apparently, he was murdered a couple weeks before Mom and I moved out, but that really doesn't matter. What does matter, though, was that at some big party at her cafe, Mom met the owner of some oil company (who was a major-league jerk) "fell in love", immediately dumped my real Dad, and, after a divorce and session in court, Mom and the Jerk took custody of my sister and I. Leaving my Dad living by himself sucked, and even though he said that we'd be able to see him every once in a while, I really doubted it. Even worse, the Jerk lived all the way down in Vice City, so we had to pack up what we could (Dad said that he would keep what Catherine and I didn't take for us) and move all the way down South. The Jerk lived in a big mansion on Starfish Island, but not the biggest, which, in a clear instance of Mom-not-being-able-to-find-a-guy-who-didn't-live-next-to-a-crime boss, belonged to some reclusive sixty-something crime boss. The one or two times I saw him, he was wearing the same Hawaiian shirt. But, digressions aside, while I never got used to the snobby Florida kids at school, the beach turned out to be a lot better than the one in LC, and I spent many afternoons surfing, jet-skiing, snorkeling and the like. However, just when Vice City started to seem okay, it all came crashing down on my head one day. One particularly hot day, when Mom was out looking for a job (she had sold the Superstar Cafe to the highest bidder), I came home from the beach with a bucket of seashells and sand dollars, only to look through a window and see the Jerk slap my sister ACROSS THE FREAKING FACE. Apparently, he had said something nasty to her, and she had replied that our Dad was a thousand times the person he would ever be, and that he would never be able to replace him. Once I saw this, I sort of lost it. My sister had always been my responsibility, and now that this prick had crossed the line - I would as well. So I waited a few minutes to actually go through the door, and tried not to notice the red mark on my sister's face or her streaming eyes. But that night, when everyone was asleep, I snuck downstairs (taking the keys to the Jerk's car), out to the garage, and took a firecracker that I had bought from someone at school. Walking outside to the Jerk's slick red sports car, I realized that I could do this and lose complete control of my life, or spend the rest of it living with this piece of crap. I got into the car, and drove it out to the street, a safe distance from the house. I then got out, jammed the firecracker in the fuel cap, grabbed my bike, and pedaled for all I could. As it was, the car went up in an explosion that would have shamed Macgyver, and I could hear the curses and shouts of the Jerk from the other side of the island. I spent the rest of the night away, but I had to come home the next day; like an old Western, I sat on my bike at the end of the road, and the Jerk stood at the other. Except in Westerns, one cowboy doesn't run up and throttle the other, which is exactly what the Jerk did. He probably would have taken it all the way, except for my Mom's reasoning that they could send me to a boarding school and never lay eyes on me until I was eighteen. I hope you can probably see where this is going; a couple months later, I was dropped off at Bullworth Academy.