Wesley-hampton Academy: The Weatherman

Wesley-hampton Academy: The Weatherman

When control of the world's weather and the security of nations around the world is in one person's control, is there any hope? At Wesley-Hampton Academy that's just the situation that makes it's students thrive. But, could this be more than a team of students can handle? Follow Matt and Molly as they join a team and find themselves on their first mission. Or is it their last? Wesley-Hampton Academy - The Weatherman By Steven Howell Lulu.com Copyright © 2007 Steven Howell All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-6151-5346-9 Chapter One "When things look good, something somewhere must look bad." - Matt Malone The outward appearance of 421 Sycamore made most passersby envious. The vibrant gardens and lawn were impeccable. The wraparound porch showed not a hint of ageing and the painted siding was never chipped or faded. It was, without argument, the most stunning house on the street. That was the external appearance; the inward was seen by only a few. 421 Sycamore in truth was a well-shrouded prison for eight young boys ranging in ages from six to fourteen. It was the foster home for ill-fated children, run by a middle-aged women using every angle dreamed up to make money from the state at the expense of childhood. The fraud was well-rehearsed and polished to perfection. Over the years, fourteen social workers had inspected the house and found it fit and safe for children. Never had any one of the state's servants exposed harsh treatment or unsafe environments for the guest occupants. On the contrary, each report indicated a welcoming, engaging environment for the youngsters. After all, the children were surrounded by ample activities to participate in. One room was told to be the favorite; it was filled with shelves of books and puzzles, games and music CDs. Soft comfortable sofas and beanbags dotted the floor, and several tables displayed partially finished puzzles. It appeared the perfect place to be, if it had been all real. None of the fourteen social workers ever compared their notes or reports. If they had, there would have been a number of questions and raised eyebrows. On all fourteen reports spread over the past six years the daily menu in the kitchen was dutifully observed, but it was never to be noticed that the observations were identical for one reason-the list never changed. It consisted of the same meals everyday without exceptions. Breakfast: Cereal of your choice (one choice: generic corn flakes) Toast Milk (made from powder) Fruit (one banana divided equally) Lunch: Sandwich of the day (always peanut butter, no jelly) Tomato soup (made with ketchup and water) Milk Fruit (one apple divided equally) Dinner: Pasta Surprise (canned ravioli, unheated) Vegetable platter (celery stalk on a plate) Milk Fruit cup (one grape and one cherry in a cup) The bedrooms were described in one social worker's report as "any child's dream bedroom." Each of the four rooms housed a bunk bed, two dressers, a desk for homework, and a television hooked up to two of the latest video systems accompanied with countless games. The walls were painted cheerfully and tastefully, emulating a warm and welcoming feeling. The reports claimed the bedrooms to be in perfect condition with everything picked up and not a sock out of place. If anyone looked closer, the person would have discovered there were no socks or underwear to begin with. The drawers were empty, the bed had comforters but no sheets, and even the televisions were empty shells. And on and on it went. Everything was a charade, a clever cover over the real workings of 421 Sycamore. Only the eight boys and Mrs. Helmut knew the entire truth and it seemed that was the way it was to remain ... until one particular rainy day in August. The rain came down as if fire hoses were being shot from the sky. The sound of the torrential water made it difficult to hear conversations in the attic deep within the pompous manor. Three boys lay silently on mattresses strewn across the floor of the grimy room. Grubby clothes piled in a corner of the room, with soiled knees and filthy armpits, waited for laundry day. The only light shone from a single bulb hanging with a carefree sway from the peaked roof. "Does anyone know where Matt is?" the youngest of the eight asked, nearly yelling to be heard. "He's probably in the basement, Joey. I think that's where he goes," a larger boy answered, not breaking his stare at the bulb. Joey stood up and walked to the door. His clothes hung on his withered frame of a body. It was apparent that nothing he wore was his actual size. "Be careful!" the larger boy warned as Joey left the room. Getting around the house was difficult, if not dangerous, when Mrs. Helmut's whereabouts were unknown. If she found you wandering around the house the punishment could be painful. Joey, in the two years he lived there, had been slapped, spanked, fed Tabasco sauce, and kicked more than once. Tim, the eldest child, shared simila