Title: Spitballs
Summary: Six-year-old Mark Cohen, the new kid in second grade, meets a new friend.
Author's Note: First RENT fic. Exciting stuff! Most likely a one-shot because I like the open-endedness.
This time, Mark's mom promised, it was for real. No more moving. Mark hoped so. He'd already moved three times in his six-year-long life. He needed a hometown, somewhere he could look back on as an adult and say, "Yeah... I grew up there." He'd already lost six years. This one had better be permanent.
Cindy, who was practically a grown up at ten, leaned impatiently against the front door of their new apartment as Mrs. Cohen knelt by Mark.
"You'll be one of the youngest boys in the class," Mrs. Cohen tutted as she polished the glasses on Mark's face. Mark thought the licking of her tissue was unnecessary. Weren't there special wipes for his glasses or something? Like the good little boy he had been raised up to be, however, he stayed put and let her finish. The lenses were streakier than when he had put them on this morning. "I don't think you need to finish first grade, though. You're my little genius boy!" She pinched his cheek affectionately.
Despite being called a "little genius boy" and having streaky Mom-spit glasses, Mark was in a good mood. Second grade sounded a lot more mature than first.
As soon as he got out of the car, Mom on his heels and Spiderman on his backpack, Mark's confidence abandoned him.
Kids. Way more kids than the little school in Ohio where he had spent kindergarten and half of first grade. Mark tried to be as small as possible, which was not hard considering his puny size. Huge double doors opened wide and soon the school swallowed him and his mother up.
The receptionist on the phone was wearing too much lipstick. Mark hung back as his mother asked her to speak to the principal.
"Excuse me, I'm Amanda Cohen, mother of the new second grader?"
The receptionist held up a finger and mouthed "One minute please."
"Excuse me, I have to make sure my son gets to the right classroom..."
One minute, please.
Mrs. Cohen put one hand on the lady's receiver. "I'm sorry. I'd like to speak to the principal, please?"
Mark looked over at the row of chairs for people waiting to see the principal. It looked just like the one in Ohio, except for the grim-looking blond boy lounging in the third chair down.
"Hi," Mark said.
The kid looked up with a smooth raising of his eyebrows. "Hey."
"Mark. Mark. I'm Mark." Mark was aware that he was gripping the straps of his Spiderman backpack. He noticed the backpack by the kid's black sneakers. "Spiderman," Mark commented.
"Yeah," the kid said, kicking his bag. "You too?"
"Uh huh." he swung it around for the kid to see.
"Cool."
"Are you in trouble?" Mark asked. The concept was alien to him.
The kid cracked an amused smile and thought about it. "Nah. Not yet. It's too early in the morning."
"How old are you?"
"Seven," the boy said proudly.
"I'm almost seven too," Mark admitted.
"Maybe we'll be in the same class, then."
"Yeah," Mark said eagerly.
The kid looked off into space, then narrowed his eyes. "Is that your mother arguing with Mrs. Peters?"
"Oh, uh..." Mark decided on truth and consequence. "Yeah..."
The other chuckled as if he understood the concept of unruly mothers.
"So, why are you here if you're not in trouble?" Mark ventured. The kid had to think about that.
"I don't like my classroom."
Mark tried to connect these two things in his mind, but simply couldn't fathom leaving his classroom because he didn't feel like being there.
"So, why are you here, then? Why don't you go to the playground?"
"They don't like it when you leave the building," was the response. Mark got the sense that this stranger was speaking from experience. "Danny Fletcher kept punching me, though, so I punched him back then I left."
The next sensible question, of course, would be where was the teacher during this episode and/or why was Danny Fletcher punching people, but Mark swallowed his curiosity. He already felt like a dork next to this ripped-jeans-and-black-sneaker-wearing kid. He didn't want to seem too ignorant.
The kid was studying him. "Who's your teacher?"
"Uh..." Mark wracked his brain for his mother's words. "Mrs. Wesley, I think."
"Cool." The smile was genuine. "Me too. We can sit at the same table. Leslie Jacobs moved last week. There's an empty seat."
"Cool." Mark was relieved that he had a friend.
Mrs. Cohen was finally speaking with a balding man in a blue suit and striped tie. He kept nodding and looking serious as she spoke frantically, holding up his inhaler. Mark felt his ears reddening.
Meanwhile, the receptionist, Mrs. Peters, had another call. "Mrs. Wesley?" She listened. She peered over the counter at the two boys. "Yes, he's here." She chuckled into the receiver, said yes a few times, then hung up. She rose stiffly from her desk and came over to the row of chairs, hands on hips.
"Go back to class, you're teacher's worried," she said with one eyebrow up.
"Can I wait for Mark?" the runaway pleaded. "He's new and he's in the same class."
Mrs. Peters shook her head. "Sure, I don't care." And she lumbered back to her desk.
Mrs. Cohen came bustling over. "One more minute, sweetie, okay? I just have to talk to the nurse about your allergies."
"Okay," Mark said in a bored tone. She brushed her hand over his hair then scuttled away to find the nurse.
"You have allergies?" Mark's new friend asked.
"Uh, yeah." Again, Mark decided to be truthful. "Peanuts and eggs."
"Pollen." The boy grinned. "My mom says I'll grow out of it though."
"Oh." Feeling more comfortable, and not knowing that the majority of America was sensitive to pollen, Mark took off his backpack and sat down in the next chair with a sigh that belonged to someone much older and much more tired. The other kid took his gum out and stuck it on the underside of the chair.
"I'm Roger. Wanna do spitballs at Mrs. Peters?"
Oh goshers, thanks so much, Winniefred101 ()!!! I would have left it as a double-story. Oops. Well anyway tell me what you thinks.