A/N
Again, thanks to UntoldStories113 for giving an ample Beta-read over this chapter almost a year ago.
Inhaling and exhaling on top of his bed, Scott felt like a pretzel with his legs crisscrossed and fists resting on his knees.
With his eyes shut, he half-expected to fall asleep. It was Art's yammering that kept him awake.
"Deep breath, bud. Release the tension." The sound of whirling chair joints signaled to Scott that Art twirled on the swivel chair. Probably in the same meditative poise, his head toward the ceiling. "Mmmmmmm." Great, he was doing that hum again.
Art continued, "Meditation helped me get through my darkest hour." Scott could imagine Art dramatically drawing circles in the air. "When I was buried alive in that trench, ah, never mind." He shrugged. "Just relax, man, don't think of the Games. Don't think of the trophy, don't think of that Worthington, your dreams, or even the concept of greatness. Just believe in your inner peace. Let in the positive energy."
"Positive energy. Inner peace," Scott repeated as darkness of his shut eyes slowly became soothing. Maybe he can train himself to be unbothered by Art's droning.
Art lectured on, "Well, if it makes you feel better, Squish, say we lose the Games. That will cause a chain reaction of events. A butterfly will flap its wing. Babies will not be born. There will be couples who won't get together. In another state somewhere, a building could burn down... a hurricane could happen... But pretty much the same thing will happen if we win anyway. The butterfly flaps on and lives will be affected regardless. So if we lose, you and I will be ok."
That broke Scott from his meditation. "Well, Art, you and I can't just be ok with that. What if James, Mike, Terry, Terri, Don are not ok with that. You can't just tell me not to think of anything when we got everyone to think of tomorrow," he pleaded. He knew Art was being reassuring, but he could not fathom the possibility of being ok when losing. If it were an individual contest, maybe, but this was a team they were talking about. He would not be ok with losing as long as everyone had their future at stake here. Especially Mike, who would fret about his losing. And James, who had cool talents that could not be wasted. Don, who waited "a good hard-blown decades," in his own words, for such an opportunity to pop up.
As Art rubbed his scraggly chin, his eyes glowed with a vacant expression like a hypnotist who somehow hypnotized himself. "You do drive a good point, bud. Yeah, as the saying goes, separation is an illusion. I'm an individual, but I'm an individual in a collective group. Connected to all of you-"
"Art." Scott grinded his teeth. "Can't you take this seriously? We've already been through too much. We can't screw this up."
"I know." As if it was timed, Art swiped out something from his OK cuff.
"We wouldn't want this to happen, again?" His grubby hand revealed the gleam of a photo.
Scott first glimpsed the pink goopy shape of Michael Wazowski's astonished face, surrounded by his glob-drenched brothers. All of Oozma Kappa, covered in colorful grunge and sparkles, courtesy of Roar Omega Roar. He saw himself, soaked in yellow, rocking like a toddler. Oozma Kappa's colorful shame immortalized. All accentuated by the one dollar sign at the corner at the photo.
He recoiled as the trauma all re-sunk in his brain. Why? Why? Why?
What would their brothers say? What would Mike say if he found out Art kept a token of their shame?
"Look at the photo. What do you feel?" Art, so serene, yet curious and woeful.
"Art, how could..." Scott pressed his face against his pillow. He didn't have to look again. He could still feel the slime hurled at him like a slap on his skin, the sparkles, the "cute things" that seemed so banal yet degrading. Worthington's laughter echoed. The laughter of the school. The sight of their humiliation posted all over campus with classmates flocking to purchase it for their amusement. The grief of his brothers... struggling to process everything around them.
"Sorry, I would like to know how you feel."
Maybe if he appeased Art a little, he would stop ambushing him with absurd questions. Flinging his head off his pillow, his emotions scurried out. "It's obvious isn't it? Shame... agony... torture... Why? Why? Humiliation. Anger. Why?" He would fire out a thousands synonyms to describe it all. Suddenly, he blurted out, "Hate!" and threw his hand on his lips. Mom once told him that "hate" was a word more harmful than all the curse words in the world.
Even Art was astonished by Scott's terminology because he lowered the picture and remorse deepened into his face. Scott clutched his hand to his mouth, afraid that if he let go, the word would slip out again. Insensitive was the last thing he wanted to be.
"Sorry pal, I really shouldn't have shown it to you." Art closed his eyes. "Yeah, I feel the same way."
Scott had no idea how to respond.
A noise broke the confusion.
It was James. Behind the wall. Shouting something.
Then there was a screech that sounded like Mike.
Scott flinched, but glad that something interrupted the subject matter at hand. "Should... we check up on them?" What was Mike doing up and about? Poor Mike and James, Scott thought. Mike was tense. Good old James was tense. Oh no, what if James and Mike were full of negative energy? Why tonight? And James was always so brave. Could James be all right?
Art remained un-flinched by back-and-forth between Sulley and Mike. Art's voice was lulling yet edged with bumpiness. "I always offered them my relaxation expertise but... ack, you're the only one here who appreciates it. Mike and James are the sort of dudes who need outlets for their stress."
James shouted. Mike hollered in reply, followed by Mom's fluttery scolding outside.
Although Mom's voice brought a smile upon Scott's lip, he realized they had stayed a little over curfew.
"Art, it's time for shut-eye now."
But Art was inattentively gazing down upon the photo.
"Art. You need to rest on it."
Art didn't look up.
"Art, why do you do this? Why do you even have that?" The guy never meant harm, but why did he have to spook him with that bad memory?
"I sorta figured..." the fella's two big teeth bit his putty lips. "If I could get used to looking at the photo, I could immune myself to the painful memory." His voice lulled softer like a dying breeze. "I want to cry too."
Art? Crying? He always knew Art was capable of getting hurt, but crying?
Scott patted him on the back.
Art stared down. "Did you know that this is one of the few un-doctored ones?"
"Un-doctored?"
"They didn't photoshop it." Suddenly, Scott saw. He remembered that the majority of all those Cute-Ma-Ka merchandize depicted most of them with wide-open grins, which confused and tormented him because he never remembered happiness at this event. In this authentic copy, everyone but Art was smiling. Art had his mouth agape with a grin, as if celebrating the moment. The ROR didn't even need to edit Art's expression. "It's 100% genuine, look, even that Chet dude patented it on the back with a stamp." He tapped on the red 100% Authentic stamp. "They didn't need to make me any more ridiculous."
This was a sign for Scott to hug Art. "Yer know, Artie, I cried when that happened." He remembered the distinct awful feeling of wanting to embrace mom when they trudged home that night. But he didn't want to trouble her. His biggest consolation that night was Don patting him on the back and feebly whispering, "sonny, everything will be ok, I promise," but sounding like he had no faith in his own words. Then Don would bat off Mike's seething words ("Squishy, it's over, stop, please.") in a harsh whisper, "Michael, please, leave Scott to his tears." But Don's defense had only amplified the teardrops because he was a disappointment to Mike and a burden to Don.
"How do you do it?" muttered Art.
"What?"
"Cry."
"What? Um, I get hurt." More embarrassingly, getting "hurt" didn't mean physical injury, but the stress of the teasing. "But I don't ever want to cry."
"No one does. But crying's good for you. It's healthy." So was Art saying that the night Scott cried ROR prank was a good thing? "Did you know that I kinda wished I cried when that happen?" He gesture toward the photo.
What in sweet humans could Art be yammering about? He was sad when the event happened. Wasn't that sadness enough? He was strong enough to not cry.
"Art, why would you want to cry? It's embarrassing."
"No. It's like a vaccine. No one wants a vaccine. It's not their fault. But they still need it to be healthy. When you cry, you let it all out."
So Art had some buried sadness in him.
Scott placed his hand on Art's shoulder and softly vowed, "Art. Save your tears. Because you'll cry tears tomorrow. Tears of joy when we bring home the trophy. Trust me on that." Scott would give the best scare there was. For Art. For everyone. And he'll have plenty of tears to spare for that moment. He wanted to know what it was like to cry tears of joy.
"I promise you that, bro. Everyone promises you that." It was a given. His teammates would give their best for Art's sake. Him, Don, Terry & Terri, Mike, James.
A wide smile stretched on Art's face, identical to his grin on the Cute-Ma-Kappa photo.
The door creaked opened.
Scott swiped the photo off Art's hand and shoved it under his pillow just in time for his mom to poke her head in.
They never told her about Cute-Ma-Kappa.
His mom entered and quietly shut the door. "Oooo, sharing secrets, boys? Mind if I listen?"
Waving, Art chimed, "Hey Sheryl. No secrets here. Just teaching Squish here the art of positive energy." Even Art knew better than to discuss Cute-Ma-Ka with mom.
Embarrassing as Mom was, Scott always liked how her rolled-up curls bounced when she laughed. "All righty then. Scottie, Artie, lights out, lil' troopers." The scent of detergent on her gown would remind him how hard she worked doing everyone's laundry.
Art threw a salute to her. "Night Sheryl, night Squish." And Art slipped right passed his mom and out the door. Scott found himself looking back at Art, wanting to ask more, continue where they left off.
But Mom was walking toward him.
She was now leaning over him. Oh no, she knows. She knew something was under his pillow. Scott sunk, wishing that his pillow would swallow him, but the crinkle of the photo cracked in his ears. She heard it. She can't know about that, it would break her... She was leaning toward him to inspect...
Quick in a blink, she pecked a goodnight kiss on the forehead. "Yeesh, mom!" He wiped the kiss off with the back of his hand. "I'm not your baby!"
"But you will always be my Scottie." She giggled as she took a seat at his bed as she had done when she tucked him into bed when he was young. She had a habit of wordlessly staring at him for a few minutes with her five blue eyes fixed on him. He used to make a game of counting how many times she blinked.
Then her hand rose, revealing the slip of photo in her hand.
"Sweetie, now explain what's this doing under your pillow? Her curious eyes surveying that dreaded photo. Scott's first reaction. How? The goodnight kiss was a sneaky maneuver. She swiped it silently from the pillow right when her lips met his forehead.
Scott bit his bottom lip. "It-it-it belonged to Art."
Her face remained stuck in that inquisitional glance. She wasn't even looking at it.
"Art thought that looking at it would help me face my fears. I don't know, some therapy stuff we tried." His teeth sunk into his lip as he mumbled, "it's a horrible picture I know..." He turned away, hoping his mother would dismiss it as a cute little item and leave him alone.
"Sweetie, it's all right."
In soft astonishment, Scott turned over to see her expression of somber concern in place of her usual smile.
"I know you only wanted to spare my heart, but I knew."
But how? The night they dragged themselves home from the Roar Omega Roar house, she was asleep. They had sneaked home and cleaned themselves quietly to spare her from their woes. He had let the tears run, but he choked back the sobbing noises.
She laid down the photo upon his desk. "Those were all over campus. Thought it was... cute."
What disturbed Scott was her slight chuckle when she uttered "cute."
Was it better having her believe that or have the truth?
He had never seen her shiver uncomfortably before. "...Until I learned exactly how these photos came about. I asked Don about it. You boys clearly didn't want to talk about it. So I just baked you lots of sweets from that day on." She informed with touch of sternness in her otherwise sprightly voice.
A wave of relief and sadness washed over Scott, "You knew?" Were their efforts to shield her from their woes in vain? He remembered that she seemed to be baking them lots of cakes and cookies after that day, but thought she was just being kind.
She tsked. "Don and I decided not to ever bring it up to you guys. Told me that you - you boys - put so much effort in getting me not to notice. We agreed it was the grown-up thing to do. You boys wanted to move on. Don wanted to move on." She blinked, seemingly aware that the boys had tried to hide it from her. True, now after their trip to M.I., there appear, the event was swept to the back of their minds, unspoken of among them, because there was rehearsal to focus on.
Don. So strangely, Scott was relieved that Don disclosed the matter to his mom. Scott lived in a home full of adults. The twins and Art (he could guess) were in their early twenties. Even Sulley and Mike were younger, yet Scott never particularly considered that they ever took his place as, what his mother most playfully said, the "baby" of the group. Everyone, even Sulley and Mike, acted older than him.
But Don stood as the true grown-up of Oozma Kappa. He had always that patience that Scott both envied and pitied. At every rejection from passers-by on campus and ridicule for his age, Scott sensed the silent breakdowns in Don, unable to retaliate against insults due to some considerate code of honor that old adults had. Depressing, how the majority of campus students were of adult age yet didn't act like grown-ups, prone to ridiculing others like ROR.
He noticed Don's forlorn head-shakes. Old adults think that they can hide their troubles away from the eyes of the young to maintain some sort of dignity. He remembered how glumly Don always stared at his business card even though he enjoyed showing them off. The aftermath of the ROR party was among the few times Don didn't mind showing deep sadness around his brothers.
"Oh, sweetums, what else is wrong?"
"And, you think I'm... cute." He was thinking that every time she thought him as her "cutie pie" or "lil' baby boy," she proved ROR right.
"Sweetie, now that ain't a bad thing."
"But it is. I'm going to be a Scarer..." Well, he was so sure they will win. "Scarers aren't cute." They were jerks, yet ROR was right that Scarers aren't cute. That was one bitter truth they wedged into their brains.
He realized he had raised his voice. "I'm sorry, mom."
"Now sweetie, why feel sorry? You ain't done anything wrong."
Scott slumped down, "I should've never gone to that party. I could've stopped them from going." And it would have spared his mom from worry.
"Oh Scottie. Regrets are a funny thing." She seemed to be talking both to him and herself.
She continued, "But keep holding onto them, you'll need regrets to learn things... and, it ain't your fault. It ain't your pals' fault. You just wanted to have a good time, like every college fella, though those awful fellas ruined it for you." She shook her head as if she could not comprehend such existence of kids like Johnny. "At times though, you oughta stare straight into your fears sometimes if you want to get on with life. That's what Artie was trying with this."
"What are you scared of, mom?"
She leaned over, teasingly. "You."
Best Scarer's compliment he ever got. Not even Mike's rare praises could top that. "Really?"
"You terrified me," she asserted. "When I felt your very first little wiggle in my womb."
She seemingly had something in her eye because she took a moment to rub it for a prolonged amount of time, massaging them beneath her palms.
"Mom, are you..."
"I thinking, sweetums." But she didn't have him fooled. Like Don, sometimes his mom tried to conceal her sadness, but that mostly occurred during his younger days. The thought made Scott curious about her secrets. But adults were always so private about their sadness. He already asked her once if she ever cried. And she answered, "I only cried when you were born. Tears of joy." And that confused him because he always associated tears with sadness and he had memories of her choking back sobs whenever he was pretending to be asleep.
She liberated her face from her palms. "Scott, what I mean is that I fear for you, sweetie. Just like you fear for everyone else." She had an understanding smile on her face, one that made him realize that she knew that he was ashamed of his dependence on her. Plenty of college folks lived with their parents, but his attachment to his mom was noteworthy, notorious, around campus. Although he liked walking around public with his mother, he grew wary of the whispers on campus. They didn't hold hands anymore, but that didn't stop the whispers. All those stares and whispers implanted the horrid, insensitive notion that having a mom as his best friend meant he was incapable of having other friends and he lived off her constant doting.
What was wrong about having a cool mom? What do they have against that? But worse of all, why did he believe them sometimes?
"I won't be cute and adorable. I'll just be scary from then on."
"No, no sweetie, it's great to be adorable. You were born that way." She stroked the area of his "missing horn." It was easy to miss, even for Scott, that he was missing a horn. It was hidden so well that it seemed more like a normal part of him rather than a visible birth defect.
"What if I didn't want to be born that way?"
"Well, but you are." Now she was deep in thought.
"I didn't choose to be this way. I want to be someone else."
Whenever she paused after a question, Scott knew she figured that her answer wasn't enough for him.
"You're lovely the way you are. It's obvious. But if you want scary, you can have it too."
"But scary and cute don't go together. Being cute got me that D in Scaring School."
"Scottie, I don't give two dangs if you were cute, scary, neither. Hey, I love you if you were cute, scary, or neither. You're Scottie. You don't belong to the Scaring folks. You can sure join em' if you like, but you do not belong to them. You belong to yourself."
She winked. "who's to say that you can't be both? And if that Worthington and those bullies say that's a bad thing... then to heck with them."
She rubbed her fist on his tuff of hair, a reassurance that it was all right to still be best friends with his mom. She had been trying to permit him some independence. She ruled his bedtimes, though the rule dissolved into more of a house guideline. He kept asking for her permission to lift the curfew on occasion not to show that he was her baby, but instead to remind her that he respected her.
When she left, he took to staring at that photo. It never became less terrible. Far from cute. A mockery of cute. Something that cries out that cuteness was to be shamed and degraded rather than celebrated or even tolerated.
They were cute. ROR was right. The campus was right. But Mom was the right-est of all, he thought. But perhaps the only thing that mattered that he was cute to mom. And she found it to be a wonderful thing. And his brothers, even Mike, would accept him as cute.
What stuck out most to him personally was him on the floor, after a terrible toddler-like slip.
But other than the grieved looks on his the other guys' face, now another detail stood seemed to be the sole bright spot in an otherwise degrading image.
Drenched in blue grunge, Art, grinning, not with the joke, but rather, as an affirmation that his nature was as unfixable as the meanness and cruelty of ROR.
It looked like triumph.
Teaser for next chapter about the twins: No wonder they had been the source of each other's sleep deprivation for two decades. His, their, heart rate accelerating...
