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Chapter II

Not only was she in his Drama class, she was also in his Domestic Sciences, Biology and Mathematics classes. Jonathan found himself unconsciously searching for a glimpse of her chestnut hair during a Chemistry practical, and wondered why his heart fell when she wasn't there. After that brief encounter with Ethel, he did not attempt to speak with her, nor did she approach him.

Nevertheless, he realised that she always seemed to be within sight during the classes that they shared and most of the times when he was by the lockers or in the cafeteria. But whether it was she who was making sure that he was within sight or the other way round, he wasn't sure. He had caught her staring at him a few times, brazenly showing the world that she did not mind paying more attention to the biggest nerd in the school and spending less time hanging out with the popular crowd. It made him feel sinisterly special and uncomfortable. He preferred anonymity and tried his best in keeping his eyes down and his thoughts to himself, avoiding her piercing gaze which fell upon him off and on.

On the other hand, her presence had given him an advantage as well. The news that she had single-handedly taken on two of the school's toughest bullies had spread like wildfire throughout the entire school. Hushed whispers about how a girl had actually intimidated two strong burly guys bounced off the walls and landed in every corner, waiting to be picked up by each and every pair of ears. The bullies were clearly afraid of another humiliating encounter, and kept clear out of Ethel's way, secretly plotting revenge amongst themselves. Having Ethel somewhere nearby meant that the bullies could no longer catch Jonathan alone and off-guard, and he was silently thankful for being able to escape the beatings for two whole weeks.

He never expressed his gratitude, for he felt that silence and quiet observation would maintain this status quo between both of them. It was easier if things were predictable, unchanging as the sun rising in the east, for such constants in a world where almost anything and everything could be eroded away so effortlessly provided some sort of comfort. False comfort, he whispered But still, it was reassuring to be able to run his eyes across the classroom, and observe her lazily doodling on her paper as the Biology teacher droned on about cells being the building blocks of life. The exact incline of her head as it rested in one hand, the way she placed her books and stationery, how her long brown hair was arranged on her shoulders, little constants replayed day after day in school, mimicking the cycles of dawn and dusk. Being able to notice her shadow each and every time he stared out of the corners of his eyes made him think of opening a jack-in-the-box or the old cuckoo clock displayed in the living room years ago. Nothing else but the silly-faced clown would jump out at you, no matter how many times you opened the box or how fancy your imagination was. And the bird would faithfully come out of its little house as every hour passed, chirping the same melody. He had learnt a habit of desperately assuring oneself that everything would still turn out fine as long as certain things remained unchanged, even though those things were often immaterial. He smiled faintly as he walked out of the classroom.

Someone slammed him hard against the wall. Jonathan gasped, in shock. He felt the coarse surface of the wall against his cheek as he struggled to see who his attacker was. A hand, gripping his neck and the back of his head prevented this.

A low voice whispered into his ear, "Don't think you can get away just because that girl keeps being near you," he spat in Jonathan's face. Jonathan tried not to flinch and succeeded, a stoic expression quickly covering his initial surprise. He recognised the voice of Gary, one of the guys in the school who enjoyed beating the tar out of smaller kids.

He continued, sneering, "Seriously, I didn't think that a scarecrow would need the protection of a girl. And when did you actually start learning how to walk for 10 metres without stumbling over your own feet so that you could catch her attention?"

Jonathan's temper flared but he bit his tongue. He knew that he could walk an entire kilometre without falling. And he didn't think that he needed anyone's protection; he could very well fend for himself. He didn't need a girl to...

As if on cue, Ethel appeared. She ran towards them, shouting, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Speak of the devil," announced Gary to the crowd gathering around the two boys.

The crowd parted to allow her to stand face to face with Gary, who was at least a head taller than her. But the way she stood, with her shoulders squared, feet shoulder-width apart and firmly planted on the ground and her chin tilted up defiantly made her seem to tower above him. With her lips set in a grim line, she ordered, "Let him go."

"And why do I have to listen to you, little lady?" he mocked.

"Because of what I am going to do next if you don't release him," she replied coolly.

"Oh, I am so scared...Now what can you..." But before he could complete his sentence, she bloodied his nose with a punch which wiped the smirk off his face. He stumbled backward, stumped with disbelief. The crowd cheered, wanting more.

"Now, scram," she said coldly, her voice low and threatening.

Gary stumbled away, shouting back, "Well, at least I don't need any girl to defend me!" Several people laughed. Haha, the scarecrow's just a girl...Can't even fight for himself...Poor weak scarecrow...Jonathan could hear their whispered comments, magnified by his bruised ego. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he looked straight into Ethel's face, something he had not allowed himself to do for two whole weeks.

"Why did you have to do that?" he asked, accusatory.

The bonfire in her eyes died down to a small flickering flame. "He was trying to break your neck, Jonathan," she tried to explain.

The crowd started to disperse, aware that the action was already over. He retorted, "And I can watch out for my own neck, thank you very much." Jonathan stormed away, gripping his backpack so hard his knuckles gleamed white. She went after him, quick steps picking up into a jog as he started to run. "Jonathan, stop, wait..."

He halted, and turned around. "Could you just, I don't know, stop following me?" Ethel tried to protest, but he silenced her, "I don't need your protection, your sympathy, whatever! I don't need you to punch Gary's nose for me, I can very well do it myself. Now get that clear!" Once again he picked up his feet and ran off in the opposite direction, and when she tried to run after him, he yelled back, "I said, STOP following me!" She stood still, watching the figure of Jonathan Crane gradually receding as each second passed.

Jonathan was forced to slow down when his pounding heart screamed for attention. He could hear his own laboured breathing; feel the blood coursing through his veins. His head hurt, temples throbbing. Finally alone in a washroom cubicle, he recognised his anger at being insulted, and saw that Ethel's efforts at explaining her actions had only sparked off a full-blown outburst from him. "She was only trying to help," he whispered, "and I shouted in her face." But it was justified! What mortification at being helped by a girl! He ignored the voice, concentrating instead on the queasy feeling he had in his stomach, as if he had eaten something too rich that had unsettled him. The last time he had felt like this was...

He arrives home from school, tired and worn out. It has been a particularly difficult day. There is a loud crash heard from the kitchen. Fearing the worst, he throws down his bag and hurries to the kitchen doorway.

Julien is standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a spatula that is too large for her little girl's hands. A red coloured sauce pools at her feet, slowly spreading to cover an ever-expanding area of the kitchen floor, like a vile disease.

He lets out a deep breath, lifts his hand to his forehead. Would you like to tell me what exactly are you doing?

She notices that he sounds unusually harsh and weary. I was trying to cook spaghetti, she beams. Looking up to catch the frown on his face, she turns sheepish, and her eyes fall to her feet, voice no louder than a guilty whisper, but I dropped the pot.

I can see that, he says. He tries to calm the storm of irritation brewing within him, but it is beyond him. That, he says, pointing to the pool of sauce on the floor, is going to take hours to clean. Why can't you just stay out of the kitchen, Julien? It would save me a lot of trouble.

She looks at him with doleful eyes, but doesn't answer.

He gets a cloth, and kneels on the floor, carefully avoiding getting the sauce on himself as he wipes it up. As he cleans, he becomes increasingly angry. Comments muttered under his breath are slowly turning into a shouted tirade in an elaborate crescendo, I don't even know why I'm doing this? Why should I even care, why should I even bother? This is so stupid, damn it. I am sick and tired, why can't everyone just leave me ALONE! He is about to launch into another angry outburst, when he hears her sobbing. He looks up at her, and she tries to hide the fact that she is frightened and crying, swallowing each sob and smothering every sniffle.

Oh Julien, he says, immediately regretting that he has shouted at her. He stands up and goes to her. Shit, I'm sorry.

I thought you, she hiccups, you liked spaghetti, she explains.

I still do, shh...he says, wiping his fingers on the cloth and awkwardly stroking her hair with the back of one hand to comfort her.

You're angry with me 'cause you, you have to clean up, she accuses.

I was, but now you've got to help me, he smiles slightly. He takes a step back and looks at her, spaghetti sauce smeared down the front of her shirt and across one tear-stained cheek. You look like you've just survived a swordfight, he jokes, trying to erase the memory of him losing his temper from her mind.

I do? she asks, doubtful.

Yeah, he laughs hollowly, really cool. If only she would know how desperate he was to repair the damage, to see her smile again. He waits, angry at himself, watching the sun come out from behind the clouds in the storm that he has orchestrated.

She looks down at herself, and a smile spreads across her face, revealing pearly white teeth. Her eyes, which are like and unlike his own, stare back into his. They are the same clear piercing blue, but hers are younger, and they reflect more light. Only her eyes are truly happy, out of acceptance and not ignorance. She buries her face in his stomach, as he puts his arms around her. He'd forgotten about the sauce on her that would stain his trousers. She giggles and her breath hitches, tickling his stomach with each laugh, oh joy.

He closes his eyes and lets his worries and unhappiness fall away. He knows he needs her as much as she needs him.

It is one of the many little happy endings in a tragedy.

Jonathan sighed, and buried his face in his hands. If only things could be this easy.

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Ethel turned and walked away in the other direction. She takes in a deep breath, clearing her mind. Her hand, still hurting from the punch that she had delivered into Gary's nose, looked red and slightly swollen. It was easier to ignore that throbbing pain than deal with the doubts that rose within her.

She headed for the nearest washroom. Cold running water would help to numb the pain for a while. She would ice it later when she was at home, so no one would see her wince. Turning on the tap, she stuck one hand under it and then the other to splash some water on her face. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror: an average-looking girl with sharp, chiselled features and high cheekbones. Her green eyes could shine like emeralds or be as mellow as the colour of empty wine bottles. Water dripped down her nose as she rubbed her eyes to get a clearer look.

I don't need your protection, your sympathy, whatever! Her reflection coldly reminded her of her earlier confrontation with Jonathan.

To her knowledge, she hadn't pitied him. No, she could never bring herself to do something that degrading to another person. From the time when she had observed him carefully avoid entering the argument between her and the two boys, she had guessed that he was different. Teases and insults were aimed specifically at him because of his smaller physique and his studiousness. He bore them silently most of the time, and only his eyes and the occasional scowl on his face betrayed his true feelings of contempt, targeted at those hooligans and also at himself. Since that day, she had been unable to keep her eyes off him for even short periods of time. She couldn't deny that she enjoyed watching him. His blue eyes, cold and burning both at once, were part of the entire list of polar opposites that allowed the world to make sense. Light and dark, joy and sorrow, passionate anger and a placid quietness, all swam together in the blue orbs. He, who seldom smiled and never laughed (save for the first time he'd met her), who paid undivided attention to his work, who would speak to a book if it would reply.

And yes, she had wanted to protect him. She was never one to comfort people with words; they stumbled as they left her tongue, falling into meaningless abysses, or got stuck in her throat most of the time. It was a relief to know that she could, with a hand clenched into a hard fist, offer wordless comfort and support. After growing up with three older brothers, delivering a punch was as effortless as eating bread and honey.

Again his voice echoed, I don't need you to punch Gary's nose for me, I can very well do it myself. Now get that clear!

"Don't you understand, I want to punch his nose for you," she murmurs to the reflection of herself, before re-stepping into the shoes of one Ethel Crowe so that she could face the world. She checks her timetable, and feels relief.

There was a Domestic Sciences lesson tomorrow.

To Be Continued...