"Muck." The chestnut haired, chocolate eyed boy next to Eugene trailed out of the horribly graphic tale he was telling to the surrounding four students. Turning on his questioner, Eugene, who he had thrown a shower of rainbow confetti as greeting earlier to the new school year with a grumpy 'where the fuck were you all summer you asshole I almost dies like three times'... Muck hummed; as in 'ask your question, peasant, can't you see I'm busy?'. It wasn't that Muck was a particularly stuck up kid. He just had trouble concentrating on multiple things at one time.
"Scissors?" "Try Malark. Sorry." Muck Skip grinned, his Colgate-ad brand smile exuding a clear signal of 'you're fucking welcome' before he launched back into the story. "Anyway, so I said 'Dude. There is no way in hell you could fit that body in that car boot…' and then the police turned up, and Luz here was all like 'You guys run, I got this.' So we did, and I am not shitting you, he…"
"Malarkey? Scissors?" Malarkey waved Roe off as the story escalated with a dismissive: "Nah. Traded them for Vat-69 with Harry. Nix said he'd give me his Geo homework if I got my hands on one."
"Sure. Bull. Psst! Randleman!" The sweetheart of a muscle mountain, his blond curls having been cut into a buzz fashion, spun slightly in his seat to his old friend.
"Nope. Sorry, Eugene." Alert and half a step ahead, typical Bull. They shared a private, genuine smile- first class of the year, and the two of them were overjoyed to find that both they and the rest of their little posse had ended up in the same stream of subjects. That meant Math, English, Geography, History, Social Science. Bull and Roe were the unofficial 'shepherds' while Nixon and Winters were off over-achieving in their Spec Math, physics, and other fancy learning. Together, they bonded over a fierce protectiveness for their outlandish cluster of outcasts. Bull disentangled himself from the school football team almost as soon as he had joined in freshman year.
Everyone said it was a bad idea, but he was willing to give it a try.
It was a very bad idea, given their past reputation as a social group.
At roughly Year Two, their band of brothers was doomed to set in the hardest stone and weather into an unmovable force. It was founded and added to by a joint effort of Nixon and Winters; the boys were all but handpicked for the in-bond-not-in-blood relationships with one common factor. For one reason or another, irrational or stereotypical, each member was an alternative from what was considered the 'norm'- resulting in the eventual removal from cliques of the nerd-jock-in-between-er variety. And as absurd as the reasons were, not one man could be more grateful for it. In the shared experience, nobody wished the passing of eight years to go a path other than the one it seemingly was destined to. They wouldn't trade it for the world- not in the sappy way, but in a literal this-saved-me-more-than-once-and-in-more-ways-than-one way.
"Ey, Perconte. D'you have scissors?"
"Pencil case, I think." Perconte said disparagingly; not the hostile dismissal he was attuned to in the halls of school, but irritating nonetheless. A short root around the disgusting, moldy excuse of a bag yielded no scissors. That, and Eugene felt the need to douse his hands in disinfectant. Eternally.
"Nope, not in there."
No response.
"Perconte."
"What?"
"Scissors."
"Where?"
"Do you have any under your desk?"
"I dunno."
"Well, can you check?"
"What?"
"Can I look under your desk?"
"I dunno, if you want, but I'm pretty sure-" The last straw had been grasped and pulled. All Eugene wanted was something sharp enough to cut out the paper snowflake he spent all class designing. In an instant, Perconte's desk lid was flipped open, his desktop items flung all over the row in front of them, and Eugene scrabbled until he found a pair of blunt aluminum strips connected by a rusty screw at the middle amongst the month-old lunches. The teacher barely flinched; having dealt with at least two of the rowdy boys in the past years.
"Thank. You. Fucker." Eugene growled, accentuating the words with punches, his irritated tone only amplifying the guffaws of his friends. Perconte shrugged, flipped Eugene off, and slid under his desk to reclaim the scattered bits. This was basic math. So no one gave a flying theta what went on. Those in the firing line of projectile stationary and the poor girl who's eardrums would have underwent a good beating at Perconte's dismayed roar as his pencil shaving figurines went flying, sent Eugene glares that ranged from the everyday 'you are a nuisance and a distraction please die' and the more rare 'I will meet you in the parking lot...'.
There was little he could do. He sat and cut his snowflake out until the bell rang for recess time. This was life. Their little corner of the world housed Muck Skip, Donald Malarkey, George Luz, Richard Winters, Lewis Nixon, William Guarnere, Frank Perconte, Bull Randleman, Harry Welsh, Edward Babe Heffron, and himself; Eugene Roe. He had the nickname 'Doc roe', thanks to his penchant for righting precarious situations or mending any hurts that occur in the group- be it from a fellow mate or a normal person. A sane person. OH! Speaking of sane, there was one person he had missed! Carwood.
Carwood Lipton, the boy who was about as useful as a mossy brick in all aspects but kindness, politeness, charm, and public relations. He was going fuck-all with studies apart from English and English Lit, but at least he'd graduate satisfied in the knowledge that he had not done a single soul wrong. Carwood was the closest human embodiment of Winnie the Pooh to ever exist in this realm. Calmness, the patience of a saint, rationality, a people reading skill that was unheard of. He wasn't in the morning math class, the lowest level.
"English Lit, Roe." Bull whispered, noticing Eugene's eyed had locked onto the empty desk that Carwood had sat in for the previous year- now occupied by some faceless senior on the soccer team, getting all chummy with footballers and their cheerleading posse. Even in math, the hierarchy continued. But that's not what's important… or new news. Lip had apparently convinced teachers of his excellence in English Gen, Gen being general- or gowk -to bump him up to the top. How he swung that was a feat in itself… everyone judged that an idiot in everything but talking and analyzing words must be an idiot, full stop.
"He got in?"
"Yeah. Up with Winters… Harry, too."
"Wow."
Eugene counted the heads. Bull and himself. Two gingers- that was Babe and Muck. Perconte, Malarkey, Guarnere with their dark hair. Luz was missing, then. Welsh and Winters in their English class- now with Lipton. Nixon was probably hung-over in his Geography Advanced.
"Where's Luz?"
"Didn't you hear the story?"
"What, Mucks'?"
"Yeah. Talked his way out of arrest under the bridge- no one had seen him since Saturday night." He never had heard how it ended… and he wasn't clear-cut on whether he wanted to know or not. It was a scary thing, being with people so long that they become such a big part of you. They make up so much of your life; make it so bright and fun and worthwhile. With friends like these, Eugene was certain that they would be together for lifetimes, and the picture of going without was grey, as riddled as cheddar cheese with holes of sadness. At the hint of all that being taken away, ripped out of your side like a band aid that had been buried under skin and bone, well. There was nothing he wouldn't do to stop it from happening. It was terrifying. He can't know, Eugene, keep it from him- 'Not today' Eugene swatted the inner demons who were reinstalling from the holiday break. At hand was a bigger problem.
"Shit." Luz could be dead in a ditch, confined in maximum security, framed for murder, God above only knows how many enemies he's made, and why... over money or thievery or drugs or-
"He'll turn up." Bull's words struck as lightning. Confidence kicked in, engulfing and dissipating fright like a tidal wave of sunshine. That was another thing: no matter how bad things got, despite all the trouble Luz attracts, he comes out on top without fail. Luz and Malarkey seem to be netted in a bubble of good luck at avoiding responsibility, injury, penalty, and in extreme cases, death. Eugene sighed.
"Yeah, you're right. He always does."
A scrunched up paper ball flew at his head.
Stop making snowflakes. What are you, five?
He knowingly grinned at the cursive, left-slanting, distinctly Edward handwriting, and wrote out in his own sloppy chickenscratch. He wrote, tossed it back. It bounced on the corner of his desk, and then into the center of the desk.
It came back, accompanied with an anticipating smirk.
Shut up. I do this every morning. Dickhead.
Ok, ok, Gene. You special snowflake, you.
Those two words.
How many times had Eugene tried to drive his point home, now? In the thousands, possibly billions? His friends wouldn't let up; just for his reaction, they said those two words. It may be fun and games to them… but it was cold hard, factual, serious business for Eugene. This battle had been ongoing for far too long. Beside himself, Eugene made angry bear sounds, unable to suppress his outburst.
"There. Is. NO. SUCH. THING. As. SPECIAL SNOWFLAKES! EVERY SNOWFLAKE IS SPECIAL!"
"Then how can they be special if they're all-"
The table tipped and broke when he stood up.
"FUCK YOU THAT'S HOW!"