Jim can't decide how to do it.
He wants to be there when it happens, wants to carve Carl up like a roast, serve his head on a platter, and let dogs feast on his bones. But he knows that can't happen.
Carl's got at least half a foot on him and knows how to use it to his advantage. The only way he'd ever be able to gut him properly is if he snuck into his bedroom like some clichéd television robber and even that leaves too much to chance. It feels too much like some weird version of a fairy tale; it has none of the finesse he needs.
So he lets the ideas fester, bouncing around in his mind. It has to be perfect otherwise it won't feel right. But even with the self-imposed pressure, it's sort of a relief to have a purpose, to have something to fill the days. Better than school at least, at least he's getting something out practical out of it.
"Who's Carl Powers?"
And in an instant, he's pulled out of his own private revelry. Jim looks up from his notebook to see his "partner", Hannah, he recalls, looking down at him, lab goggles slightly askew, wispy hair falling into her eyes.
"I have no idea," he replies, all grin and flash, thinking how the fuck does she know about Carl. He's been careful not to really talk to anyone since his epiphany the other night. He's not stupid. If he were partnered with a mind reader for the past three weeks, now would be a good time to know. She might come in useful then.
"You've written his name all over the lab sheet," she replies, eyes dropping to the paper, which oddly enough does have Carl's name written all over it, scrawled all over like some ancient hieroglyphic code. She raises her eyebrows, a knowing look on her too-thin face. " Someone's got a crush."
There are a number of ways Jim can reply to this and they all race through his mind at once. "It's none of your business," he snarls and annoyingly enough, she just smirks.
"No need to be so bitchy " she says, " You're not exactly being shy about it."
"Do you kiss your mum with that mouth," he asks, voice a slow drawl. "I mean, I'm surprised she lets you get close enough with vomit on your breath."
Whatever was left of a smirk is wiped off of her face and she pales immediately, her hand moving subtly towards her mouth, worn down fingernails scratching a little against her chin.
"To be fair though," he adds, taking a moment to look up at her with a smirk. It's so goddamn hard being menacing when your target is taller than you, but he can try. "She doesn't let your dad either, so I guess you have company."
"I don't know where you heard those things, " Hannah stammers out softly, apparently under the delusion that someone other than herself gives a shit about her family, "but they aren't true."
Jim doesn't answer, it's not necessary, just goes back to scribbling in his notebook, smirk still on his face. Ordinary people can't handle silences. They fill voids with mindless chatter, a numbing presence to cope with the fact that they are boring and that they can't be alone, but no, they can't handle silences. It scares them, and right now, it's scaring Hannah, or as Jim has freshly dubbed her "Skeletor." He can't even see her right now, doesn't want to look, he hasn't got time for ugly things, but she's still looming over him, watching. He can feel her eyes on him as if she's waiting for him to snap.
The bell rings a short while later and as Skeletor leaves, she turns to him, eyes full of hatred and what seems to look like pity. "You need some pills or something," she says, looking down at him. "Go to a doctor. See if he can make it so you're not as much of a freak."
"It's a shame you can't do the same, sweetheart," he replies, voice light, "guess you're always going to be mummy's little butterball."
Her cheeks redden as she finally heads for the door. He considers it a minor success.
Jim still can't think of how to get rid of Carl so for the time being he settles for antagonizing Skeletor. It's not much of a challenge, he never thought it'd be but it's always fun annoying someone. After all, boys will be boys.
It doesn't take much, the occasional coupon for a brand new weight loss drug, questions about what she thinks her mum's new boyfriend is up to, but his crowning achievement comes on the last day of their partnership.
He slices through the neck of the pig they have been working on for the past few weeks. He grabs the head in his hand, coughing loudly so the entire class turns their heads, and begins his masterpiece, gazing with an almost paternal fondness at the pig's empty face.
"Alas, poor Hannah! I knew her well," he begins, his voice nearly a shout. Of course he feels just the slightest guilt at misquoting Shakespeare, but it's not like any of his classmates would get it if he mentioned some bloke named Horatio. However, the connection between a dead pig and another one of their peers seems to be accessible to them, if the amount of sly looks towards Skeletor and muffled giggles seem to be any indication.
"Although if I am going to be perfectly honest, you are much more attractive than the real Hannah," he says, poking the pig's nose with his free hand like it was a naughty puppy or toddler before looking over his shoulder to see Hannah's eyes welling up with tears. He turns back to the pig and adds " far fewer pimples."
It isn't his best material, but regardless, Hannah storms out of the lab as fast as she can, nearly running over the hapless boy working on his own experiment by the door. He, along with everyone else, can hear her crying in the hall.
Not bad for a Tuesday
Of course, the momentary high that comes from crushing someone's self esteem only lasts so long. He really does need to get the whole Carl dilemma sorted out; he hates having things left on his to-do list.
He spends the next Friday night following Carl Powers as he goes out with what appears to be a girlfriend. It's not the same one as the movie theatre. This one is prettier than her predecessor, mouth painted an unnatural shade of red along with full breasts and curly blonde hair, a fitting trophy of the apple of the school's eye, precious Carl with his precious ability to swim faster than some other idiots.
The two end up going for dinner at a fairly cheap cafe, the girl laughing too loudly at jokes that Jim is sure can't be that funny. People like Carl don't have personalities; they talk with their bodies. They don't need to think, so they don't.
He sits at his own seat at the counter, ordering only black coffee to the disapproval of the old woman who seems to be in charge. She gives an exasperated click each time she refills it, hinting not so subtlety that they also serve sandwiches. After a fifth painfully unsubtle grunt, he finally looks up at her with the look he has privately dubbed as "Puppy face" and tells her that he was waiting for a girl who must have stood him up.
"Guess she doesn't like me after all,' he nearly whimpers and he feels disgusting about acting so pathetic, but it gets the job done. The woman immediately softens, calling him dearie and replacing his now cold coffee with a steaming mug of hot cocoa piled with whipped cream, eyes gleaming with pity and what seems to be an all-consuming desire to read into other people's business.
The cocoa is decent enough so he plays into the woman's expectations, making up some half-assed story about a crush that he's nursed over the course of a few years, painting the picture of some fairy princess who, in the words of his new "friend", "doesn't deserve a sweet young boy like you, dearie."
From his perch at the counter, he can see Carl and his date heading out of the door, the girl walking with what seems to either be a deliberate wiggle or a very unfortunate physical tick. Carl soon follows, eyes moving appreciatively to her ass, pausing a second to roll up the sleeve of his sweater and vigorously scratch the skin of his wrist, revealing what looks to be an incredibly disgusting rash.
Jim's thoughts immediately fall into the snide petty category he doesn't always allow himself to access, momentarily taking pride in his own pale disgusting rash-free skin, but he recognizes the type of rash. It's not like Carl's been swimming through poison oak, it's eczema, fairly well hidden from the general public, but eczema nonetheless.
He's got to be taking medication for it, Jim reasons, it's not like his smug little face is covered in rashes.
And with that, a plan is hatched.
