Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews, everyone! I hope you continue to enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. So here it is: Chapter 3.
P. S. - I changed Sam's name to Mark, so you wouldn't get him mixed up with Kirk's brother Sam. Totally different kid.
Spock did not at all like being absent from school, even for a day. But after the incident on Tuesday, Amanda would not let Spock return to school until Friday. His head had healed long before then, but his mother insisted. "Better safe than sorry," Amanda quoted at him on Thursday over the breakfast table.
Jim visited Spock's house on Wednesday and Thursday after school let out.
On Wednesday, Jim introduced Spock to the television set that had up until then been neglected in the house. Jim had insisted on watching vintage cartoons from before the Nuclear Era, but Spock did not find them amusing or pleasing at all. They were, in fact, quite distasteful. He failed to see how talking caricatures of animals attempting to do harm to each other was supposed to be humorous. He practically balked when Donald Duck would run off a cliff and forget to fall to the ground below, or when the Coyote tried to use dynamite. "I do believe that is the most illogical thing that I have ever seen, Jim."
But Jim just chuckled at the antics on screen, his face covered in cheez-dust from the snacks Amanda had provided.
"Mother," Spock called to the kitchen, where Amanda was making dinner. "Mother, are you sure that this is perfectly normal for Terrans?"
"Certainly, darling," Amanda answered, stepping into the living room with a spatula in her hand. "Terran boys and girls do this quite often."
Spock pouted. "It is unproductive, illogical, and unhealthy."
"And that's exactly why Terrans like to do it," Amanda pointed out. "Spock, there are other programs on, you know. There are thousands of different channels."
"I see no use in searching for a different program," Spock remarked. "Not if they are all like this one."
Amanda peered at the tube, and suppressed a giggle. "Looney Toons? I'd have bet your father's pointed ears that they weren't running this program any more!" she exclaimed. She put her spatula down on a sideboard and flopped into an armchair, Jim and Spock seated on the floor mere inches in front of the TV set.
As the cartoon ended, Jim sighed. "They won't play any more for another hour. Mrs. Sarek, can I change the channel?"
"Please do," Spock interjected. "What other kinds of programs are there?"
A wicked grin crept onto Jim's face. "Let me show you."
On Thursday, Jim showed up at the Sarek household with a black eye. "Gods almighty, Jim!" Amanda shrieked. "What, did you get hit by a bus?"
"Almost," Jim mumbled. "It's nothing. I've had my eyes socked before. It's no big deal."
"Let me get some ice, at least!" Amanda flew into the kitchen to get an ice-pack from the freezer.
Spock tromped down the stairs, eager to see Jim after an entire day of interesting, but dry and outdated, science periodicals. "Jim," he called. He stopped dead at the landing when he saw Jim's face. "It is not normal for humans to look like this," he stated. "Jim, is something wrong?"
Jim smiled weakly. "No, Spock. Nothing you need to worry about."
Amanda dashed back in and handed Jim a towel full of ice. "That ought to bring down the swelling," she said. "If your eye gets too cold, take it off for a few minutes, and then reapply. Got it?"
"Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Sarek."
"Well, you boys spent all day yesterday in front of the tube. Why don't you do something productive today? Homework, studying..." Spock's mouth turned down slightly at the corners at the mention of more book work. "...tiered chess?"
That made Spock light up. "A splendid idea," he said, almost glowing. "Jim, would you play tiered chess with me?"
"Play what?" Jim asked blankly. "Chess?"
"Yes – but with a three-dimensional board."
"Alright! Teach me!" Jim insisted. "I'll learn."
The boys went up to Spock's room together. Jim hadn't gotten a good look at it last time he was here, since he was in such a panic, but now he got a chance to really look around. The walls were not decorated in the conventional sense. There were no childish drawings scotch-taped to the walls; there were no colorful, unusual prints at all. The walls were some eggshell-cream color. The windows were bare save for the blinds. The light fixture was frosted glass and brass. Conservative. The area rug that took up most of the floor was the same shade as the walls. Spock's bed was the tidiest darn thing Jim had ever seen. It looked like a hospital bed, except it was heaped with an electric heater at the feet and about twelve quilts.
Spock reached into his closet and took out a plain cardboard box. "We had this shipped ahead of us from Vulcan," he said, as he put the box in the middle of the carpet. From it he took a beautiful sculpture, made of swirled chrome arabesques and planes frosted glass that sat parallel to the floor like little tabletops. He also withdrew two handsome pouches, one black, one white. He handed the white one to Jim.
There was a set of chess pieces inside. The white ones were made of some stunning, sparkly white rock that Jim had never seen; smooth, cold to the touch; they almost looked felicitous. The black ones were made of a resolute, black, rough, porous stone, sort of like very fine scoria. Spock began to put the black chessmen on the little glass tables.
"Jim?" he prodded, as Jim just stared at the sculpture.
"Nice statue, Spock, but where's the chessboard?"
Spock raised his eyebrows. "This is the chessboard." Jim gulped. Spock, clearly enjoying himself, went on. "You haven't played tiered chess? It's also called three-dimensional chess, space chess, galactic chess...its list of names goes on. It's just like normal, two-dimensional Terran chess, but...well...with an extra dimension added."
"Who invented this thing?" Jim asked.
"I believe it was a Terran by the name of William Weber, an American, in the early 21st century. It's all the rage in Star Fleet. That's how it got to Vulcan; that's how I learned it."
Jim's ears pricked. "Did you say Star Fleet ?" he asked.
"Yes," Spock responded. "Why?"
"No reason," Jim deflected. "Just teach me how to play space chess."
"Amoebas are only one cell big.
They have fuzzy edges just like a wig.
They don't need chlor...chloro...chlorophyll to eat.
They get their food with their false feet."
The third-grade class applauded politely as Mark Fletcher mock-bowed and retook his seat. Ms. Roberts smiled appreciatively at her second-best student. "Very good, Mark. I like how you used the word 'chlorophyll.'" Mark beamed.
It was Friday. Also known as turn-homework-in-day. Spock had not been in class to receive the assignment on Wednesday. Everyone had had to write a poem about an amoeba. Mark had written one, Jim had written one...everyone had written one except Spock.
"It took me all night to make that up," Mark boasted. "I bet it's the best in the whole class." His friends sniggered.
"Well, who would like to go next?" Ms. Roberts asked. "Jim?"
Jim did not relish the duty of public speaking, but he didn't dare shy away from an opportunity to show off a little. "Alright, I'll go."
He had to walk by Mark's desk to get to the front of the class. Ms. Roberts wasn't looking. Mark stuck his foot out. Jim almost tripped, but caught himself. "Looks like that shiner I gave ya yesterday's swelled up real nice," Mark commented. Spock could not help but hear. "You're not gonna try to sit at our lunch table again until you ditch Freak. Is that clear?"
"Crystal clear."
Spock's heart dropped. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind at once: How to stop Mark, how to repay Jim, worried for Jim, Jim's conflicted, he wants to help me but misses his friends, must stop Mark, I'm sorry. He clenched his hands into fists.
"Go ahead, dear," Ms. Roberts said. Jim cleared his throat.
"I went on a trip to Antares eleven,
Way past Star-base twenty-seven.
There I met an Amoeba named Cheri
Who had never ever caused dysentery.
She's an omnivore just like me.
She'll eat meat or food off a tree.
Cheri's as real as a bar of soap.
You can see her under a microscope."
"A space amoeba named Cheri?" Mark hooted. "That's rich!"
"Mark, that's enough," chided Ms. Roberts. "Jim, I think it was a wonderful poem. I like how you included some of your original ideas about space travel."
But her praise fell on deaf ears. Jim had deflated like a balloon with its tie undone. He slumped back to his seat and stuffed his poem harshly into his desk, whereupon he buried his head in his arms and sat completely still.
Something very unusual was happening to Spock on the other side of the room. Upon hearing Jim and Mark's conversation and Mark's sustained threat of excommunication from the group, Spock had felt a mixture of – dare he say it? - emotion. He felt angry, and sad, and confused, and hurt, and ashamed. The river behind the dam was roaring. The way that Mark had hurt Jim, just with words, was unbearable for some reason. Spock had heard, so Mark may as well have assaulted the both of them.
And of course Spock cared. Jim cared for him, did he not?
"Mark," Spock spoke up.
"Yeah?" Mark answered lazily, not even granting Spock the courtesy of eye contact.
"It has been recorded that amoeba-like organisms exist in space, and that they can grow to be over ten feet in diameter."
"So?"
"I find that Jim's poem does not only describe an amoeba's diet, as does yours, but goes on to include information about similarities between the specie of amoeba on Earth and its interstellar relatives. In this respect, I find that it is superior to yours."
Mark snorted. "Fine. Whatever. Nobody cares what you think, Freak."
"The chatter among our classmates would indicate otherwise," Spock half-stated, half-teased. It was true: everyone was looking at either Spock or Mark.
"What're you all looking at?" Mark said loudly. "Who cares whose poem's better?"
"That will be enough!" Ms. Roberts chided. "Now, we'll move on to math."
"Ms. Roberts," Spock called.
"Yes, Spock?"
"I have not presented my homework."
"You were absent the day it was assigned, so I don't expect it from you until next Tuesday."
"I wrote it during lunch. I went to the library and studied the record-tape on amoebae."
Ms. Roberts looked only a little taken aback. It was Spock, after all. "Alright. Please, come up to the front of the class."
Spock did so. He recited his poem from memory:
"Amoebae are unicellular creatures
Which have several unique and apparent features.
Of cellulose and chloroplasts
Amoebae are free;
They ingest their food phagocytotically."
Nobody clapped or booed or even moved. Ms. Roberts was the first to speak.
"My, that was very informative, Spock. Only, are you sure that you know what all those big words mean?"
"If you are referring to the polysyllabic scientific terms, then yes. I am quite familiar with all of their definitions."
"Of course you are," Ms. Roberts said, mostly to herself. "Thank you, dear."
Out of all the varied blank and dumbstruck faces in the room, Spock had only really looked at two during his recitation. There was Jim, no longer upset, eyes a little damp and shining; and there was Mark, as red as the Vulcan sun.
Thanks again for reading, and I hope that chapter 4 will be up soon (because I have no control over when I publish stuff :P)
"Report, Mr. Spock."
"Captain, my sensors indicate that the reader will review this chapter."
"Excellent, Mr. Spock. Mr. Sulu, set course for the review box, warp factor 1."
"Aye, sir."
"Nuclear wessels!"