((Ah, Bidwell. Is he Bostonian or British? The world may never know.))
Read-throughs of the play went rather well. Though Jane reacted badly to his character's quiet death, there was something in his eyes when he read what had happened to MacKenzie's wife that was oddly soft for a boy of his volume. Misha, however, was glad when his character died. His attempts at reading through an entire paragraph of complicated English frustrated him to no end. He barely caught any meaning of what he was reading, and he nearly threw the book across the room during some of his longer sentences. Ms. Pauling was patient with him, and eventually he got through everything. Pierre was still amazed with Ms. Pauling's acting abilities. She pulled off the lines and mannerisms as if they were her own actions. Even Vera's descent into madness was beautifully portrayed. He felt his own acting getting better, and his arguments with Blore were deeply cathartic. Mick didn't really care about the whole thing, but the sooner he could get Josef to stop staring at him when he wasn't reading lines, the better. The German boy had little trouble reading or acting, and already had all of his lines memorized. Dell struggled to keep up, and once he had "died" he joined Misha, Jeremy, and Jane at the left side of the room. Jeremy had called it the "Death Corner", but the name hadn't really stuck. Dell looked over to the back of the room, where Ignis was curled up in his usual spot, sleeping with a posture that no normal person would have been able to sleep in with any sort of comfort.
"How come the freak gets to sleep in the back while the rest of us gotta read this dumbass play?" Jeremy said. Dell rolled his eyes. "He ain't a freak. It's for the best. Just leave him alone."
"Yeah. Who'd wanna listen to him mumble for ten minutes anyway?"
"I DO NOT KNOW WHY WE ARE WHISPERING BUT I WILL ALSO WHISPER AS WELL." Jane's loud whisper from behind them made the two boys jump. They turned to Jane, Jeremy's face going red. "Shut up!" he whispered just as Ms. Pauling shot them another glare.
As they wrapped up act two, Ms. Pauling walked over to the blackboard, writing down a few words. "INTONATION, PACING, and ENUNCIATION. These three things separate good actors from bad ones. I know not many of you are skilled, but I want you to think about these things as we keep reading the script. When you're not reading, please make sure to look over your lines. We need to get these scripts memorized as soon as possible. You are dismissed."
The nine boys left and headed to their respective dorm rooms. Misha and Dell found an older boy leaning against their door. Misha sighed as the older boy stood up, just barely taller than the Russian. Dell figured it was a good time to visit the library before he got in further trouble.
"Hey, fatass," the older boy said, cracking his knuckles. "I've been looking for you. You still owe me for beating up my brother last week."
"Was fair fight," Misha said, not looking at the boy. "He agreed."
"Yeah, well, that don't heal his arm any quicker, yeah? So I figure, you break it, you bought it. And you ain't paid up yet."
"I have no money," Misha said, still not looking the boy in the face. The boy grabbed Misha's chin and tilted it up, glaring into the Russian's eyes.
"That ain't what I mean about paying."
"Vhat on earth are you doing, dummkopf?!"
Misha and the older boy turned to see Josef standing across the hall, glaring at them.
"Beating up students on school grounds vill only get you in trouble, Jack. Leave him alone."
'Jack' pulled away from Misha, muttering under his breath. "I'm coming back for you," he muttered. Misha did not think he was lying.
Once Jack had stomped off, Josef sighed, glaring at Misha. "Do try to stay out of trouble, mein junior. You do not vant any more punishments zhan ve already have, ja?"
"Trouble usually finds me," Misha grumbled. He was sick and tired of getting blamed for starting fights. He wasn't a fighting person, he had no desire to fight. He lacked the bloodlust that people assumed a boy of his size would have. Yet, every time he went somewhere new, as the biggest person in the room people wanted to fight him. He was the strongest person he knew (outside of his father or the health teacher), but he couldn't understand why some people just wanted to fight him when they saw him.
"It must be nice, being so strong. Being able to fight anyone who vould try to attack you. It must give you a sense of power."
Misha snapped out of his introspective thoughts, shaking his head sadly. "Is not nice. People want to fight all the time, and you never know why. Is tiring."
"One vould zhink a boy of your stature vould be used to zhe fighting by now."
"Is difference between fighting for sport and fighting to hurt," Misha argued.
"Vhich do you prefer?"
"I would prefer not to fight at all unless I have to." Memories flashed through Misha's mind, memories he had prayed to forget many times over. Senseless violence never led to anything good.
"If I vere you, I vould be using my strength to fight back. Zhere vould be no one to stand against me."
"There would be no one to stand with you, Josef," Misha said, staring at the floor. His voice, already deep for his age, conveyed an adultlike sadness and regret. He stepped backwards towards his room, but Josef stepped forward.
"Jack und his brother vill never touch you again. I vill make sure of it."
Misha smiled. "Thank you, Josef."
With that, the two boys retreated to their respective rooms.
Down the hall, Jeremy flung himself onto his top bunk, looking over to the top bunk across the aisle. Ignis sat on his bed, covered as usual, a large book in his hands.
"Whatcha got dere?" Jeremy asked. Ignis jumped, slapping the book closed. Once they realized they'd forgotten to put a bookmark in it, he yelped, frantically flipping pages to get back to his spot before shoving the bookmark in between the pages and slamming the book on top of the closet next to him.
Geez, you'd think I asked him to kill someone, Jeremy asked.
"Hey, you ok?" He asked, crawling towards the front of his bunk bed. Ignis leaned back against the wall.
"I ain't gonna hurt you or nothin'. What's your problem?" Jeremy could see Ignis getting flustered, but it didn't click in his brain that he was scaring the boy and probably needed to take it down a notch. He leaned over the gap between the beds, wondering how easily he could jump from one to the other. Ignis pulled himself tightly against the wall, his breathing shallow. He didn't dare look down below him; everything below his bed threatened to spin him to death. A chill ran down his spine, and he felt his stomach turn. Jeremy saw the other boy pale and pulled away, confused and a little disappointed. He crawled back to the other side of his bunk, giving Ignis the space he obviously wanted. As soon as Jeremy's attention wasn't directed on him anymore, Ignis climbed down from his bunk and snuck to the bathroom, ignoring the tilting walls as he hugged the porcelain. When he'd emptied his stomach and washed out his mouth, he climbed into one of the showers and curled up, letting the cold floor soothe him. Another roommate found him sleeping there late at night when he went to take a bedtime shower.
Pierre's ears perked up as he heard the soft padding of feet on the dorm room floor. He carefully shifted himself around so that he could see who was moving without being obvious. He smirked as he watched Mick pace back and forth, jumping slightly whenever the thunder crackled outside.
"Scared of the rain, bushboy?" he said softly, throwing his voice. Mick just about jumped out of his skin. "Who said that? Who's there?"
"Your imagination...or, perhaps, your conscience…"
"Shove off, Pierre."
"Good guess." Pierre sat up, his scheme foiled. "You never answered my question, you know."
"You already asked it. An' I told ya to shove off. I ain't scared'a the rain."
"Pantalon menteur menteur en feu."
"Right. Great. Insult me in French, why don't ya. You know I can't understand French."
"Why not learn? Youth is a wonderful time to learn new zings."
"Whatever. I'm goin' ta bed."
"Sleep well, bush boy. Do not let ze rain keep you awake."
Mick turned bright red, trying to ignore Pierre's snorting as he climbed back into his top bunk, pulling the blankets over himself. Once the Australian was asleep, Pierre climbed down from his own top bunk, walking over to the window and staring outside. Truthfully, he didn't much care for the rain either, but he knew better than to reveal that fact to anyone other than himself. Besides, he reasoned, his dislike of rain had a better reason than the bushboy's childish fear. The Australian had certainly never run through the rain, trying his best not to slip in the mud, trying to be as quiet as possible for fear that he would be grabbed from behind and flung to the ground, a knife at his throat-
Pierre slowly realized that he was scratching the wood on the windowsill, and forced himself to calm down with slow, deep breaths. He avoided looking at his reflection. He knew he wouldn't recognize the face anyway. He closed his eyes, rubbed his face, and stepped back from the glass, heading to the bathroom for a glass of water before he, too, was back in his bed, shrugging off muted nightmares.
At around three in the morning, Pauling threw herself onto her queen-size bed, sighing deeply. She let her hair down and combed it out, remembering how her mother had told her never to comb her hair at night for fear of slowing down sailors. She hadn't seen either of her parents in...was it a decade? She wasn't that old, was she? Who called ten years a decade anymore?
She was rambling again. To herself, no less. She rubbed her face, letting her glasses rest on her forehead. She shouldn't have had that fourth cup of coffee after lunch. She was never going to get to sleep at this rate. Maybe she should invest in some sleeping pills? She laughed to herself. Coffee to stay awake, pills to go to sleep. She was going to kill herself by the time she was 40. Well, if the work didn't get to her first.
She unbuttoned her standard purple dress and took off the leggings and tank top she wore beneath it. Luckily, she hadn't done anything to get a run in these tights today, so she could wear them tomorrow or some other time before she got a chance to do laundry again. She slipped on her nightshirt and buttoned it up, slipping her bra out from underneath. She pulled on her pyjama pants and lay back on the bed, rubbing her aching feet. Sure, she could run around in heels all day, but it was hardly comfortable. She made a mental note to book a massage appointment on her next day off. If it got any worse, she told herself, she could always run down to Dr. Zeigler and get her to take a look at her swollen calves. She was sure the nurse would love to have a break from the stream of sick and bloodied boys knocking on her door.
She flicked her bedtable light on and grabbed the book that was sitting next to it, flicking it open to where she had stopped the night before. Reading always helped put her to sleep, and she was good at remembering to mark her place once she got too drowsy to read the words. She climbed under her covers and started reading, leaning back against her pillows. Twenty minutes later she was out, her lamp serving as a nightlight. The rest of the room was on an automatic timer, a project she'd commissioned Bidwell for ages ago once the Headmistress started to complain about her penchant for falling asleep with the lights on and wasting energy. The room was dark before 4am.