Disclaimer in previous chapters still applies
Authors Note: Once again, sorry for taking so long to update, I'm still not giving up on this fic! The truth of the matter is, it seems the further I get into the original story, it gets even more poorly written. I mean, I look at some of the things I wrote and I'm just downright ashamed :-! So now I just kind of wait for inspiration to strike, and it came to me tonight while I was watching Gilmore Girls DVD's (By the way, I'm liking 'Mount Horizon' by Wildly Obsessed so far, I hope she updates eventually because its really well written and something kind of different!), don't ask. I typed this up in about an hour, everything just started pouring out, so I apologize for any typos, etc. I'm not going to put a date on the next chapter, but it should be pretty soon because it'll be short – it's more or less to connect this chapter and the next (which is REALLY poorly written, probably the worst of them all to be honest) – but I'm in a groove so I'll see what I can do. Reviews (good and bad!) and suggestions are always inspiring :-)
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The room was completely silent, aside from the sound of heavy footsteps, as Peter paced back and forth in front of his desk. He was confused, he was angry – he was exasperated, completely and utterly exasperated. This kid was running out chances. Keeping him there after the stunt he pulled his very first week, what with the running away coupled with breaking an entering, had been tough enough; for all intents and purposes, Frank was ready to send him on his way with a "good luck and good riddance." Peter had convinced his mentor to let him stay, but it was made clear that Scott was on probation. Though he didn't know it, this left Scott floating in a proverbial lifeboat. Another day like today, he'd be clinging to a flimsy lifesaver. Another still and he'd be an extra from Titanic – dead in the water, on his way back home. Peter didn't like to think about the possibility, but Scott gave him little choice. Sure, it wasn't out of the ordinary for these kids to be resistant and downright volatile at first, but Scott wasn't a newbie anymore. He'd been learning, he'd been growing – baby steps, but still, it was forward progress regardless. The incident with Craig was only one giant step back for him, and Peter was simply dumbstruck as to why. He'd gathered that Scott wasn't a huge fan of Craig, but had ventured that it wasn't much to worry about, especially since the two were in separate groups. Apparently, it seemed his reasoning was completely off. What the hell was it about this seemingly harmless guy that pushed Scott's buttons to incite such a reaction?
"What went on out there, Scott?" he questioned finally, breaking the silence, frustration evident in his voice. "I thought we had your anger under control."
Scott could feel Peter's gaze bearing down on him, sharp and heavy, but he refused to advert his eyes, keeping them glued on the spine of one of the books on Peter's bookshelf. Walden by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Huh. Scott didn't think Peter was the type – he was surprised anyone was the type. He was supposed to read it earlier in the year, write some kind of essay on it for his Literature class. He'd thumbed through the thin paperback copy one night when his father and Elaine were out of town – they'd be back home the next night – glancing at the black typeface as each page passed him by, not bothering to read so much as a sentence, before tossing it on the floor with his dirty laundry. That was about as close to trying as he got. He hadn't bothered to show up for class the day the assignment was due, choosing to skip school all together in favor or getting high under a bridge with new "friends" whose names he didn't even know. Realizing Peter was waiting for some kind of explanation, Scott spoke, his voice entirely flat. "It is under control. I just don't like him."
"Why!" Peter demanded, crouching down, cutting off the blonde's view of Walden causing him to advert his eyes. Peter moved once again; Scott gazed away. They kept it up until Scott gave up, answering Peter's steely gaze with his own, emotionless and aloof. "What'd he do to make you so angry, Scott?"
He was biting the inside of his lip, and the staring contest was slowly breaking him down. He had no idea how Peter did it, but he had a way of getting inside of Scott's head without much direct effort. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He tore his eyes away from Peter's, staring out the window at nothing in particular – students ran by, laughing and talking, but he didn't see them. He was too busy building up his walls again. "Nothing. Nothing at all. He's just a loser. He's weak. He needed to be put in his place, that's all."
Peter stared at Scott for a long time, following his gaze out the window, noticing the absolutely empty, vacant look in his eyes, his tense facial features. He could sit here and talk to this kid until he was blue in the face, but he wasn't going to get anywhere. He knew that. He knew perhaps better than anyone else, because he saw so much of himself in Scott. Maybe that's why he'd pushed so hard for Frank to let him stay, why he gave him so many second, third, and fourth chances, why he was so desperate to uncover Scott's inner demons. Sure, he knew the story at face value; it was all in the intake file, just as it was for every other student. Scott's read like a bad Lifetime TV movie: drugs, alcohol, plummeting grades, and getting kicked off the football team, a downward spiral that had transformed Scott, Mr. All-American boy, the kind of kid any parent would love to call their son, into an unfortunate statistic. That was all obvious, but why? A lot of kids at Horizon had been born and raised in dire situations. But this kid had it all, and for all intents and purposes, he'd been happy having it all. He didn't just throw it away for no reason.
"Fine," Peter said stiffly, walking in front of the window, looking out over the campus, leaving Scott to stare at his turned back. "You're on shuns and kitchens until our next quest on Saturday – before we head out, you'll turn in a two thousand word essay on anger as a human emotion. And I don't want to see you anywhere near Craig. Otherwise, another phone call to your parents will be necessary."
For the first time, Scott's facial expression, hard and cold, wavered. For a brief moment, he considered begging Peter not to pick up the phone, not to call his father, not to send him home. He'd do anything, say anything – make that essay four thousand words long, he'd do it, hell, maybe he'd even do that long overdue essay on Walden and mail it to his Lit teacher – just don't pick up that phone. But the moment passed, and a shadow crossed over Scott's face, realizing Peter's turned back would suffice for a dismissal. "Yeah, do whatever you want," Scott mumbled, shoving his hands deep within his pockets, fingers tightly crossed as he walked out the door.
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Shelby woke up that morning with a smile on her face. A real, legitimate smile.
Kat had placed a hand on her forehead while Juliette hid beneath a comforter and Daisy formed a cross with her fingers. She'd rolled her eyes at their lame dramatics, but she remained pleasant. She hadn't had a single nightmare the night before, the first time in months that she hadn't sat up in bed, every hour on the hour, heart pounding wildly. Aside from being able to sleep through the night, resolving things with Craig the night before had lifted a huge weight off her shoulders. If there was, by some miracle, coffee waiting for her in the dining hall, she was afraid that she might break down and cry tears of joy. Of course, she wasn't that lucky. In fact, she'd been late for breakfast; the dining hall was nearly empty and she'd been stuck with one of the last platters of food. Her fruit salad was mushy, her eggs looked rubbery – so much so that they reminded her of the play food she used to "cook up" for her mother on her brightly colored plastic play stove when she was younger – and they were out of regular, so her orange juice was full of pulp; she hated pulp.
But for some reason, even the dismal breakfast didn't dampen Shelby's mood. She dumped her mostly full plate in the trash, bursting out of the dining hall into the sunshine, eager to feel the warmth on her arms. As she made her way down the stairs, she noticed Craig coming out the door of the infirmary. Maybe he'd actually eaten the eggs at breakfast she thought, holding back laughter. But as she made her way closer to him, eager to tease him about his first taste of Horizon food poisoning, her smile faded. There were bandages on Craig's face; the skin along the left side of his chin was an ugly dark purple, and she noticed a bulge on the right side of his body under his t-shirt – a massive ice pack covering almost his entire side. "What happened to you!"
Craig tried to force a smile, but he couldn't. He was too tired, too sore, and too fed up to bother with niceties. "I ran into a wall," he said bitterly, lightly massaging his chin, his mouth fixed in a scowl, "a wall named Scott Barringer."
Shelby looked blankly at him for a moment, not sure she'd heard right. "Wait, Scott did this to you! Why?"
Craig shrugged. "Hell if I know!" He would have thrown his arms up in the air in an ultimately sarcastic gesture, but it'd kill his already bruised ribs. "Sorry," he continued, though he knew she wasn't offended, "it just came out of nowhere. He totally snapped, said something about some Tracker guys telling him I was forcing myself on you, which was – "
"Total bullshit!" Shelby finished angrily. She wasn't sure what pissed her off more – that the Trackers were using her to advance whatever hidden agenda they had, or that Scott had gone off on this poor guy based on idle gossip that was completely untrue. Craig had been nothing but a gentleman since day one – something Shelby was hardly used to, and something Scott could hardly claim.
"The thing I don't understand" Craig began, cutting into her thoughts, "is that I thought you guys hated each other. But you know, I have to say, he came off as pretty damn protective while he was trying to beat my face it."
Shelby paused. She wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Frankly, she was just as confused as Craig was. Scott always ran so hot and cold with her, it was hard to tell what the hell he was feeling – it had been that way ever since they were kids. They'd been best friends more or less when they were younger; middle school caused them to drift apart, but they were still cordial; high school came around and they were split into separate groups. Scott was outrageously popular, King of the school, admired and desired by the majority of the student body; Shelby, on the other hand, was a nobody, a bad seed who was hardly worthy of someone like Scott's presence. But still, despite their constant bickering and insulting, there had been brief, random moments when they were alone when he treated her like a human being; when he treated her like the best friend, the little girl who'd been obsessed with ballet and My Little Pony, who he'd climbed trees and had slumber parties with when they were younger. Before everything became complicated. Their near lip-lock in the clearing weeks ago had completely thrown her for a loop, causing her to constantly wonder what would have happened if Peter had waited a minute or so more. How would he have reacted? How would she have reacted? What did he mean by 'perfect timing,' exactly? What if, what if, what if? "Yeah, well we do – he does – I don't know. It's … complicated."
Craig immediately recalled what Shelby had said the night before when he'd asked if she was interested in anymore else, the conversation still fresh in his mind, the realization hitting him like a lightening bolt. "Sort of – not really – it's complicated. I'm complicated." Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, feeling the sun beating down on his face as he laughed, a cynical, "go-figure" laugh that caused Shelby to look at him curiously. "Jesus Christ, it's him, isn't it?" Shelby's face remained genuinely confused and he sighed, shaking his head. "I asked you last night if you were interested in anyone else and you said it was complicated. I ask you if you guys hate each other, and it's complicated. It's him. He's the other guy. You're into Barringer, aren't you?"
Her face drained of all color, and then her cheeks flushed, her dark blue eyes fixed on the ground, suddenly appearing completely enamored with her sneakers. That was all the answer he needed.
"Figures."
Shelby looked up quickly, her eyes settling on him as he looked away, over her shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked sharply.
He held up his hands, smiling as he shook his head once again. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't jealous; he liked Shelby, sure, but the fact that the guy that had just beat the tar out of him was 'the other man' was kind of like pouring salt in his still open wounds. But it wasn't Shelby's fault; she didn't mean any harm, and it wasn't his style to hold a grudge, or to be nasty just because he didn't get his way. He'd tried to be bitter and jaded, but it just didn't suit him. He'd leave that up to guys like Scott. "Figure's you'd be interested in the football star. That's your type, huh?" Craig teased.
Shelby sighed, relieved he wasn't about to go off on her. "No, he's not 'my type'. It's – it's – it's not something that I wanted to happen. Believe me. If it's even happening … I don't know. Like I said, it's complicated. It's kind of driving me nuts, actually. Like – " Shelby stopped short, taking a deep breath. Not only was she babbling, she was revealing too much to a guy who probably didn't want to hear it. "You know, honestly, I'd rather not talk about it."
"Hey, that's cool, trust me!" Craig assured her, "I've had my fill of Scott Barringer today," he continued, motioning to his jaw as Shelby winced, her eyes flashing with anger. However, his bruised lips slowly twisted into an amused smirk. "But just so you know, when I have a super sexy story about a super sexy girl, and you're just dying to know all the juicy details, I'm not going to tell you, no matter how much you beg."
Shelby laughed, rolling her eyes. "God, what a loss. I don't know how I'll sleep at night," she deadpanned, pausing to glance at his wounds once more, her concern melting away, now replaced with white hot anger. "Listen – I forgot I have to uh, take care of something. With Peter. You know – the thing. Yeah. I'll catch you later."
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He'd tried reading Walden, grabbing Ezra's copy from his stash beneath his bed. But after a few pages, he gave up. He still didn't get it, and he still had no clue what people saw in this stuff. Stoned or sober as he was now, Scott still had no idea what the hell Emerson was saying. Why couldn't they just speak English – normal English; none of that Romeo and Juliet, "Wherefore Art Thou" crap. Someone needed to put Emerson on an IMAX screen, update it with Leonardo DiCaprio or Orlando Bloom, or whoever all the chicks were screaming over these days, and everyone would be a little more clued in.
Until then, he'd settle for paging through the Sports Illustrated 50th Anniversary book his father had mailed him recently. For the past five minutes he'd been staring at a single photograph, capturing a moment football fans knew simply as "The Catch." 1982, AFC Championship Game, San Francisco 49'ers versus the Dallas Cowboys. Dwight Clark's leaping catch via Joe Montana in the back of the end zone to win the game with less than a minute on the clock. They'd go on to become Superbowl champions that year. His father, a lifelong 49'ers fan, had the original cover framed – it hung in Scott's room. For as long as he could remember, his life centered around getting to that point – playing in the NFL, being on the cover of Sports Illustrated, leading his team to victory. It had always been his dream, something he and his father wanted more than anything. As he looked at the photograph he wondered, for the first time since coming to Horizon, if the dream was over. He was losing an entire year of playing time. His association with drugs and his dismal grades prior to coming to Horizon would hardly help matters. God, he'd be lucky if the coach let him back on the team at this point – if he could even get out in time for senior year. Scott felt a lump rising in his throat as he continued to stare at the photograph and he bit down hard on his lower lip – he couldn't believe he was about to cry over this.
"What the hell did you think you were doing!"
The sound of the door slamming and Shelby's shrill voice sent Scott flying back to reality. Swallowing hard, blinking quickly, hoping his eyes weren't too glassy, he turned the page of the book, a full page shot Michael Jordan defying gravity occupying his attention. He didn't bother replying, observing the Chicago Bulls standout before thumbing back a handful of pages, reading the piece on the 1980 "Miracle on Ice" US Olympic hockey team. However, as soon as he reached the blurb on Herb Brooks' speech prior to the gold medal game, the book was ripped from his hands, landing with a loud thud on the floor.
"Don't act like you didn't hear me! Where the hell do you get off!"
Shelby was angry, that much was unmistakably clear. He wasn't an idiot. He got the gist, he knew why. He didn't understand why, he didn't get why she'd stand up for someone who more or less tried to assault her, but then again, he really didn't understand Shelby Merrick. And at this point, he was too tired, too emotionally drained, to try to sort her out. "I'm not supposed to talk. I'm on shuns," he said simply, picking his book up off the floor.
"Since when do you abide by the rules?" she hissed, his complacency pissing her off, knowing full well he snuck out after lights out just as often as she did. Knowing full well that he and Juliette didn't exactly keep their hands to themselves when no one was around. "I'm not going to play games with you Scott, I just want a fucking answer."
Scott looked up at her, half shocked, half disgusted. "I just put the jerk in his place, all right!" he exploded, standing up, throwing the book down on the bed, his cheeks slowly turning red. He wasn't embarrassed, he was heated. "Damnit Shelby, I don't get you! He forces himself on you, and you defend him! I give him a message – you know, no means no? and you're pissed off! You should be thanking me!"
Thanking him! What, does he want an award? Should I bend down and kiss your feet, King Scott? He's such an egomaniac! "Scott, he never forced himself on me! Are you comprehending! He kissed me, and I told him to back off, which he did. God – you know, I know you've got some kind of vendetta against him for whatever stupid macho reason you thought up, but Craig is actually a pretty nice guy."
Scott rolled his eyes, exasperated. She was still making excuses for this prick? "A pretty nice guy? Why, because he brought protection?"
His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth, Scott instantly regretted it. Her mouth dropped open and he heard her scream something about him being an asshole, about Craig just being her friend. About Craig respecting her, about how he should try doing the same. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. He knew he'd already crossed the line, but he couldn't restrain himself. His mind wasn't communicating with is mouth
"How am I supposed to respect the resident whore?"
Shelby felt like she'd been punched in the stomach, the words he'd just uttered playing over and over again in her lead like a broken record, sinking in, becoming embedded like pieces of broken glass. For a brief moment, she thought she was going to throw up. It was as if he'd just pushed her off a cliff. She was falling, and didn't have anything to hold onto. She tried to think of something to say in return, something that would make him feel just as small and insignificant and low as he'd just made her feel. But she couldn't. She was tired. She was defeated. She was through caring, through trying, through worrying about Scott Barringer and how he really felt about her. He'd just made it all too clear for her. The days of riding bikes and climbing trees and sleepovers were long gone. The incident in the clearing had been a crazy fluke. He was still the football captain, Mr. Popularity, the King of the Universe – and she, well, she was just the resident whore. Case closed.
Scott stood firmly in place for a few moments after she turned on her heel and ran out, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He'd said the worst possible thing at what might have been the worst possible time. He didn't even know why he said it. He just needed a rewind button. If he could only go back and fix it and change it and clean up this mess he'd made. If only he could rewind and pause and make his entire life right. Snap out of it. You're not going to get a rewind button any time soon, Barringer, his conscience reminded him in no uncertain terms, sending him bounding out of the dorm, flying down the stairs, forgetting all about shuns and being in a huge deal of trouble and all those inhibitions that would normally hold him back.
"Shelby! Shelby, wait!" Scott called, running after her. She tried to speed up, but he was just too quick. He got in front of her, blocking her way so she had no choice but to face him. "Look, can I just talk to you!"
Shelby looked at him incredulously. Could he talk to her? He said it as if she owed him something! After what he just did, what he just said – and the way he said it! – he should consider keeping his distance for – well, forever! "You know Scott, I think you did enough talking to last a lifetime. You were pretty clear back there, so why don't you just leave me alone! We don't need to talk, because I'm done. I've had enough. You win, okay? You won. YOU WON!" she called out, loud enough for all to hear, causing several other students to turn and watch. "I'm not playing this twisted back and forth game that you're into anymore. You go on, you keep fucking around with people's emotions. But I'm out. Find someone else to mess with, because I'm done being your rag doll. I don't need it from you – you don't even know me. You and I have gone to the same school since forever, and you don't know a single goddamn thing about me. But you wouldn't need to know, would you? Different setting, same rules, right? Still fantasy land – football captain dates the Prom Queen, even if she is kissing the kid with the spray paint when you're not looking," she continued, her voice taking on a harder edge, watching Scott's jaw drop as she revealed what she'd seen down at the lake many weeks ago. Juliette and Auggie – apparently peaches and cream Princess was looking for a little salsa in her life. Everyone seemed to know except for Scott, who was obviously too busy stroking his own ego to notice anyone else. "Yeah. Didn't know that, did you? But hey, what do I know? Why would his Royal Guyness listen to the resident whore?"
Her last words were bitter and she turned back in the other direction, desperate to get away from him before she, and the dams behind her eyes holding back a flood of tears, broke down.
But Scott wasn't so willing to let go, grabbing her wrist and turning her around to face him. "C'mon Shelby. I'm – I'm sorry, okay? At least let me – "
She turned back around, and yanked her wrist free, rubbing it as if Scott had injected her with the Ebola virus, her eyes flashing. The fact that she looked gorgeous when she was angry wasn't lost on him – it just would have been a lot sexier if she didn't look like she wanted to rip his eyeballs out and feed them to Ezra. "Just leave me alone! There's nothing to talk about! Did you hear anything I just said! You're not sorry! Not really, anyway. You're just sorry that you made an ass of yourself in front of all these people," she spat, motioning to the growing crowd, watching from a safe distance. This was more drama than they'd seen in months. First the fight with Craig and now this?
The Scott Barringer Shit Show, take two!
"Look, Shelby, I didn't mean it okay? What I said to you, it was – "
"Like hell you didn't! If you didn't mean it, you wouldn't have said it! You wouldn't have even thought it! My God, you're disgusting," Shelby seethed, gazing at him with a look of pure contempt. She even didn't know it, but she slowly tearing him apart, piece by piece in front of the entire school. If she wasn't so upset, she would have been able to sit back and enjoy the show. But tears were still threatening her eyes. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. It wasn't the first time he'd demeaned her, not even close. But she wasn't going to sit back and take it anymore. She couldn't. She wasn't strong enough. She was breaking down, like a used car. Oh the irony. 'Used car' had preceded 'resident whore' in Scott's verbal arsenal. "Stop trying to make yourself look better just because people are watching, and maybe, just maybe, they'll realize what a prick you really are! Just walk away, Scott, okay? Just swallow your pride and walk away. Deal with it. What's done is done."
And with that, Shelby stalked off – this time, he didn't bother going after her. This time, as everyone stared at him, whispering among themselves, he was too tired, too defeated, too broken down inside. "Real smooth, Barringer. Real smooth," Scott mumbled to himself, beginning to walk back to his dorm without so much as a glance at those who were watching him. As he climbed the stairs, he tried to tell himself that she deserved it. That he'd just been telling the truth.
But all day, he couldn't stop kicking himself, especially when Shelby didn't show up for group. Sophie announced she was sick, and both she and Peter appeared oblivious to what had transpired that afternoon – why Shelby was really absent – and though his fellow Cliffhangers knew all too well, they said nothing, though the withering glares Daisy and Kat periodically shot him didn't go unnoticed. Juliette was staring at him, hurt and confused. He should have been angry about her kissing Auggie. He should have scowled at her, glared at her, anything – but when it came right down to it, he didn't even care. And as he lay in bed that night, watching shadows from the movement of the trees outside passing over the ceiling, he told himself that he should care. She was his girlfriend, it would really make sense for him to give a shit if she was going around, kissing other guys. But he couldn't. He could barely even think about it for more than a few seconds without being distracted. Because really, all he could think about was what had happened with Shelby that afternoon. And how frankly, he should be happy, or at least relieved. After all, he'd gotten away with it. No additional punishments, no additional manual labor – nothing, nada, zip. But he couldn't convince himself she deserved it. He couldn't feel happy, or relieved. Because deep down, all he could feel was guilt. Heavy, consuming guilt that made him more nauseous than the time he'd went on the tilt-o-whirl after eating two bags of cotton candy, a couple hot dogs, and a chocolate sundae. The tears in her eyes hadn't been lost on him.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a land far, far away, Shelby Merrick had been his best friend. Sure, they'd bickered and competed, even back then, but he'd cared about her, as much as a little boy who was convinced girls had cooties could. He'd gone to the hospital with her when she broke her arm, sent her a handmade card when she got the chicken pox, and vowed to beat up anyone who ever tried to mess with her on the playground.
Fast forward to the present day, and he was calling her a whore. He was making her cry. He was screwing everything up, per usual.
His six year old self would have kicked his ass.
He knew would have deserved it.
