A day later
"Hey—hey! Meisha!"
Pietro waves from down the hallway. The redhead freezes, tentatively closing her locker door as the speedster hurries up to her.
"Guess what?"
Sighing, she replies, "you're gonna tell me anyway. So go ahead."
He smiles widely, continuing bouncing on his toes.
"Did someone steal your lunch money again? Is it another idea for a prank? Or is it Kenzie again?" The name is spoken with almost an eye roll and the thought vaguely passes through his mind that there is something different about his friend today.
"No! Why do you seem so bitter? Anyways—now guess what, Meisha."
She doesn't want to, but asks anyway. "What?"
"Chicken-butt." He smiles like he's really proud of himself.
Meisha pinches the bridge of her nose, praying for patience. "Why?" She groans, closing the zipper of her book bag. "Peter, you do know that Mckenzie and her group better not hear you talk like that. You'd get beat up in minutes."
"But I'm too cute to beat up," and he puts on puppy-dog eyes; he isn't serious and it's a mock, and not convincing. He thinks that he is so funny; he likes to think that he's a comedic genius. "No but really, I think I found out some great information! And what's your problem? You've been different lately."
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "I think I can manage to see past the 'adorable' exterior." She folds her arms, pretends to pout. That's when he notices that she's wearing a pink halter-top, and his brows arch upward. "And I don't have a problem, alright?"
"But why're you dressed like that?"
"Like what?" She's still and tense. Her light brown eyes squint.
He suspects that she's wearing makeup. His nose wrinkles. "Like that."
"What? My clothes? Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"No. It's just...different that's all."
"And you're staring at me like that... Different good...? Or bad?" Her eyes widen, hopeful. Her bangs are pulls back for once, and there is a flower clip securing them.
"Yeah sure."
Meisha frowns.
But he knows that she has always been too nice for her own good, more than some others that he knows. He wants to ask why she is dressed like this, like she wants school jocks' attention, like she's stared in a bubblegum commercial, like she wants to be a part of the popular clique; she's never worn bright pink and a corner of his lip pulls back.
"You sure there's nothing going on?—because you're mentioning Mckenzie a lot too, like you like her—-"
"I don't have a problem with her. I mean, really. She's your...thing, if that's the right word." She starts walking, the other mutant in tow. "And there she is—your girl."
Further down the hallway indeed is Mckenzie, Meisha points. The girl is alone, and her head is down, which is odd—Mckenzie was—is popular, has always been, and rarely is she seen without entourage or from Clarice's side. As the two continue watching, the mutants see two girls and a jock wearing a letterman jacket whom they recognize from hanging around the blonde popular queen. Clarice is there too. But unlike the many, many times the clique has roamed these hallways, this time Mckenzie trails noticeably behind; her boyfriend that is usually by her side has his arm around another girl, a shorthaired brunette, and if Mckenzie notices this, she doesn't give any indication. In fact, since being discovered slinking away at the party on Spirit Day, Mckenzie had been behaving differently. More reserved, more silent, more alone—an outcast in her own group.
Meisha tisks. "You still like her, don't you?" Pietro's lips set in a line at her question; she folds her arms, her own lips curling. "She looks awfully lonely. Why don't you go talk to her? No gentleman would leave her like that."
His head whips around to her. "Gentleman?" he scoffs. Both know he isn't either.
"But...do you still like her?" Her tone rises. It's slight, but still there.
He jiggles the bag hanging from his shoulder, watches the clique from afar. "...Yeah."
Because he's turned, he doesn't see Meisha's head drop or the tightening of her fists. They continue watch the group stop to chat in the entrance of a classroom.
"Hey, what was that thing you wanted to tell me?"
"Um. Nothing, don't worry about it."
. . .
. . .
Last Tuesday, Pietro Maximoff had been caught climbing out the window of Rainy's home. Sherry witnessed, eyes as wide as saucers and she hadn't been about to scream then, but there was an accusation flying when he had ran up to press his palm to her mouth, shutting her silent. He begged her to keep quiet, to not tell anyone.
After wrestling his hand away, all she wanted is answers, and threatened if she didn't get them.
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I was coming over because I was coming back to return the—the—protractor I borrowed. You know. Because we're friends." His reply was accompanied with a wrung, dry smile.
"Protractor," she sneered.
"Did you not hear me?"
She scoffed.
Pietro begs Sherry not to tell anyone, that if anyone did find out, they would start talking, teasing, and spreading false accusations. He would be roasted alive and made an even more outcast, and Rainy would be dragged down with him. And Sherry had laughed, telling him that he shouldn't be worried about people talking about this—he hadn't understood it at the time—that people are still talking about him, yes, and probably would for a while, but this window situation is probably the least of his worries.
The first is of Rainy
Now, back in school two days later, he's forced inside another closet, this time it's the janitor's closet on the second floor. He'd been looking for Rainy but to no avail, and now his back is getting cold due to being pressed against the concrete wall and Sherry has his collar bunched in her fists, and she's huffing, angry—or frustrated, or something. He's seen that expression before.
"What are you doing!? You're going to be killed!"
Moments ago, he'd been fraternizing with a boy who is about a head taller. The two beside him were cracking their knuckles, preparing to fight. Luckily, Sherry stole Pietro away and were able to hide in time to hold their breaths, hearing the three boys in jerseys run by the closed janitor door outside.
Sherry and Pietro exhale.
"That's stupid." She opens the door when certain the coast is clear. "What were you trying to do? You never talk to them—they'll beat you to a pulp."
There's a small piece of torn paper in his pocket, he remembers. It's an address torn from a flyer. "I am trying to take care of some business."
"Business?"
"Yes business. It's done by talking to people, you know?"
She snaps, knowing what business is. She asks what he had been doing—she wants to help because most would listen to her more. They're walking toward the stairs now. They pass a trophy set for sports behind glass; class is still going on.
"And obviously, you have to be close to Rainy or else she wouldn't have let you come over." Then, a realization strikes. "Wait, is she paying you for something? Are you getting something out of her? Because she doesn't get along with anyone enough to let them come over to her house. Whatever it is? I can double it."
"What is it with you people and money," he rolls his eyes.
"I, uh, didn't really mean money..." Her eyes dart to the side.
Pietro sneers almost. "You sound a little hurt that Rainy lets me come over. Does she not let you?"
"Oh, course she does! I'm her best friend!"
He hums.
"Best friend huh? Then can you tell me about this best friend of yours because all that she tells me are answers to the next test. I'd, uh, like to get to know her better, you know." Those last words are harder to say than anticipated. He cringes on the inside.
Sherry squints. "She gives you answers?" Her hair appears a brighter red today for some reason, or he's just overanalyzing again. "That doesn't sound like her."
"Then can you tell me what does? What's she like? She seems a little...troubled?"
That makes the girl's brow rise. Sherry stops walking and folds her hands behind her back. "And what makes you think I should tell you anything? How do I know that you don't have anything against her, some hidden malicious agenda?"
His hands are in his pockets. "Because one: she actually let me inside. And two," he curls his finger around the sleeve of his shirt, pulling. He shows the healed scar on the side of his arm Rainy caused by her box cutter. "She gave me this. So I think we're past the awkward introduction parts."
This time Sherry's expression relaxes slightly. "She did that?" the girl asks, incredulously.
"Yeah. She isn't the most sensitive person. Or shy. You should know that—you know that, right? Why do you seem so surprised?"
Sherry hesitates. "Because the last time I know, she's sick. She has some type of disease—no one with a disease goes around—-"
He snorts. Disease!
She questions what he finds so funny.
"See, that disease thing is what I wanted to ask those lovely men before you showed up but you'll do. How long has she been "sick?" I'm doing a type of—project—research—whatever, about it. When did she first find out?"
Again, Sherry hesitates on her words, thinking first.
"Not too long ago—-"
"When, exactly. Will you tell me?"
Pause.
"...I guess so. She got it around the start of seventh grade. But...I got to ask: why do you talk so fast?"
His answer is ready a beat later. "Speech impediment."
. . .
. . .
It's the day after Ronny's return from the doctor's. Gossip has started to circulate amongst the popular crowd and those further down the hierarchy could feel the tension brewing.
The bell for lunch rang not too long ago and the cafeteria is thriving. Food is dropping on the floor and muffins wrapped in plastic wrap are shoved into backpacks. Mckenzie sits two seats away from her ex-boyfriend, and Wanda is outside under the bleachers. Troy is still with the blonde from the party, her snuggled under this arm, and Rainy eats quietly beside Michelle and her threesome; Ronny absentmindedly chews on a sandwich. Meisha pushes broccoli florets around on her lunch tray. It's only she and her friend at the small corner they occupied and she had drawn her sweater hood over her head, too shy to want to be taken notice of. It's been been five minutes that they've been at the table until her third friend arrives, and she's been nervous, her anxiety on hyper drive.
She turns to him, preferring his bologna sandwich to the questionable school meat on the tray.
"Why are you so quiet?"
He watches her tentatively study a broccoli before eating it. He finishes chewing. "No reason." Ronny takes another bite.
Meisha is staring at him now. "That's not true."
He isn't looking at her.
"Ronny, what's wrong? You're wearing your stressed face again."
"I'm not stressed," he lies. But there are deep wrinkles between his brows and his eyes focus, and he tenses. It isn't rocket science to tell that indeed he is.
She frowns, he sees when stealing a glance.
Ronny shakes his head, shrugs. "Nothing's wrong. I'm not stressed." His mouth is full with his sandwich.
"And cats don't meow. Don't treat me like some bimbette."
He doesn't respond. It's some time until she speaks again.
"Ronny~ What's wrong?" She's nudging his shoulder now.
He still wouldn't tell.
Across the lunchroom, Michelle's friend makes a joke and Rainy is a beat too late to laugh. Clarice, crowded around people who "love" her, as usual, laughs heartedly. Tables of classic geeks exchange game cards, and one drops his cookie on the floor.
Meisha asks why he wouldn't tell. "...Does it have something to do with the doctor?" When he doesn't answer, taking another bite to keep his mouth busy, she continues. "Peter told me. So yeah, I know." She pauses. He chews, swallows; still no answer. "What happened?" She places a hand on his forearm, but draws it away quickly. He's freezing, as cold as the cafeteria air.
He scratches at his arm, further up and near the shoulder. His skin is dry. The rash had gone away at first but has now spread across both his shoulders and over his knuckles. It started off as small patches before, cracks in his skin that formed in scale-like patterns. Now its grown up his back, over his kneecaps, creeping up the right side of his neck.
"Nothing happened," he tells. He lies. Ronny takes another bite of his sandwich, suddenly hating the taste.
. . .
. . .
Rainy isn't at school either, Pietro later finds out. She was emitted to a hospital a day ago and had lost a lot of blood.
"Rainy can't loose any blood. She starts to bleed and it won't stop,"
Sherry tells
Pietro finds out because Sherry told him—eventually; there was much pressing.
Of course, She did not trust him, not fully or immediately. And so she didn't suspect, didn't think that he'd be the one to go back to Rainy's house—on his own and of his own accord. She would likely suspect that he's up to something, and she wouldn't let him go and do something to her friend. She only didn't know that he's already visited multiple times. Too many times, the two walk after school and on weekends, the route already familiar and almost memorized.
"It happened at home. She told me everything:
Some "guest" had been over at their house,
And this isn't like the other times when they would grab her arm and try to sweet talk her to come and then go away when she insults them.
He had gotten angry.
He had been there for her mother; I don't think her father was there. I don't know.
He'd gotten mad when she called him a hairy, maggot-eating, three horned white lizard looking *******.
And he had thrown one of the ceramic glass plate at the back of her head.
She says that she didn't feel it—"
"Of course she wouldn't"
"—But when her mom came in, hearing the breaking glass, she'd screamed and threw the guy out the house. Rainy was taken to the hospital after that."
Pietro looks again at the little piece of paper torn from a flyer. It's an address. He's going to Rainy's, but first, he has to take care of business. Going at his own superhuman speed, he eventually arrives at the location no more than seven seconds later.
It would be late afternoon soon, when the sun would begin to sink and the show will start. School is out and everyone has gone home.
He stands at the entrance of a borrowed land lot, Balzani's Carnival in big, bold, nauseating lettering on the entrance tapestry. He cracks his knuckles and walks in.
. . .
. . .
Wanda remains in her bedroom the remainder of the day.
She's gotten into the habit of disappearing there as soon as she arrives home. Currently, she's sitting on top of her comforters. Her younger sister pounding on the door is drowned up by the music playing from her cassette music player blaring through her headset. She's writing in a journal, a diary.
She's upset, feels frustrated, wronged; she feels angry, used, and vengeful. She is partially proud of herself for not losing control back at the party but, of course, there's a part of her that wishes she had. And when this indecision happens, when she's full of these red hot emotions that makes her fingertips glow and a tingle set behind her eyes, she would try and think of different things, happy things. Sometimes she goes to the kitchen. Most times she colors or read. Music helps.
In truth, Wanda is very, very bitter about Troy. She just couldn't get her mind around why his attitude had changed.
Had he just used her? Had he been drunk? Did he even like her? Worst yet, was she played only for his spare time?
Her younger sister pounds on her bedroom door. She hollers, saying that it's six and Pietro still hasn't returned home. Marya is working late tonight, and the twins are in charge of dinner.
Wanda groans, rising from her bed. Pietro was supposed to be back with soda.
. . .
. . .
As many times as she's run into the mutant, whether in a crowded areas or alone, she should be used to his antics, his hyper-energy and slight loss of courtesy and manners. But really, she just couldn't wrap her brain around it—ration-wise—and when she opens her window, hearing knocks coming from outside, and sees him knocking on the one of her parents' bathroom, Rainy wonders how he had gotten to a window that would have been on a second floor on leveled ground.
She slides her bedroom window up enough to slide a hand out. "Shouldn't you be climbing up someone else?"
"Watch your mouth. Shouldn't you be..." He blanks.
Rainy's arms remains crossed, watching him from her own bedroom window as he dangles below.
"...Look, I got nothing, alright!" He holds on to the window ledge, worn sneakers pushing against the side of the house for support. "Now let me in! I don't have super strength you know!"
She remains aloof, stolid. "Why should I?"
He's visibly struggling. "I swear to god, Rainy! Let me in the damn window! I have something to tell you."
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Rainy!"
Ten seconds later, the boy is standing from his hands and knees after clambering into her room. He stands quickly—not too quickly to be inhuman—and brushes himself off, exhales, puffs out his chest. He's trying to look cool. It doesn't work.
She takes a step. He notices that she's partially dressed in nightclothes. Her arms are crossed and that stone face of hers hasn't changed. "What is it?" She cut to the point. "Or I'll start screaming burglar. And I haven't screamed in a long time so I don't know how horrible my voice would be."
"Hey, hey! No need for that." He raises his hands in defense. Thinks. "You say again? Like you've done this before? Is that your thing? Is that what you do? Because I think I should be concerned, and I'd imagine it to be unpleasant."
"Unpleasant?"
"Very unpleasant." He takes a look around her room. It's unfamiliarly territory. It's peculiar, and foreign.
The room is uncharacteristically tidy. Almost everything seems to have a place, everything put away nicely—and then he sees her school things scattered, and an abandoned shoe, a tie-dyed shirt on the floor near her nightstand. His nose wrinkles.
She still wears that placid, calmed look about her features. "What is it?"
"What is what?" He speaks rapidly, attention snapping back to her. He realizes that he's only seen the dinning and living area of the house, and this is a bold move for him, that she could kick him out any time, or get him caught, arrested.
The rush of it is exhilarating.
"What it is, is that you need to come and tell me? I hope it's important for you to come all the way over here." She glances at the clock on her night-table. "I'm supposed to go to bed in the next hour and a half."
"Oh that..." Then a wide, toothy smile creeps across his face, spreading his lips to where he resembles the Jaws shark. "Grab your coat. I have something special arranged for you, rain cloud. ...And, you might want to put on some shoes...and clothes because—because it's a bit chilly tonight."
Again, Rainy looks at him from his scuffed shoes to the goggles over his white hat. "You still haven't told me why. Why should I listen to you?"
"Because I...it's this...because you said..."
Rainy doesn't move with her arms folded and gaze unwavering, waiting. He bites his lip.
Pietro doesn't like to be wrong. Even more so, he doesn't like being caught doing these benevolent kinds of things or admitting to them. He calls them charity work to keep his ego when he's done something nice and unselfish. But if you were to ask him about it, he'd lie.
"Will you just—-! Look, I have—-I arranged a little meeting for you to get your "condition" looked at, because I remembered you talking about that carnival and that cheapskate who outsmarted you."
"I knew I shouldn't have told you," she voices in a slightly lower volume. Her hair is messy, un-brushed. "And I wasn't outsmarted. I was cheated."
"Sure." He rolls his eyes. "Anyways, get dressed because you're sneaking out." He fingers the two cut pieces of red paper in his pocket. "I have two tickets."
A/N: The last few chapters will be coming out this week.