A/N: Thank you for your comments again! 3 It was the motivation I needed to get this chapter done!
Chapter Thirty-Five: Chernobyl
On a Saturday, during April, in 1986, the number four reactor in the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, for lack of a better word, exploded. Sending radiation into the atmosphere A survivor, Alexander Yuvchenko, described he saw a "beautiful" blue light like a laser beam shoot into "infinity." The people of Pripyat, drawn out of their homes from the sounds of chaos, stood mesmerized by the hypnotic beam; and blissfully unaware that the snow falling around them was filled with poison. Within five to six hours of exposure, many of the workers at the plant already succumbed to pulsating tumors and tremors. After three days, a painful death.
I became obsessed with the incident when I was fourteen. Right after my release of the psych ward, borderline friendless of my own volition, I made the mistake of watching Terminator: Judgment Day when it was on TNT. The scene where a nuclear bomb wipes out the city, and Sarah Conor's body bursts into a macabre skeleton, forced me to research how likely a bomb could be dropped in my vicinity. Not because I didn't have some kind of death wish. But if I was going to die, I didn't want to go out like that. Fuck. I ended up falling into a rabbit hole. Nuclear power plants must have been a link I clicked after clicking several other related links. And I stumbled upon the Chernobyl Incident.
I stayed up all night until my eyes were bloodshot and hurt from lack of sleep. The aftermath, the scandal, the eerie pictures of a city abandoned in the wake of destruction. And not the kind destruction from a bomb, wiping the slate clean. But the utter vacancy. The buildings rotting away. The wild animals, plagued with disease, reclaiming their space. The aftermath of an invisible enemy.
My research had me in another tail spin. Completely sure that if I wasn't going to die from a plane hijacking during a terrorist attack, then a nuclear explosion would be next. And nothing. Nothing. Could stop the inevitable runaway train from crashing.
Those fears began to alleviate when I was prescribed the xanax. Honestly, it helped. I could read up on disasters with only a minor eruption of pulse pounding fear. Eventually I gave up on seeking disaster porn- like some glutton for pain- and turned my attention to more viable fears.
Like being outed at this school.
And I know there's a selfishness attached to making Chernobyl a metaphor. No one can argue that dying from radiation poisoning and being lied to by your government is worse than anything Reno and I are about to experience. But I find myself returning to the destruction as if it gives me some warped sense of comfort.
And I duly note that I should probably let Dr. Rayleigh know about this on Saturday. Until then…
Reno and I sit in Principal Heideggar's office. A graveyard of broken dreams. The deep green walls littered with his former military achievements before he was honorably discharged. His medals. Pictures of him shaking the hands of the last three Presidents of the United States. The American flag hanging proudly behind a deep mahogany desk surrounded by some plaques I don't bother reading- denoting some of his achievements while he was in the Army. He never made his patriotism a secret, to the point where it bordered on nationalism. And the only thing he loves more than the great United States of America, is using God as a weapon to further his agenda.
I've been on this side of the desk- a desk clear of everything except a baseball signed by the 1998 Yankees, a silver desk lamp, and a small globe. Once a year I have graced him with my presence:
Freshman year, when I called Sister Rosa a bitch when she slammed the bible next to my head after I had fallen asleep-again.
Sophomore year, when I submitted a 5 page rant on Romeo and Juliet which turned into an entire critique of the school as a whole. The hypocrisy. The abhorrent staff who turned the other cheek in the face of bullying. And stated the- absolutely true- claim that the entire staff were definitely embezzling money from Church donations to furnish their lavish lifestyle. Detention for a week was negotiated down from expulsion. And when I left Heidegger's office that April 2004, he told me he'd see me soon.
One year later.
I'm gnawing on my bottom lip as my thoughts fly through my brain. And nothing seems tangible for me to hold on to. Nothing comforting.
"Yo, stop that," Reno snaps from the seat next to mine as his bouncing leg shakes the earth. "You're gonna chew your lip off, shit."
My cheeks flush and I curl my lips inward. "Well...stop shaking the entire room."
He doesn't answer, so I look at him. His elbow on the arm rest of the green leather chair, propping his head up with his curled fist against his mouth. Eyes narrowed with perpetual hate. Every inhale sharp. Every exhale interminable. I wish I knew how the inside of his head looked. If he's analyzing the problem, searching for a solution that doesn't involve the prolonging of this turmoil. And I feel I've left him drifting on a raft without a life support. My brain can't even focus on one event; all of them rushing. Crowding. Pile on to one another until they look like blurred pictures. Giving way to black.
"It's going to be okay," he whispers through his knuckles, replaying the lie he told us in the bathroom. "Not like they saw anything."
I frown. I'm trying to push a counter argument but find myself at a loss. What they saw: two boys, in a bathroom which reeks of smoke, hugging. And maybe if it had been any other two boys- boys with clout and social standing- maybe, at worst Hojo would have busted us for smoking in the boys room. At worst we would get a detention. Copy 1 Corinthians 3:17
If anyone destroys God's temple, God will destroy him. For God's temple is holy. You are God's temple.
I swallow my words.
Because what they actually saw, two boys with slurs that follow their names like they were given at birth, embracing under a muted afternoon sun as if they've practiced this move too many times to count. This isn't a sin we've committed against God's temple, but we spat in God's face in his house.
And reality begins to set in as bile surges in my stomach like a squall. I think of all the times we should have ran away.
The door flies open and Principal Heideggar swoops in like a hawk about to snatch his prey. B-lining for his desk as words tumble from his mouth. "Mr. Strife, not at all surprised to see you here." He plops, unceremoniously, onto the black leather swivel chair, "Mr. Sinclair, however…" He folds his hands together upon the dark wood. His mammoth size body absorbing the world behind him like a stone wall. His deep green suit, like a memento from his time in the military, clutches his body for dear life. He points his black eyes directly at Reno, who regards him in much the same way he regards anyone with authority; aloof.
But Heidegger twitches his lips into a smirk, "What a disappointment you turned out to be."
My heart seizes for Reno. Who clenches his balled up fist and with a rapid blink.
Our principal looks between the two of us. "So, do you boys want to tell me exactly what happened?"
"What exactly are we being accused of?" I question tartly.
"I asked you a quest-"
"We can't respond until we know what we are accused of," I bite back. I cross my arms over my chest and slouch in my seat to further drive the disrespectful knife into his chest. But he's done this dance with me before and my stance hasn't changed. Say nothing until my mom bursts through the door ready to tear out someone's throat- the only time she felt motivated in the past to sober up and pull herself together- and then unleash whatever sarcastic acknowledgements of my actions.
I try not to cringe when I think about the phone call home, however. What they are going to tell her.
Heidegger pinches his lips and rests his eyes on Reno again. "I have three boys in the other room telling us quite the tale about the two of you. Are you certain you do not want to give me your side of the story before your parents arrive?"
Reno brings his fist to his lap with a jolt. "You called our parents."
"Yes, they should be here any minute now. I figured you would want to offer a comment before we have to draw our own conclusions."
The red-head grits his teeth, "So that's how shits done here?"
"We have a right to know the nature of the accusations against us before speaking on them, right?" I interject quickly.
Heidegger waves me off with a loud huff of a sigh, dismissing my attempts to dominate the conversation without offering me a second look. "Mr. Strife, last I checked you are not a lawyer and this is not a courtroom," he barks.
"Yeah, well my dad's a lawyer and Cloud's right," Reno hisses. "How are we supposed to respond if we don't know what we are responding to?"
Our principal leans back and the chair wails in protest. He moves his eyes between the two of us with complete apathy. Lips a straight line. I hate how his round face offers nothing to read; no inclination on his opinion on the matter. Not even a mocking amusement at our suffering. Blank. Empty. Eyes. That pierce through my own stone face and I try to hide the emotions that attempt to crawl along my features.
Fear. But not for myself. For the boy sitting next to me, who struggles to keep his leg from giving himself away. I just have to delay until my mom kicks the door in and springs me from this office, from this hell. But Reno doesn't get to go home to a parent who will call every single lawyer on the island, trying to find someone to sue a Catholic school for making her son uncomfortable. What does Reno go home to?
I've asked that question during sleepless nights. And now I know the full stakes. Depending on the lies the three puppets spewed and the details Hojo offered when he came upon us, Reno might not make it home at all…
I try to steady my eyes and stare directly at Heidegger. In defiance; the only other option.
"Fine," he grumbles, "Mr. Ken, Mr. Yu, and Mr. Lorenzo, informed us that they stumbled upon the two of you engaged in a sexual act-"
"What?!" Reno and I both shout in unison. We jump upright, my hands gripping the arms of the chairs; and I despise the sick smile on Heidegger's face as he eats our frantic panic.
"And," he continues with a smirk, "Mr. Sinclair threatened to kill them if they said anything."
"Bullshit," Reno snaps, "They ain't saying that."
"That's a straight up lie!" I add, "and makes absolutely no sense since Hojo found us completely clothed!"
"You wanted to know the accusations so you could respond," he retorts blankly, "engaging in any public affection in the school is grounds for suspension. Sexual acts and threats?" He looks at me with a plain smile as if he's been waiting for this moment since I first crossed his path three years ago. "Expulsion."
My breath becomes ragged. And I recognize I've waited for this moment myself. The fuck do I care about getting kicked out of a shit school- whose only glory rests exclusively in athletics, while academics is laughable and arts non-existent. But it's the principle of the matter. I've had faggot, kill yourself, die fag, and any other variation scribbled across my locker in marker for the last week. Not a single acknowledgement. No counselor informed to discuss the attacks against me. No teacher offered a helpful hand, with the exception of Matthews who casually told me to avoid my locker on Friday, and I spotted him cleaning off the slur himself. As if he was sworn to secrecy, and even mentioning the act would result in his own discipline.
I grip the rest until my knuckles go white. Now, they are willing to bring up the elephant that's been charging up and down the hallways. And only to use it as a means to rid themselves of the blemish on their school population.
I start getting my speech ready, maybe even string a fear curses in the noose to hang myself with. If I'm going out, it'll be in a blaze of glory. But I realize the silence which engulfed the room rattles when Reno falls back into his seat. I can hear the strain of his lungs as he tries to steady his own breathing. I dare to look, and the contours of his face have darkened giving him the look of gloom. Torn through; from the shake in his almost translucent blues.
"Where's your proof?" I ask, bringing my eyes back to Heidegger, who narrows his in response; almost confused by the question. "You are bringing forth the accusation against us, thus you have the burden of proof."
I hear Reno shift in his seat, "He ain't wrong."
The principle sits up straight, hands interlocked and rests on the table with a scowl present. "Considering the rumors I've been hearing…"
"So, you think rumors equal concrete proof? Is that the stance you really want attached to your administration? That you follow Myspace rumors started by sixteen year olds?"
"You need to watch your mouth-"
"Considering how this school has treated their marginalized population, I guess I shouldn't be surprised you would look for anything to get rid of us."
"Excuse me?" His voice cut with a dangerous edge, "Marginalized?"
"Yes, LGBT* students are marginalized," I try to match his tone, take a breath, "and I have seen your treatment of the African American* population who are not in sports. They are grossly underrepresented and usually you have found excuse, after excuse, after excuse to suspend or expel them. And let's not even get started at the lack of Hispanic students. You have made it abundantly clear through your action and inaction that unless you are white, Anglo-Saxon and rich, you do not have a place in this school. I have had slurs and dares to kill myself, a mentally ill student, written all over my locker for a week and you have done nothing. But three students with prestige spin a torrid tale and suddenly you are ready to drop the hammer. How do you think that looks on you?"
"So, you admit, you are," he scrunches his nose, "gay?"
As if he didn't hear a fucking word I said. Or he chose the one piece he was waiting for. The admission. But I see how he looks back at Reno and realize I fell into another one of his traps. Using my desire to throw all his mistakes back in his face as a means to get the answers he searches for. Confirmation of a lie.
But I grit my teeth. "I'm gay," I seeth; hating that this gets to be my coming out story. "He's not. I hardly know him. We're lab partners, that's it."
Reno exhales.
"Why was he in the bathroom with you then? If you two are practically strangers?" Heideggar counters.
"Because," Reno takes my second of silence to jump into the fray, "they were gonna jump him. Three on one. That shit ain't fair."
"Also," I add before Heidegger could bite back, "that shits a hate crime. Wouldn't it be real unfortunate if that got out? That this school was complacent in the committing of a felony according to New York State penal law; you should be so happy that he broke that shit up."
"Okay, Mr. Strife, you've made your point," he shoots me down. "But that doesn't explain why Dr. Hojo reported he discovered you two in an embrace, does it?"
I wonder why this guy has such a hardon for getting one, or both of us, to admit our sexuality to him. And why do two boys hugging have to equal an act of sensual affection? Why does toxic masculinity have to be the norm; that boys should hide their emotions until they burst into a frenzy of violence. Which is just as quickly justified as boys just being boys. But one boy offering another a comforting shoulder to rest his head, when the world becomes too much, that's penalized. Shunned. And in that context, we have no actual reason other than…
"I…" I start, "I wanted a hug?"
I hear mumble a what the fuck, Strife, from Reno. But after running his hands through his hair in frustration, he raises his voice, "Kid was upset, yo! He almost got his ass beat cause he likes dudes. Like, what the hell, is it a crime to hug people now?"
Weak argument. I feel our defenses wavering. The foundation we created to steady our footing cracks. There's only so many times we can try to diverge this conversation into different territory. Take his accusations, twist them, reveal the true root- his blatant homophobia- and throw in back in his face. But he already came to his own conclusion. And I see it from the glint in his eyes as he recognizes the subtle hitches in our voices, as we try to find something to hold on to.
And fuck, our parents aren't even here, yet. And what are they going to tell them? What has already been said? We are doing shit for our defense.
"Fine," Heidegger brushes us both off this time with a roll of his black eyes, "That doesn't explain the switchblade they reported seeing in Mr. Sinclair's possession. Bringing a weapon to school is also grounds for expulsion." he tilts his head to the side, addressing Reno. "Any snarky response to that one?"
Reno shrugs, "No idea what y'all talkin' about."
I jump at the sound of Hedeigger's fist crashing onto the mahogany desk, with such force his medals and picks shake. But Reno doesn't flinch. Staring directly at him with two perfect blue marbles for eyes. And I wonder if the sound of flesh meeting solid is all too familiar to him.
"Enough!" He roars, "I am done with the both of you. I have three students, three respected students, who are quite shaken by what they saw-"
I stifle the laugh, but comes out like a quip and he turns his bloodshot eyes to me for a second before returning to Reno.
"What is your father going to say about this, Mr. Sinclair? I can not imagine he'll be pleased."
No shit dances through my head. But we both stitch our lips shut; our defenses stated and unheard. We save our breath for the arrival of our parents. I look over at Reno, who leans in his seat with a face flushed with repressed anger that threatens to boil over. And I push aside my own justified rage towards the situation and embrace the worry for the aftermath of this explosion.
There has to be a way out of this...there just...has to be something…
This really can't be the end?
Muffled screams leak into the room. The distorted window with Principal Heidegger mirrored in black font begins to shake. And I know the owner of the coming eruption before her occasionally shrill voice, drenched in a Brooklyn/Island accent, reaches my ears.
I see her small frame reflected and the wood door flies open. Standing in the artificial light, grey eyes aflamed, dressed in her black peacoat and leather pants-like she's an assassin about to commit a murder- her thin brown hair loose and whips against her face when she directs all her attention at the man behind the desk.
"Did you fucking assholes just out my son," she shrieks, still gripping the gold door knob with such force, I'm sure she could break it in her small hands. Her body blocks Palmer, who scrambles to look over or under her arm, distressed and stumbling over his words.
"M-Mrs. Strife," Heidegger tries to swallow his own stutter, "Please cal-"
"Oh please finish that sentence," she dares, and the other man staples his lips shut instantly. "Now, answer my question. . .son!?"
He clears his throat, "I'm afraid I'm not aware of what Mr. Palmer told you, but if you could come in we could get this squared awa-"
"Your chipmunk lookin A.P made some bold ass claims, so maybe you two," she turns to Palmer sticking her index finger in his panicked face, "Need to get on the same fucking page before you run around saying shit about my boy."
"Mrs. Strife, language please," Heidegger begs, "Come inside and let's attempt to be civil."
"Oh," she cackles, pointing her glare back at him, "I'll show you civil." She stomps to his desk, slamming both palms with more fever than he could ever muster, wrecking the standing items on the desk, and sending his signed baseball to the ground. "You did anything to harm my child mentally, physically, emotionally, I will destroy your entire life- I promise. I will literally ruin you. You have no idea who I am in this town, arschloch."
He remains seated, like a guppy, with his mouth opening and closing as he stares into her eyes. And I barely have time to enjoy the scene, of a mountainous many crumbling under my tiny mother, when I hear a strangled oh shit from Reno. And when I look over, his eyes wide, staring at the threshold that separates the office from the waiting area. I follow his gaze and see the man I've only heard about passing stories-
"Now, now, Mrs. Strife," his accent thick like the hot humid sun as he saunters into the room, wearing an expensive black suit and red tie, absorbing all the energy in the room as if he owns the place. He has the face of a ferret, pinched with sinister intentions. His thinning auburn hair slicked back with gel and his eyes hidden behind large glasses pushed against his face. No laugh lines, but his forehead are waves of wrinkles from the permanent scowl. Reno inherited this man's pronounced jaw and fuller lips; but the rest of his face is small, tight. Like there's a stick tickling his asshole at all times. He doesn't look like much stacked up together. Standing almost as tall as me.
But there's something about the blank stare he offers my mother as he speaks in her direction. As if the pleasant tone in his voice is detached from the rest of him. "there's no need to act hysterical. I'm sure this is just," and he turns his attention to Reno, and he falters ever so slightly and he enunciates .syllable. "A mis-un-der-stand-ding."
"Oh," my mother turns to him, hands still planted on Heidegger's desk, "It finally speaks."
"Mr. Sinclair," Heidegger clears his throat, "so sorry to have to bother you. I know you are quite the busy man."
"I just want to get this sorted." He glides to his son and I can't help but watch. Reno drags his eyes away, looking straight ahead at the American flag, but I notice the twitch in his eye when his father stands behind him. And the flinch in his chest when the other man firmly places both hands on his shoulders, as if planting him in this spot.
My mother, on the other hand, finally removes herself from the desk and takes her spot next to me. And when her hand finds itself on my arm, it's warm and welcomed. And comforting.
"Of course, of course," our principal adjusts his suit and waves Palmer away. "It seems your two boys have been involved with some unsavory activities that are not becoming of Saint Sebastian's Academy-"
My mother and I snort laugh in unison, but the Sinclairs remain stone faced and silent.
"I don't find the matter funny, Mrs. Strife."
"Oh this is anything but funny, John," my mother spats back, "I didn't find it amusing, at all, when your minion out there decided it was good form to tell me my son is gay and needs to reconsider his enrollment at this school."
John Heidegger, with rare discomfort dancing along his face, closes his eyes tightly with a strained sigh. "That, uhm, was not how he should have approached such a sensitive matter."
"I didn't know," her voice darkens, "if it's true, I didn't know. So, he outed my son to me and Mr. Sinclair. Do you understand the severity of this issue?"
"Well it is true," he gestures erratically towards me, "he admitted as much. "
Now I close my eyes; this can't be fucking happening. I can't wrap my head around the words that are falling out of these people's mouths like waterfalls, and I'm crushed under every one of them. My heart slams and stops in static fashion, gripping my lungs and making oxygen feel more like a luxury. This can't be fucking happening. I repeat. This wasn't supposed to happen like this- any of it. I often thought about how I would come out to my mom, and hell I almost felt relief when I figured she saw me outside with Reno last week. And even...even if she did...she was probably waiting for me to tell her myself. Because that's how it should happen. With me sitting both my parents down on the couch. And the words coming from my own voice. Not Palmer. Not Heidegger. Not in a grainy image on a website. And sure as hell not from whispers in a classroom.
She squeezes my arm and I open my eyes to look at her; and her face crinkles with dismay. Not disappointment, though. Her frown mimics mine. Her eyes filling up with tears she holds back with a rough swallow. And I can almost hear her saying, I'm so sorry this is happening to you, my little boy.
"I hate to agree with Mrs. Strife," Mr. Sinclair's voice crashes through the room like a wrecking ball. "But your school's approach has been questionable. Mr. Palmer dared suggested that my son was involved in some," he chokes on his words with such drama that I have to roll my eyes. "Despicable acts with this gentleman over here and I must say, I take that accusation quite personally."
"Y-Yes, sir, I assure you-"
"I can't speak for Mr. Strife here," he shoots me a look like he fired a bullet and a rush of ice flies up my spine. Half his face hidden by the sun leaking into the room. But I see his Marian blue iris', so light it blends into the whites of his eyes. Like Norman Bate eyes. Devoid of any warmth. He squeezes Reno's shoulders tightly and I cringe at the way he flinches under his father's cold touch. "My son is a good Catholic boy and would never engage in such disgusting acts. He knows better than that, right Reno?"
Reno looks dazed. His own electric orbs seem to spark and fade as soon as his name leaves his father's mouth.
Another struggled inhale. A pause that envelops the room.
Just to mumble an unenthusiastic: "Yes, sir."
I feel his turmoil. The empty space in his own chest; heavy and difficult to carry. And I can't even reach out, grab his hand, and tell him he's not alone.
I can't wait till I get to hold your hand whenever I want.
And with each second that ticks past, the phrase dissolves.
Becomes a broken memory tied to nothing.
A memory. Fading like hope.
His father's lips crawl to a politician's smile. Plastic. But satisfied with his son's equally fake answer.
Heidegger nods, "Of course, Mr. Sinclair. I'm sure this is just, as you said, a misunderstanding."
"So, then why am I standing here if this is such a misunderstanding?" My mother argues, placing her hands on her hips. "Or is it just a misunderstanding with it's his son and not mine?"
"Mrs. Strife, please, your son has been in my office quite a few times-"
"For bullshit! That's what he gets dragged in here for! You've had it out of my kid since day one, all because some bored housewives couldn't keep their mouths shut and opinions to themselves. Ain't that right?" He goes to answer, but her dramatic pause was a show, and she attacks while his mouth remains agape, "You dragged us both in here. If this is just some misunderstanding then I guess this was another giant waste of my time, so can I take my kid and leave?"
His breathing becomes dangerous- like a predator about the attack. Eyes like two slits as they move between my mother and I. "There's still the matter of a switchblade being used to threaten the lives of fellow students. Do either of these boys wish to speak to that?"
My mother folds her arms over her chest and I know she's considering whether or not it's possible I would be dumb enough to bring a weapon to school and possibly try to use it on an unsuspecting villain. And, maybe, nine out of ten times, sure, that would be me. And I'm willing to take the blame this time if it means Reno gets to leave this room, go home, and be safe for another day. But he still has it. Burning a hole in his pocket. And all Heidegger needs to do, say empty them. And once that blade hits the wood of his desk, it'll confirm everything; and even the lies will be hard to argue.
I shoot a look at Reno; his face blank but his father glares below.
Oh that's right. They've done this dance before.
But my mother interjects. "They are both done speaking," and she looks at Don Sinclair, "Right, Don? They can't hold them on false accusations."
"It's Donald, Mrs. Strife," he responds cooly, tearing his eyes from his son's form, "and if this was a proper investigation, they could be held for twelve hours. But this isn't." He arches an eyebrow, "So, I'm afraid I must agree with you again."
"Tragic," she mumbles.
"John," he continues, forcing the false smile, "this is clearly a squabble between boys. Are we really going to allow it to disrupt their academics? Reno has been excelling in his classes, and in sports, am I correct?"
"Yes, however," Heidegger sighs, "the other boys' parents are going to be quite upset if there are no consequences…"
"You have no proof," Donny-boy argues back, "It's hearsay. At best. And from what I understand, the accusers aren't so innocent themselves? Correct me if I'm wrong, weren't they involved with that car accident that occurred back in January? Over...drugs?" a tsk from the click of his tongue. "Sounds more like these boys have their own issues and are trying to drag my son along with them. I feel this should be investigated further, no? Instead of relying on rumors from unreliable sources."
"We could clear this up quickly, if the boys empty their pockets-"
"You need a warrant."
Heidegger stumbles, "I, Mr. Sinclair, please-"
"You want to carry this further than it needs to be. However, I refuse to waste anymore of my time on this matter."
Heidegger springs from his seat with a woosh. The chair rolling against the wall and thundering boom that follows snatches all the attention in the room. A massive man, towering over all of us like a skyscraper. Beady black eyes well with frustration. The role he attempted to play to humor the rich folks in the room begins to crack. And I notice even Mr. Sinclair, in all his frost, seems to waver. My mother, however, stares up with a bored expression- as if already listing the numbers she will call once we leave this stuffy green office.
"This is the problem with this generation," he chides, his face turning a shade of red almost as bright as Reno's hair, "no consequences for their actions. Coddled by their parents. You are raising weak men. Weak men who need hugs when they're upset," he spats sarcastically in my direction- and this must be what happens when your daddy never tells you he loves you. Misplaced anger and overcompensation. "This is why the other countries laugh at us- we have lost our American values somewhere and I am tired of watching student after student leave this institution having answered for none of their wrong-doing. Your sons are both accused of engaging in deviant acts on these school grounds, in front of other students and the Lord. And your reactions here are telling."
He returns to his seat, slow, deliberate. Pushes himself in. Hands balled into fists that rest upon his desk. His flush cheeks slowly return to their natural hue. "One week suspension, to start." He moves his eyes to each of us, waiting for an argument that never comes, and exhales into a smirk. "In the meantime, the rest of the admin team and I will discuss Reno and Cloud's future at Saint Sebastian's Academy."
And with a tone filled with derision, he ends the meeting with, "Have a nice day. We'll be in touch."
I wait a beat- for something...my mom or Mr. Sinclair to argue. But what follows is an empty silence that hums against the walls. And my mom gently tapping my arm and whispering to go. The four of us file out of the office, Don slamming the door behind him with such force, I swear I heard glass crack. I don't make eye contact with anyone in the office- the secretaries, Palmer who peaks his head out from his office, or the three boys who's lies revealed our hidden truths- keeping my eyes glued to the floor and following the click of my mother's heels. I feel Reno behind me; but he's as quiet as an abandoned building falling apart from the inside.
And I don't….I don't know what to do-
We break through the double doors of the school, into the fresh spring air. The courtyard entrance is thankfully empty- still too early for school to come to a close, but I can sense the eyes on me from the many windows that line the brick school. And the day is deceptively stunning. Cloudless blue sky that looks like the Caribbean sea. A sun that burns bright, offering a reprieve to the cool wind that rushes through my hair. Everything smells new as fresh flowers begin to bloom.
But something in me feels like a rush of dark clouds. My mother and I take a left, while Reno and his father make a right- the two of us stop for a beat of our heart.
Eyes meet. And I take inventory of every angle of his face. His slightly open lips whose taste I've missed. His growing hair, as red and vibrant as the roses that grow in my mother's garden, stands in a flurry of different directions as the breeze dances through the soft strands. His uniform blazer unbutton, tie almost undone, looking like the mess I met the first day of school.
That first day…
The way he scanned my entire form- at the time thinking it weird the way his eyes glided down the length of my body before snapping back to my face with a smirk. And this time mirrors then, except his face is broken with wavering sadness. As if he's looking at me, committing me to his memory, as if this is his last chance.
And every instinct begs me to move,
And I resent the way my feet root to the ground. And it hurts to see him look with the same desperation.
This game was always life and death for him. And it's over. We lost.
His father's voice shouts his name with disgust. And we fall into each other's longing gaze for one more quick beat.
I'll come for you. I find myself mouthing.
But he shakes his head with a cruel, devastated, smile. Like he's already given up. And walks away, hands in pockets, head up as he moves to meet his father.
I'm split in two-
Reckless and Logical-
And I don't know which path to take because both are unfamiliar and frightening. But I need...I need to do something.
