New chapter! Finished at 3 am hahaha

15: Classwork

"Take out your books, chapter two. You know the drill."

Lincoln shuffled through his accordion, pulled out a thick book written by some Canadian guy, and flipped to the second chapter. They had been reading this new book in class. They were also likely to end up overanalyzing it instead of just letting it be a good story (like they had done with the last one). He found that a bit annoying, but he still enjoyed reading nonetheless. He got a lot of inspiration from some of these books. They would not only give him new word choices or a sudden urge to write his mind; instead, they would conjure up a sudden urge to improve himself with some of the character's morals. Did he act on it though? Not really. But sometimes he did.

The class began to drone on. Okay, Mrs Erickson, okay, I forgot my book, Mrs Erickson, what page is it on again?

He ran his finger along the first few lines, determining it as an interesting start. So far, the book had been about a strange line of disappearances that had occurred over a few weeks. It took place in a secluded town, its community tight-knit. The story was driven by two detectives who were assigned the disappearance cases. One of them, named Jarett, was very tight-lipped and seemed very stubborn, while the other, Garton, was often submitting himself to others' bunk. Their differences conflicted, and consequently, they ended up losing the killer in a chase after catching him in the act.

He gave himself a headstart on the read. Jarett awoke, and the first thing he felt were his eyes . . . stinging. He edged into consciousness. The room faded in one at a time. He could see wavy blue curtains, wheat-coloured walls closed around him . . . and Garton. He stood as stiff as a board, his arms locked behind his back in the mannerisms of a child who had taken something they shouldn't have. He hummed in interest. Given the last chapter's abrupt end (Jarett pursuing the killer through the woods, falling short, and cursing at him was described as the last thing he vividly remembered) it did not take him by surprise. He continued to read, his mind distant from the things happening around him . . .

"Mr. Loud, would you like to start us off?"

His heart danced. Oh, okay, sure.

He spoke. His voice came out around the room, loud and awkward at first (he sounded more like a nervous tutor overseeing a new class rather than a confident upfront speaker), but it gradually loosened up. His heart palpitated as he spoke, and sometimes he felt it crash against his ribcage. It was the kind of beating that made his legs feel numb and his head heavy. He stammered every few lines or so. A strong belief stood tall in his head, as if a single stutter would turn heads; and in their eyes he would feel some sort of damnation, as if he had ruined everything. Shut the hell up, he thought briskly, and tried to stow it to some kind of out of reach place.

He was a few pages in now. Garton wasn't a heavy smoker, but sometimes a little knock on the lungs gave him the kick he needed to distract himself. Whether it was a bad day, an unsolved case, or a disturbing thought, the cigarettes were his knight in shining armor. The smoke jetted down his throat, his lungs chock-full with ashy clouds. The first time around — which was usually every single smoke for Garton — had the initial drag making you feel like choking. Vomiting. Maybe even passing out. But that made him feel good. It wasn't something he necessarily wanted to feel, but it was something he needed to feel. God, they were good. He was paying to hurt himself. But that hurt took him away from everything else that hurt. Out of all the things he remembered from math class, 'two negatives make a positive,' was one of them. For others, maybe it didn't work, but did he give a shit? No, he did not, because it worked for him.

Something about that hit close to home; maybe it was how he kept his emotions mostly hidden, or maybe it was how he sourced comfort through personal destruction. Either or, it still struck an unsettling note in him, and he clacked his teeth together.

He padded down to the door, the Newport jutting from his lips, praying to God that this one wouldn't seal an addiction. The hall outside smelled of mothballs and mint leaves. There were only so many rooms; about five down this hall, ten on the second floor, and three on the third. Each of them led to an elevator (though the ground floor had the reception lobby). There was an occasional closet, or whatever they were called. Everything else (the nursery, emergency room, dispensary . . . ) were connected to a separate building by a roofed bridge. The walls were glassed in, so pressing a hand to them would either make you writhe with chills or snap back in blistering pain, depending on the weather. That might have been an annoyed exaggeration, but that was surely what would happen to Garton every single time. He was often called to this building and hated everything about it; from the atmosphere to the design, from the staff to the poor management. It was only now, when he was alone, that he could feel it. His frustrations only came chuffing in when he closed himself off; away from people who could see him; away from people who could judge him. That was how his parents brought him up. When he got angry in front of them, they would stick him on the mat. Showing anger was for the weak, and he wasn't weak—

"Pause," Mrs Erickson said. "Come in Birtz."

Lincoln looked up. Birtz hadn't been in the cafeteria this morning; instead he had probably been shagging ass through blustery April weather, grimacing in determination, following that same day-to-day route to school. He was finally at school though, and now it was already too late. Maybe not too late, they had only ridden out about 10 minutes of class time without him.

At the door Birtz stood, hands clasped together primly and hanging limp in front of his jeans, a late slip nipped in one. A row of his teeth champed on his bottom lip, occasionally wiggling side-to-side with discomfiture. His eyes swirled around the room. For a brief moment, they settled on him. Lincoln waved fleetingly and smirked like a wolf, but Birtz did not respond. Instead he walked hurriedly to the teacher's desk, handed her the late slip, and slipped into his desk near the back of the class.

Naturally, Lincoln would have expected to be a little . . . offended. But an expression had rippled across Birtz's face, one that made Lincoln scratch his head. It seemed to be painful, but he still could not recognize it fully.

Class resumed and seemed to last forever. Lincoln had finished up reading, passed the torch onto someone else. Occasionally, a mocking falsetto would waver out from the back of the class. Surprisingly, it was none of Arnold or any of his punks' monkey business. They were probably too stupid to be in his English class anyway. They probably took the easiest level and were still barely passing, maybe even failing. They wouldn't be able to hand some of the stuff they did in this class, because afterwards, they analyzed some key parts of the chapter, recorded some notes on specific quotes (he was dead on when he predicted they would overanalyze every single word), and finally packed up at the wake of the bell.

When they were finally dismissed, Lincoln entered the hall and waited for Birtz, hoping to clear things up, why he had disappeared the other day. He came out finally, neck craned out in a candy cane hunch, his English binder squeezed between his elbow and hip. His eyes glowed when he saw Lincoln, and he cracked a toothy smile.

"Hey Linc, sorry I ignored your greeting back there, I was swallowed by a pickle."

Lincoln knitted his eyebrows. "A pickle?"

"Pickle is a way of saying I'm in a tricky situation. We just got out of English class, come on dude, know your expressions."

Shrugging, Lincoln motioned his head toward a flush of students. Kids stood shoulder to shoulder, hugging each other's backpacks, stepping curtly. Birtz looked over at the traffic jam, then back at Lincoln, horrified. Lincoln shrugged again. It was either squeeze in there or be late to class.

"Let's go," Lincoln said.

"You're a nut."

He smiled. "I know."

Lincoln joined in, and Birtz followed briefly. The air around his face immediately became sultry, feeling as if his skin might've been glistening beneath the hallway lights, and for a second he thought about just waiting until the storm of students blew over, but he thought better than it, and continued onward, knowing fully well he wouldn't make it to his next class if he didn't. His English class sat here on the North side of the school, while his next period was set at the South side of the school, near the rear entrance. This school was nothing small either. On the first day, he almost cried because it felt as big as the local shopping mall — and from his past experience in Middle School, he was bound to get caught on the hop.

Much as he hated social situations, this one happened to be more tolerable with Birtz at his side. Hands gingerly resting on the backpack of the kid in front of him, his arms like spindles, his jeans wiggling with the work of his legs beneath his sunken belly, he twitched his gaze to the ceiling, staring edgily. Then he looked for Birtz, saw him, and struck up a conversation. They talked about the entomology paper, their ideas, and also about how he had fallen sick, he also shared about the nightmare and had a brief moment where he thought about telling Birtz about the spider and how he had gotten sick from it but in the end decided against because he might tell others and who knows maybe even contact the GLOD.

He collected his thoughts (which had run through his head in a panicked haste) from that moment, replaying what had just happened. Had he told Birtz, everyone around him would have heard. This wasn't some superhero movie where the main character could publicly yap about their biggest secrets and have everyone around them magically deaf to it. Speak one word; circulate one word. That was how it worked around here.

He wouldn't be around here for long, though. He would be going to Math later to feed himself some numbers and probably some letters too. Then he remembered; one of Arnold's friends, Nathaniel Morrison, had been in his Math class. He sighed in a considerably low voice. The class was split in two. There were advanced students who would be imposed with extra content and the academic students who would just float along the normal plan. He bet that guy was failing the class, without a doubt. Most a-hole bullies sucked at school. They reaped the attention they got from their damning actions, whether it was good or bad. But that's about everything they got out of school. At home, they were presenting a bad grade and then getting their ass belted.

People were moving faster now. "Linc," Birtz said. "I'm gonna go grab my Math stuff, meet me back up at class."

What seemed to be a boulder dropped into his stomach and sunk it. Flipping hell. He'd have to go back to his locker. Arnold was always around that area, either him or at least one of his goons. It was where they had most of their run-ins. He was lucky to have avoided him all together this morning. He was hoping he could slink away on-the-sly, but it occurred to him that he hadn't carried his Period 2 binder with that of Period 1. And if he wasn't quick with it, he would be late to class, and his math teacher's patience wore thin quicker than a freshly-lit sparkler.

Lincoln flicked a thumb up. "Alright, see you in a minute."

Birtz tore out of the student body, earning some glares, and was gone the next second. Lincoln did the same, but instead moved with gawky fashion. Flames of embarrassment burned in his face. He started down a narrow hall, absently looking at the floor between steps, hoping not to be noticed. A passing set of eyes fixed him with a vague look. He shied away from it anyhow.

Now he was entering the stairwell. Sunlight, falling narrowly in thin beams through skinny windows and outlining a flight of dust, welled on the landing. It wasn't a beautiful gold. It was a dull gray, just as it had been this morning. Just as it had been when he woke up under the pressure of a nightmare. Just as it had been when he realized something was wrong with him. He trudged down the stairs, his hand pivoting on the railing, his heart leaping up and crashing against his ribcage in loud thumps.

He scurried down the hall to his locker. When he finally arrived, he glanced briefly at the Post-It notes which had been stuck on his neighbor's locker (reminding himself again that he was just a loser with basically no one to turn to), and then focused back on his own, putting in the combination. He snatched out his Math binder, recklessly tossed the one for English in (along with the book), and slammed it with a clang of metal. Certainly he had time to make it to class, but just one look at his phone would feed him that assurance he needed, fill that void in his stomach and keep it from turning, churning, and doing a thousand other terrible things.

He was slipping a hand into his pocket when a voice called out, "Hey Linny."

Linny?

The heck?

Lincoln perked his head up, a floating comical question mark literally floating above his head. "Huh?"

There was someone walking up to him, their auburn hair shrouded by a lime hood, chinos hugging their legs like a second skin. It was Chandler. The Chandler McCann. Lincoln stood stiff and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "It's me, Chandler. Guess what, I got my dick sucked last night so I'm in a good mood. So I'm not firing it up on you today, feel good about it," he spoke with a suspiciously peppy bounce. "Want some butter?"

Lincoln probed, "Uh, butter?"

"Uh, you know, the dope stuff?"

He stifled a nervous laugh. "I don't smoke."

"Fine," Chandler said, his eyes half-lidded. "See you around bone-man, and by the way, tell your sister she left her underwear in my bedroom, and that I liked the blowjob."

Lincoln cringed. Ew. Don't bring stuff like that up about my sisters of all people.

Chandler swished by in a puff of choking cologne, presumably wandering off to fail another class or something. Lincoln tried to move again but grimaced at what felt like a trail of fire running up his chest and to his throat. Suddenly he found himself clutching at his sternum, short-winded. His heart blasted up to his head. A raging inferno was confined to his heart, burning, aching, drawing tears to his eyes. And it all didn't go away until Chandler had swept across the corner and disappeared . . .

For a second, he wandered off in confusion. This might've been him sensing emotion again. Or it could've been something different, a new emotion he can sense. On this assumption, Chandler seemed to be way too happy today. If Lincoln was sensing happiness like that, he had a great deal of pain and suffering to look forward to. It had felt like the gates of hell were unleashed in his chest. Or maybe he was using that to hide something else. He cycled through what had just happened. His face, tied up in a simulated smile, what had he been hiding behind it? It occurred to him that fake smiles were used to hide pain, or similarly, sadness. But Chandler was never sad, he was a bulging bag of ego. Maybe he was trying to lure him into something.

That thought made the most sense out of the others. Anyways, where was he?

Producing his phone out of his pocket, he checked the time. His eyes widened, breath catching. 10:15? Goddamnit, there's only 30 SECONDS TO GET TO CLASS!

He ran, his heartbeat banging up his chest like a townsman locked out of his own apartment, his feet pushing him at incredible speed but still moving with the most agonizing slowness you could ever imagine. The chains of lockers fringing the halls streaked by — in only two seconds Lincoln had taken 20 steps and made it to the stairwell — but he paid no mind to that because he just had to make it to class.

Jumping up the stairs (he skipped three at a time like some gym monkey), he went into the upstairs hall and sprinted down, weaving around stray students. He would've expected them to yell out 'Hey!' or 'Watch it jerk!' but nothing. Maybe they did go 'Woahhh' and one kid yelled 'Holy shit why aren't you on the track team?!', but there was nothing too cruel. It almost surprised him.

He was nearing the classroom now, shuffling to a stop. As if of their own choosing, his head craned to the ground and his shoulders squared, and they stayed that way as he lurched through the doorway. His glance favored all the shit and piss that had probably gathered on that floor more so than anybody around him. He went to his usual spot, second row, in the middle.

The silence was tense, nearly palpable. He slid his Math binder to the corner of the desk, shored up his chin with an turned-up palm, and watched the whiteboard vacantly. His teacher, sorting through a small stack of paper, occasionally looked up to scan the students, probably to see who had made it to class and who had not. His turning head halted in his direction, and for a second, Lincoln's stomach lurched. But then Lincoln realized he was looking in Nathaniel Morrison's direction, narrow-eyed. He knew, Nathaniel had taken a seat in the next row, at the back.

Nathaniel Morrison was one of the guys who had jumped him in March. It took him a day to put two and two together. On the day of the attack, he was dressed in black. Hoodie, hat, shoes, bandana, everything. He would've never known who it was if Arnold never called him 'Nate.' That was his nickname. Everyone called him 'Nate,' like how a lot of people addressed Lincoln as 'Linc.'

When realization dawned, Nathaniel's presence would start to reduce him to a trembling mess. He made him think of Arnold, and thinking of Arnold sent tremors through his body.

That had to change.

Shaking the collecting mist out of his head, he tore a loose sheet of paper out of his binder, got a pencil, then stared up at the ceiling with it poised at the ready. I'm gonna write him a piece of mind, he thought. Show him that I'm not gonna be taking it all like a piece of meat. A cautionary voice at the back of his head: no, no, don't! He did not care, actually, and he would be doing just that, thank you. He was going to puke up all his bubbling frustrations on this sheet of paper right here. Give that prick a message. He was going to—

An imaginary rope snaked down in front of him. Its butt whipped up. The letter L. A bubble burst next to it. The letter O. A second bubble. Another O. His confused head darted to the side, looking next to it. The letter K had pitched up in a line of ratty baseballs. His brow arched for a second. It was telling him something.
LOOK OUT.
Then sweat started to bead around his forehead (in such a manner that seemed slow, but was really fast in the moment), his eyes casting to the left of their own accord. Something was coming out to hit him, bound for his head. He wheeled around and nipped a paper airplane straight out of the air.

He brought it to his desk, sat it down, and studied it. Then he looked back, realizing who had sent it. It had to be Nathaniel Morrison trying to hold his sides. He was right. Now he was studying Nathaniel's face, the corners of his mouth pulled down in shock, forming a huge, open-mouthed frown that highlighted the rest of his face, making him look stupid. His eyebrows pitched down and nearly touched ends, and he sent his arm up in a snappy motion.

"Gimme that shit back," he hissed.

Lincoln looked back at the paper airplane in his hand. Whatever he had felt in that moment had gone away now. There was no inclination to give Nathaniel a piece of his mind anymore. He was back to being a trembling mess.

"O-okay," Lincoln said uneasily and offered it up with a shaking hand.

And so Nathaniel snatched it back, glared at him, and straightened it out on his desk. Lincoln faced the front again, his mind distant. He thought back to what happened. What had those things been? Those things which had appeared in front of him; the letters shaped out of what seemed to be random thingamajigs? He chewed on his bottom lip, stuck in thought. Something was telling him to . . . look out?

Now he recalled; what it had conjured up in his mind wasn't that he might've been high on shrooms, rather it was the time he had caught that fly in the middle of its droning flight. He had managed to calculate a direct trajectory, what exactly to do in the moment, all at a speed that seemed all too slow fxor the time it was really done in. Maybe this was it. (It explained all of it, except for that strange boost of . . . authority? If that's what it was) He had, maybe, a new . . . sense—

The cacophony of the bells shook the walls.

His math teacher stood up. "Alright guys! Good morning! Today we're starting a new lesson!"

Lincoln listened attentively, his hands overlapping on the desk, his intrigued ass so far up the seat it was probably riding up the edge. The teacher rambled on for like three hours before he felt someone nudging his shoulder. He thought about looking for a brief second, then tossed a harried look over his shoulder: the kid a desk behind him, putting a doubled-over piece of paper forward.

His eyes alternated between the teacher and Lincoln nervously. "Nate wants to give this to Arya, just pass it forward."

Lincoln looked at the note then back at Nathaniel; his hands had been clapped to his eyes and dragging down his cheeks in swollen droops. He mouthed something, and though Lincoln was no lip-reader, he definitely said, "No, not to him!"

Not trying to turn this into a situation, Lincoln quickly turned around, leaned forward, and tapped the shoulder of the guy sitting in front of him. His tongue was instinctively washing over his lower lip. He was nervous, and hopefully the person sitting in front of him (which he didn't know his name, he didn't care enough to remember it, nor whoever the hell Arya was) wouldn't mind sparing him two helping hands, one for Nathaniel, and the other for Lincoln, to keep the former from jumping on his tail.

The guy sitting in front of Lincoln leaned back, parking his chin on his right shoulder. "Yes?"

"For Arya, from Nathaniel," Lincoln whispered.

The guy darted his gaze to Nathaniel, then back to Lincoln, and nodded. "Okay, quick."

Lincoln held the note out, and he grabbed it. But Lincoln didn't let go. The guy tugged at the note, but it didn't even move under his grip. Now he was confused, looking up at Lincoln, muddled. "What are you doing man, let it go, we're going to get caught," he whispered.

"I can't," Lincoln said. "I can't get it out of my hands, it's stuck."

"The fuck are you saying?"

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut. It was the truth. It was stuck. He instantly thought back to the incident with Lynn and the plastic wrapper, how it had gotten stuck to his palm, and how it had brought up that horrible moment where he had destroyed his laptop's keyboard. The thing was, this guy was the last person who would understand. Especially considering they were walking a tightrope right about now.

"Just let it go, dumbass—"

Suddenly the teacher materialized out of thin air like one of the ghosts from ARGGH!, hands at his hips like an angry three-year-old, and Lincoln's breath was squeezed out of him. He swiped the note out of Lincoln's hand (comically enough, the time his grip had to lessen was the moment they got caught) and for a horrible moment, opened it up and looked it over. "Passing notes in my class huh?" He went to his desk, releasing the tight band around Lincoln's chest that had seized his breathing. "Nathaniel, send your love poems out to Arya on your own time."

The room fell to deafening silence. Damn, Lincoln thought blankly. I'm dead. I shouldn't be, but I am. It's not my fault he was passing loves notes in class like it's 1995. He looked back at Nathaniel, horror-stricken to see how we would react. His face was sunken in his palms, face scrunched up and all. Second-hand embarrassment circled the room in a whirlpool. He's gonna kill me for this. He doesn't understand. And even if he did, it wouldn't matter, like he would give a shit.

Nathaniel scowled at Lincoln now. "You sold me out like that, after what we told you," he whispered, his voice fuming.

What we told you . . . they're gonna make my life a living hell.

Reality setting in, he flickered his eyes to the desk and stammered. "I-I-I didn't mean . . ."

Nathaniel held him with an unwavering death stare. He was trying to find an adult rhythm of speech but failing. He could never be an adult. He might've had balls of steel, but once they dealt with the scorching heat of someone's fury, they melted into nothing but puddles. No matter what, he would end up backsliding into a quivering hunk of Jell-O, wimp flavored.

"Your ass is grass, cum-top," Nathaniel whispered, his upturned thumb grazing a line across his neck.

When the bell finally rang, Lincoln hurried out of class, every few steps punctuated by troubled glances over his shoulder. Then he scurried outside to get some fresh air.