Hey y'all, new chapter. This chapter is dedicated to Geezluhweez (Guest) for the request! It is sort of a continuation to Big Time Fight, but not really, and oH mAn I should put this in Minnesota Memoir Instead.

(Okay so that's been done, saved my writer's block)

This chapter is also dedicated to 24 (Guest) (also known as 24 when my document decides to delete the part) because they noticed a lack of protective/comforting Kendall and I decided to fix that by putting Logan in another bad situation…

And also BTRFanatic13 because she wrote an awesome story called The Boy Next Door and Logan has OCD there and I fully love that story I literally screamed.

My birthday is soon, and some new actual story might come out then. I'm also convinced my friend is getting me a cardboard cutout of Logan Henderson, I'll keep y'all updated on that.

Happy reading! Enjoy!

Already a few days of school had gone by, and, since the orientation, there had been no incidents. Logan hadn't seen his two Group D leaders, or Kendall's Group C leader, the whole week. Not that he would, he remembered. They were ninth graders now. Nobody knew him, and for once, that might have meant that nobody cared to bother him.

For once, Logan was wrong.

More like half-right.

Because, in the classroom, safely surrounded by James, Kendall and Carlos, nobody dared to do anything. Nobody said anything to him, bad or good. He only heard a few people laugh at how quickly Logan had raised his hand to answer questions, and those few people had been James, Carlos and Kendall.

"Gosh, Logan, save some questions for the rest of us!" Kendall exclaimed.

Logan's blank stare of confusion was enough to get Kendall to stop laughing. Kendall didn't like answering questions, he thought. And Kendall wouldn't know the answers…

"I'm joking, Logan."

"You don't know the answers to these questions?" he replied, maybe as a question, but maybe as a statement as well.

Kendall grinned. "Nope. That's why you're answering them."

And that's what he did, he answered all of them, especially during science and math.

He still tried his best during English, but they were doing poetry analysis, and he just couldn't understand why they needed to do that. No one was going to ask a doctor how many poems he knew, and how symbolism or figurative language was utilized in said poems. For Logan, poetry was just pointless, useless and confusing.

Similes, for example, were stupid. What was the point that an apple was as red as a blazing fire? There was none, absolutely none, because no one actually thought about a blazing fire as they looked at an apple. They thought about the apple.

Metaphors, too, were worse than similes, because they just made no sense. At least with similes, two basic objects and two basic traits were being compared. He could understand that an apple and a fire were both red. What just didn't click with metaphors was the nature of them. How could an apple be the fire? How was the apple a blazing fire, when it was just the same apple it had been a second ago?

He sighed, flipping his notebook closed. The bell rang for lunch break, Logan stood up. He glanced around at his three friends who were not doing that. Carlos was working with the English teacher. Kendall had been called to the principal's office just a few minutes ago, reason unknown. Probable reason: another one of his secret scheme plans either worked really well or failed horribly. James was currently trying to show off his pop-star repertoire to any girl who would listen. There were very few who fit this criteria.

He would just eat lunch outside, then. It would spare him that terrible walk of shame down the aisle between the two sides of the cafeteria, and the even worse round of questioning: Can I sit with you? Because this questioning always ended in some form of rejection, and soon he would have made his way around all the fifth grade tables. He wouldn't dare wander over to the dreaded sixth, seventh or eighth grade tables.

So, he decided he would sit outside to wait for them. His friends would know where he went.

There was a small arena of metal picnic tables. Logan took a seat. The bench was cold from the metal, and unnaturally warm from the fluctuating strength of the September sun rays. He repositioned himself on the opposite bench, but this did nothing to help the situation. He sighed, unpacking his lunch.

It remained there, unpacked, as he felt himself being lifted off of the bench.

"What?"

Somebody told him to shut up. Logan recognized the voice. It was one of the boys in his English class who was equally terrible at poetry, but somehow always ended up diverting the class's attention to Logan, whenever there was a question about a simile or metaphor, which he could not understand at all. This kid was surprisingly strong, Logan thought, until he realized there had to be more than one pair of arms carrying him. No fifth grader was that strong. There were three people laughing and talking and muttering around him.

Laughing: hahaha, this idiot, hahaha

Talking: Oh, L-l-l-l-ogan, where are your friends now? You know, I bet they'll see you soon.

Muttering: Get him up quick, get him up quick.

Get him up where?

Oh.

Get him up, literally hanging by his boxers off the broken, deteriorating backboard of the basketball hoop.

That's what they meant.

It was uncomfortable, but if he didn't look at the three classmates below him, he could almost forget he was in this situation. He just needed to count, to pace his counting correctly, and in a few minutes (minutes that would pass by quickly, if he paced his counting correctly) James, Kendall and Carlos would find him. It was no use getting down himself. If he tried to move, if he didn't send a raging pain through his body, he would fall on the asphalt. Both undesirable outcomes. So he stayed still, pathetically hanging, eyes closed, feet pulsing, counting.

One. "How's the view up there, Logan?" one of them taunted. "I bet it isn't as good as the view from down here."

Two. "Thought you'd be wearing tighty-whities," another sighed. "Got my hopes up."

Three. "Watch this," the third one whispered, poorly, since Logan could hear it. A rock whizzed past his foot. Two more, and the guy was swearing. The third hit Logan's foot. The guy cheered. Logan was off-pace now, counting too fast, or not at all, stuck on the same number.

Three. Three. Three.

"What's wrong, Logan?" they chorused.

And he was struggling against the pole anyway, not caring if he fell, not caring how it looked, not even registering what he was doing. He knew what was happening, sort of. It was just some huge conglomeration of everything, because he just—lost control.

And the three guys ran away, in three different directions, three shouts from each of them.

Three. Three. Three.

He was losing control: kicking and crying.

"Logan!"

That just made it worse, more intense. He couldn't stop, he needed to control himself but it's not like he could. He needed to, and he couldn't, and—

He was down from the pole.

But everyone was talking to him, someone was talking to him and he just couldn't. He sank down to the asphalt, eyes closed. If he started pulsing again, he could count, he could be in control. He tried to pulse, but then it didn't work, and it was just another desperate attempt at calming down. He couldn't do that either, all these voices were talking to him, and the sun was beating down, harsh and bright, and someone was bouncing a ball, and the air was sticky and humid, everything was wrong.

"Logan," more voices were saying. It was one or two or fifteen, it didn't matter. "It's okay."

No, it wasn't.

—

He was in the nurse's office, lying on his side on a cot. His mother was there too. And the nurse. And the principal? Oh no. Was he in trouble now? Why would he be in trouble? He didn't do anything. People did something to him.

"Ms. Mitchell," the principal was saying, hands clasped together, leaning forward on his elbows. "I have to say, I do think that perhaps Logan—"

"His name is Hortense," his mother interjected.

Logan couldn't tell whether she was in a good mood or bad mood yet. That refute was always the same. Though, he was guessing good mood, since she had to pick up the phone when the school called her here.

"Your son," the principal rephrased, "would possibly do better in a school that was more accommodating to his needs."

His mother shrugged. "Be more accommodating. This is a public school, isn't it within your job capabilities, don't my tax payments ensure that, you can make sure my son isn't hanging from a basketball hoop by his underwear?"

"We'll be talking to those parents separately to get a clearer understanding of the situation. Even then, this isn't even what I would like to address with you. Not entirely."

"I'd say it needs to be addressed."

Good mood, Logan decided. She was sharp and quick-witted, as usual, like she was settling a price on a house. He had heard her talking on the phone like this before. She always got what she wanted when she had these conversations.

"I'd say your son's behavioral issues need to be addressed as well."

"Behavioral issues?"

Well, almost always.

"I've gotten word from his teachers that he often talks out of turn, interrupting the lesson. During group work, he's uncooperative. His participation fluctuates drastically between each class. He's being reprimanded constantly, but doesn't seem to understand the problem."

His mother crossed, uncrossed and then crossed her ankles again. "Which lessons? What groups are they putting him in? Certainly not with those three boys that are the reason I'm here right now?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Hortense doesn't have behavioral problems."

"Then what would you call his state just a few minutes ago?"

"I would call that trauma, considering."

Considering what?

"Hortense," his mother said. "You've been awake?"

Logan really needed to figure out how to get the talking out loud thoughts thing under control. He nodded at her question, closed his eyes again.

Too late. She was already dragging him out of the office, back into the car.

—

"Is Logan okay?" Kendall was begging his mother, who stood at the landline, about to punch in Joanna's number.

She sighed, "I don't know, honey. I haven't even dialed yet."

Kendall studied her face as she did dial, and later when it rang. His mother just pulled her lips together in a slight frown, awaiting the news.

Finally, his mother spoke. He would only be able to hear one end of the conversation, but it was better than nothing.

"He's—yeah, Kendall's been asking. Could he talk to him?"

"Yes!" he whispered, loudly. "Please, Mom?"

He reached for the receiver, but she pulled it away from him, shaking her head. "No. That's okay. What's he doing now?"

Another pause, and his mom smiles a little bit. "Doesn't surprise me. Well, if I can do anything, you know I'm here, Joanna. Even if it—"

The line clicked.

"What happened?" Kendall asked. "Did Logan's mom hang up on you?"

"She did."

"Isn't that rude?"

His mother looked far off, somewhere else. "Do you want fish sticks?"

He shrugged. Any day he could have fish sticks was automatically a good day. "It's not Friday."

Mrs. Knight was already making them. They were quick, they were easy, and usually they meant there was going to be an exciting dinner. Not today. The most exciting thing that happened, happened to Katie. Some kid in her kindergarten class threw up on her. She stole nearly everything from the Lost and Found closet, determined to sell it over the weekend.

As for him, the most exciting thing had happened to Logan, not Kendall. It definitely did not count as the good type of exciting to see his friend kicking and screaming and crying, not to mention hanging from the basketball hoop. He tried to help, but he only made it worse, because when he tried to reassure him that everything was okay, Logan only screamed louder.

Then the nurse ran out, and took Logan away from them.

Kendall spent the rest of the day worrying, and even now, his worry was back. He couldn't even concentrate enough to hold a fish stick.

"Logan's okay," Mrs. Knight whispered to him. "He was just scared."

"Just scared?"

"What happened to Logan?" Katie asked, while at the same time reaching for Kendall's 3untouched fish sticks.

He slapped her hand away. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you."

Kendall rolled his eyes, when really he was about to punch someone. He just needed Katie to shut up. "I don't care if you believe me or not."

Katie stuck her tongue out at him, and he almost lost it.

Instead, he took a long, deep breath, not that this priceless technique from the school guidance counselor was actually working, and pushed away from the table. He gathered his plate up in his hands, depositing it in the sink.

"Thanks for dinner, Mom. Love you."

"I love you too, honey."

He waited until Katie had gone to sleep to punch a hole in his bedroom wall.

I still suck at endings. Hope you enjoyed!