3

FRODO

Well, I guess we're into it now. Day Two of the annual slog to the finish... And I'm not dead yet.

I can't believe it's my second-last year already. It's not like I have any idea what I'm doing after school. It's awful how they expect you to be able to decide, just like that, on command. I don't even know what I want. I mean, I think I like a subject, and then I take a class with a teacher who hates me and suddenly it's my least favourite thing in the world. Yes, it's all very complicated.

It turns out I kind of missed school, though. I didn't see Faramir much at all during the summer; I think he was working all the time, or something. And it's nice to be part of the group again. So often, during the holidays, I just felt like the days were drifting by and nothing was actually happening to fill in all those insubstantial minutes and hours. I don't go out much. I mean, really, would you? I'm three feet tall, for crying out loud. I really only feel at home among the other hobbits.

I don't think Sam really loves it here, though. Poor Sam. He's such a nice guy, too, but most people can't seem to get beyond the "Chubby Hobbit!" image. Let's admit it, us hobbits are basically at the bottom of the barrel, as far as social standing goes. Has there ever been a hobbit head boy or girl? No, there has not. I looked it up. I figure people just think we're lazy, or stupid, or something. It's pretty unfair.

Social inequality aside, it's not a bad school. Most of the people are cool. Aragorn is head boy this year, which is awesome. He really respects everybody, even us little people. He seems to like me, personally, too – I mean, he even comes over to my house sometimes. And I'm just a stupid grade eleven! What a guy... If I had half his confidence, I'd have it made.

So, it's the gang and me, together again. Sam, Pip, Merry and I hang out all the time, and Faramir is usually with us, too. It must be embarrassing for him, sitting with all us hobbits at lunch and sticking out like a sore thumb, but he never says anything about it. He's a really great guy. He writes the most awesome songs – you'd think they were professional, or something. And he's such an intellectual. He knows everything about history, and mythology, and philosophy and all that stuff. Ask him anything! And humble, too, like you wouldn't believe. But I guess his home life is a bit screwed up. We don't talk about that, though.

Merry and Pippin are another story. God, they're so funny, they might as well not even be hobbits. I mean, everybody likes them; they've always got some joke, or some ridiculous story, or else they're up to something crazy you just wouldn't believe. Merry's generally considered the smarter one – people think Pippin is a little slow, but he just has trouble focusing, that's all. I've heard him say the wisest things, out of nowhere... but then he always follows it up with some inane joke. It's like he doesn't want to be taken seriously. Funny guy...

But I digress. I suppose I ought to jot down some details about my day... Here's a tidbit from lunch break.

I was sitting next to Sam, as usual, and across from Faramir. Pippin and Merry were off buying their "four extra-large poutines, please," which they eat everyday without fail. (Where they get the money, heaven only knows – those wankers haven't worked a day in their lives.)

Faramir frowned as he stared at a page in an alarmingly huge textbook. The end of his pen was rapidly disintegrating as he chewed it.

"What major points are included in the principal philosophy of the Silvan existentialists of the early Third Age?" he said absently. As though we could help.

"Um..." I said, hoping to give the impression that I was actually considering this inane question. Faramir looked up.

"Oh, sorry, Frodo. Just talking to myself." He seemed a bit out of it, poor guy.

"Not enough gravy by a long shot," Merry said suddenly, plopping himself down next to Faramir, an enormous carton of cheese-smothered fries in each hand. "Cheap-ass cafeteria."

"I'll have yours if you don't want 'em," Pippin said politely, carefully arranging his own two cartons in front of him. Merry elbowed him in the ribs, and they both fell to shoving.

Sam nodded glanced up from his thermos of mushroom soup, neatly packed by his Gaffer.

"Here comes your brother, Faramir," he hissed. For some reason Sam is terrified of Boromir. I think it has something to do with being tackled in the ninth grade during an unusually rigorous (and totally impromptu) varsity pinball tournament at the community centre.

Faramir made a face just as his brother came up behind him, whacking him in the back with a fist the size of my head by way of a friendly greeting.

"Oy, F-bot! Whatcher doin'?" he growled, with his patently ridiculous grin. (Twenty percent of teeth lost, and counting.)

"You're an ass, Borkus," Faramir said, wincing only slightly. "I'm doing my homework. Remember that word? You may have heard it before, on T.V. or something."

"You did all that last night, you fuckin' nerd. Do somethin' else, eh? Gotta live a little!"

"No thanks," Faramir said quietly, still reading.

Boromir shrugged.

It's almost alarming how different those two are, even physically. You could draw Faramir as a stick figure without sacrificing any degree of realism in terms of his weight, while Boromir is basically a tank. Faramir wears glasses and has calouses on the end of his fingers from playing guitar all the time, while his older brother ("Borkus," as only Faramir dares call him) wears size-seventeen steel-toed boots, and has calouses basically everywhere on his body from doing Lord only knows what. But albeit public behaviour suggesting the contrary – and this according to Faramir – they actually do like each other.

"Eh, you hobbits joinin' the rugby team this year?" Boromir asked with a grin. He slapped Merry hard on the back, causing him to choke violently on a cheese curd.

"Yeah, sure," Pippin said sarcastically. "Soon 's I write up my will, how 'bout it?"

"Wusses. F-bot won't join either. I told him it'd be fine if he did," Boromir said, some of his grin disappearing.

"Yeah, well..." Faramir was speaking quietly, his face practically buried in his book now. "We know we're both better off when Pops doesn't think I'm trying to steal any of your thunder."

Boromir's face hardened. I saw him swallow once, apparently attempting to make eye contact with his feet.

"It's not like that. You don't..." Boromir breathed in sharply, then forced a smile. "Don't go and talk like that. It's no good."

He shook Faramir by the shoulders in a way I can only assume was meant to be reassuring.

Faramir's lips tightened into a half-smile as he turned a page in his textbook. "See ya, Borkus."

"Later, F-bot."

With that, we were left in peace to finish our lunches, Sam still looking a bit unnerved, and Merry coughing intermittently.

Anyway, apparent domestic tensions amongst my friends aside, I have pretty high hopes for this year. With a bit of luck, I'll be soaring through my courses and figuring out where I'm headed. Fingers crossed, right?

Hooray!! I might post again soon. Please review. I need my existence validated.

(To you New Brunswickers, sorry "real" poutine did not star in this chapter. I ran out of brown sugar.)