Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, Empress of the World, or and other media references I may make.
Emperor of the World
July 20th, Specs's and My Room, 3:30 pm
We don't talk anymore. Skittery and I. We just keep quiet and civil.
Specs says I spend too much time in my room. So do Racetrack and Jack. I don't want to leave because I'm afraid that I will run into him. I don't want to make painful chitchat, so I avoid him.
Usually I only see him during meals. He runs on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays so I don't run on those days. It's that simple.
I also avoid the river and the studio. What if he's there? Is he thinking about me too? I try not to wonder about that. I try to just get by thinking about things that really matter. Class. My parents. My sketches.
My sketchbook is full. I don't have any more pages and I have to buy a new one from the tuck shop. The current book is filled with unfinished drawings. I have thought many times of throwing it out, but decided against it. I find myself staring at the sketch of the river I made from my room that early morning. The one that I improvised Skittery and I into. I also have a picture of him smiling. And another of us racing up the hill, as I imagine we must have looked. They hurt me to look at. But I like the hurt; it proves that I am still human.
Getting dumped happens to everybody. The aching feeling happens to everybody. Everyone plans the days he runs around the days his ex does, just so that he'll never have to see him again and he'll never have to be reminded about how deep and how fresh the wound is.
"Dutchy, we need to get you out of this room," says Specs, putting down his textbook and stretching his arms above his head.
I look at him from my sketchbook's last page, which I am filling with a dark drawing of a bicycle, which has its wheel popped and it's handlebar-streamers billowing menacingly in the wind. The ground is charcoal and the sky is grey from the graphite. Lead kills.
"I don't want to," I say gloomily, wiping my nose and picking up a softer lead.
"Dutchy," says Specs warningly, pulling the curtains apart, "you need to get out. You're in here all day."
I don't look up. "I am not. I go to class and eat three meals at the caf. And I go for runs."
Specs doesn't answer. He leaves the room, the door still ajar. I let it be. It's hanging open like my soul. God, I'm so melodramatic lately. It's awful.
I can hear voices in the hallway. In seconds Jack has entered. Wordlessly he and Specs lift me from the bed and carry me to the hall. Specs shuts the door behind him triumphantly. I am still clutching my sketchbook and a H6 pencil. I catch sight of myself in a window. There is lead smeared all over my nose.
"I like your sketch," says Jack conversationally. I glance down. The book is open to the picture of the tennis courts, which are unfinished, but boast half a person playing against another. I shrug and shut it.
"No, really," says Jack, as if I was being modest and protested to his compliments. "I can't draw to save my life. That's why I take pictures. It hides my lack of artistic ability."
"I do things like Business Marketing and History to avoid having to be artistic. It's hell. You just hold on to things you want to forget."
The optimistic smile droops from Jack's face.
"Then why are you taking History?" asks Specs pointedly. "The whole point of the course is reliving the past. Clinging to extinct empires and vanished battles."
I hate Specs. I really do. He's smart and wise. He seems to know the perfect answer to everything. I hate it.
"I'm a hypocrite, OK?" I say haughtily. I clutch my sketchbook to my chest and keep walking. I'm not sure where we're going.
It's been a long time since I've just walked. Just walked around aimlessly.
It's really hot out. There are people playing Frisbee and girls sun tanning in bikinis. Specs and Jack pretend not to be watching, but I know they are. I'm not stupid.
Something about them being so carefree, so able to look at someone like that, drives jealousy through me. I clench my jaw shut and keep walking aimlessly.
"So," says Specs after a while. "Where are we going?"
I shrug.
Jack looks around. "Wanna go play volleyball?" he asks thoughtfully.
No one answers, but we walk to the courts anyways.
The ground is smeared with thick, dark sand. It is cool on my bare feet and cradles them tightly. The nets are high, strung through with green rope and yellow ties. There is no one else here and the sun has disappeared momentarily, leaving us in a stupor of surrealism and serenity.
Jack finds a volleyball lying in the corner of a court, throws it in the air a few times, and walks over to us.
"Who's up for a game?" he asks sportingly.
I sit down by the post of the net. Jack throws the ball at me.
"It wasn't a question," he says, "let's play Dutchy, you and me."
I look at him pleadingly, begging him not to put me through this. He turns his back and takes his place on the base line. I sigh and fall into position.
Specs stands at the post, pretending to ref, using his hands as scoreboards. Jack serves.
It is high and arching, the white ball soaring smoothly above me. I reach to it.
Slam!
It lands inside the line, Jack diving to reach it, missing only barely.
"Your serve," he says, tossing the fallen ball over to me.
I toss it up, extending from my waist, swinging around and hitting it on the side.
Slam!
It hits centre court, rolling along the sand slowly, leaving a small ravine in its wake.
Specs' fingers display the score. Two—zero.
Jack tosses the ball back.
I serve. He returns. A high volley, above my head, an easy shot. I smash it back; Jack dives and saves it, sending it flying to my far left. I am airborne, the sand splaying out around my ankles. My chest hits the ground. Then my knees. Last, my chin.
The ball hits and rolls off court.
I toss it to Jack. We're serious. There's no game banter, no taunting or joking. Just straight faces and tense moves.
He serves. A slow one again. Easy, why is he serving so easy?
I hit it back with little effort. He returns. I return. We keep up our volley until I am tired of it and slam the ball into the Jack tumbles, somersaulting to reach it.
Despite myself, I smile weakly.
Jack laughs. Specs laughs.
The sun comes out, basking the court in light, displaying every cranny of it and covering my half in shadows.
"Do you play volleyball, Dutchy?" Jack asks me.
I nod. "Not anymore though. Only for a while."
Jack wipes his sandy hands on his shorts. "Oh." He throws me the ball.
July 20th, The Volleyball Courts, 6:00 pm
We haven't left yet. The sun is tilting towards the ground, drunkenly promising dusk.
"Thanks guys," I say softly, rubbing the sand off my arms.
"Any time," says Jack, taking his shoes in his hands and stepping off the courts.
"Yeah," Specs grins, "no problem."
We walk towards the caf. There is an emptiness in my stomach, but not from hunger.
"I'm not too hungry right now," I say. "I'm going to get an early rest."
I can see Medda and Isabel entering through the main doors.
Jack and Specs shrug, obviously uncaring; at least they got me outside today.
The doors of the hall are heavy. Inside, the rooms are quiet and still. I turn the key in my lock when I hear a sound coming from down the corridor.
I look up and spot them. Jade and Skittery. Their hands are clenched together and they are smiling. Both of them. Yes, Skittery too.
I stare for a few seconds, my throat clenching tightly. Jade doesn't see me, but Skittery does. I look away, fumbling with the door handle, blinking away tears that are blurring my vision. I can see them in the corner of my eye, Jade kissing Skittery on the cheek. The door swings open and I step inside, slamming it behind me.
I sink to the floor and, after a minute of silence, welcome the tears.
End Chapter
Another sad chapter, know. I'm sorry, but Dutchy's going through a bad time, so you must too!
Now! Review and I'll do the shoutouts!
Shoutouts:
Erin Go Bragh—I hope your mom's birthday dinner was nice! Also—
Peter!Muse: did you being me any food?
Me: Peter, that's a little forward, isn't it?
Peter!Muse: why would it be? I'm hungry!!!
Tom!Muse: don't worry! I'll get you some food! Tom saves the day! Again! (runs into wall)
Me: Charlie, have you been slipping Tom some bourbon again?
Charlie!Muse: (hiding bottle) no...not at all!
Eagle Higgins-Conlon—I did! I think...I hope so. I remember saying 'yes, I think I will go read and review her story'. I can't remember. I have bad memory. Though not all of the time. Usually it's very good.
OK, I'll stop now. I'm confusing myself.
Nakaia Aidan-Sun—dresstard. Interesting. Great word. Anyways, I hope you fit this formal dress of yours. It sounds stubborn.
Also, hopefully you see this guy who's going to Texas occasionally. It would be nice and then you wouldn't be all strange and insane.
Madison Square—I'm not sure why he's graduating class of '98. It was just a good year, I'm thinking. Or...nah. He couldn't have graduated from elementary school then he would be too old.
Yes, Jack is seksay. So is Spot. Yes, and all others. Gotta love the boys!
Also, Skittery's parents kicked him out because of the church. I know it only came around in passing (the telephone conversation), but I'll go more into that later.
T-R-Us—though I'm sure you'll never review again, and you think 'Dutchy and Skittery are stupid together', I'm obliged to give you a shoutout.
That was it.