Wings of Destruction
Chapter 6
Trial And Error

-

"Now, does anyone know the answer to problem sixteen?" Chris began scanning through his notes at his professor's question, terrified for another student beating him to the answer—though he kept forgetting that no one would.

"Christopher Pearson," the professor smiled up as Chris raised his hand high into the air. A few students near by giggled and stared at him.

"Eight-hundred and sixty-four," Chris replied.

"Correct, the answer is eight-hundred…" the professor continued on to explain how the answer was solved.

"Look at his hair," a girl behind Chris muttered, "it looks like a dead animal." A few other students began to laugh and Chris felt a blush reach his cheeks. He looked down—the classroom had a large amount of stadium seating—and raised his head when the professor looked around for another answer.

"Three-thousand and ninety-four—I mean five," Chris fixed himself. A few extra giggles emerged from behind and Chris felt the humility reaching up his throat.

"He's so stupid—I can't believe he thinks he's a know-it-all," replied another girl to her friend.

"He's got no friend," another girl muttered softly. "Why does he even bother to run around looking for them—he's so pathetic." The girls giggled before one of the guys seating behind them leaned over to whisper something. Chris wasn't deaf; he could hear his remark quite clearly.

"Man, he came up to me and John the other day, asking if we needed help with out homework," he paused as the girls giggled. "As if we were stupid enough to not know how to do it ourselves and needed his help."

"Frank!" The professor snapped up at the guy who stated that remark.

"Yes Sir?!" Frank shouted back.

"What is the equivalent of fourteen-thousand and sixty-two compared to units?" The room was silent and Chris began scanning through his text book.

"Um…" Frank muttered.

"Stay quiet, Frank; unless you wish to prove your stupidity to the CEO of this school rather than just this class." The class chuckled and Frank sat back in his seat, relaxed.

Chris raised his hand. "The answer is four-million-nine-hundred-thirty-eight." Chris smiled. The professor nodded in acceptance and turned back to the board to continue teaching the lessons.

-

Chris was walking down the hallway, books in his arms and his heavy backpack on his shoulders. He hugged the textbooks as if they were his life, terrified that the 'popular' kids would grab them and throw them around, causing his dad to have to pay for more copies.

"Hey Chris!" Chris paused and turned around to see Shawn—the most popular guy in the entire school—running up to him. Chris blinked; he had no friends what-so-ever so why would Shawn be running up to him?

"Yeah?" Chris smiled in innocence.

"Yeah, hey look… me and the guys were wondering," he paused to toss a football around in his hands.

"Yeah?" Chris smiled, wondering if they were asking for help in class.

"Have you ever been laid?" Chris blinked and his mouth dropped a little. "No, I mean, not like with any girls around here 'cuz we know you can't get any—but like, have you been raped by a guy or something or your family? Like your mother or father—or something?"

Off in the distance, a few of the jocks laughed hysterically as Shawn surprised—and angered—Chris. Chris gritted his teeth and curled his fists into balls. He hugged his books even tighter, his face going red.

"Hey Shawn," Fred called out from behind, "watch out, I think he's going to slap you like a girl!" More laughter and this time Shawn ran off to join his buddies.

Chris lowered his head, tears threatening to fall. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed out of his mouth. From the hallway besides him, Professor Sanders was heading towards him and noticed the disturbed emotions washing all over Chris. Chris turned suddenly and ran off, heading towards the exit doors of the building.

"I'm not gay!" Chris screamed out as he ran to the parking lot, tears falling down his cheeks. "And I'm not stupid!"

When he finally made it to his car, he fumbled for the keys and leapt inside. It was a red Mercedes, one of the most expensive cars in all the school's class body. He knew he had more classes that day, but at the current moment, he didn't care. He was friends with the professors; if he needed to catch up it wouldn't be hard—also considering he was always ahead of the class by studying a lot.

Chris threw the books onto the seat besides him, started the engine, and drove home. The roads were safe and he took them safe—even in his current state of mind. Tears continued to stroll down his cheeks and as he looked up into the mirror, he immediately jerked his head away so he wouldn't have to face himself again.

His dad was home—shown by the fancy sports car parked on the driveway. His dad had offered to buy him a fancy car instead of the Mercedes, but Chris didn't want it; why would he want a car capable of speeding and killing him over something that was more comfortable and safer to drive? He never understood why people did the things they did. He was once given a truck from his cousin and had the turbo removed from the engine. When his cousin found this news out, he took the truck back, put the turbo back in but at an even higher level than before, and pumped it full with NOS.

Chris lightly stepped through the front door of his father's mansion and very carefully shut the door behind him. Immediately, his father stepped out on the balcony above the foyer in front of him and glared down at his son. Chris pouted as he stared up at the intense anger filling his father's eyes.

"They were picking on me again!" Chris tried to reason. Tears fell once again.

"And how many times do I have to tell you, your educational level is much higher than theirs!" Chris lowered his head in shame as he began to cry even more. "How many times must I tell you, you are sixteen-years-old and in college—a University, must I remind you! These kids are immature for their early twenties while you're as mature as a forty-year-old!"

His father began stepping downstairs slowly, his gaze never leaving his son's face. "Professor Sanders called me again," he muttered softly. Chris looked up at his father, books clutched to his chest as if it were his stuffed animals.

"He said that you were played once again and took off crying." Chris nodded. "Christopher, the more you cry the greater the damage from these people."

"But," Chris looked up at his father's intense glare only four feet away from him. "How am I supposed to handle these kinds of situations if they happen all the time?"

"By using it against them—use the anger you get and fight back." His father urged. "Chris, when I was fifteen, I was in college—myself—and I, too, was a loaded bookworm. I've even had teachers insult me in front of the whole student body. I used the anger against them and corrected his mistakes; I even shoved the right answers into his face with a grin!" His father shouted out. "And when students would pick on me, I would threaten them then walk off—most of the time they were too damn scared to fight me, as seeing the quiet kid spoke up with a vengeance."

"But I'm not you," Chris muttered. It was true; he was more like his deceased mother.

"It is time to grow up, Christopher!" His father shouted. Chris winced at his father's raised voice and headed towards his bedroom. His father turned around to watch him walk off. "Pearson sends you his regards and will be by later tonight to hand you more bookwork."

Chris turned around from the balcony and smiled down at his father, but seeing the grin the smile disappeared fast and he turned back towards his room. Once he entered, his walls light blue and ceiling golden with carpet of cream, he gently placed his books on top of his desk and went right over to his radio. He enjoyed listening to heavy punk music like the other kids did, but his father only said it was because he was trying to fit in.

"Ahh," Chris shut his eyes as he lay back on his bed. The blur of heavy screaming filled his ears as he relaxed and listened to the music of the song.

-

By the time Chris woke up later, it was night. The sky was black—save for the lights outside his mansion windows—and the stars were brightly shining. He blinked and sat up, knowing enough of astrology to know that it was way past eight. Had he slept that long?!

"Woah," Chris muttered. His CD has stopped playing and sat on the main menu screen and his books still lay untouched on his desk. He pushed off the bed and stepped over to his door. Was dinner served yet? Or had it already been served? He couldn't cook—couldn't do anything—really; they had a butler and a maid to do everything for them. His father was a rich and wealthy man—probably the closest to reaching the family's idol: the Winner family.

He heard talking downstairs in the dining room and when he reached it, he saw his father and Professor Sanders eating a plate of food. He bowed his head elegantly as he entered.

"Sorry for not joining earlier," he stated calmly as he claimed a seat. The butler came around and placed a bowl of soup in front of him.

"I fell asleep earlier and just woke up." He smiled up at his father but cooled the look when he noticed the glare his father gave him.

"We were discussing your education," his father replied gruffly, as if it was a topic he really hated at the moment.

"Oh?" He took a sip of the soup and smiled at Professor Sanders.

"I feel you won't continue in a rapid pace and move on to higher education if you keep skipping school like that," Sanders replied before taking another bite of the soup. He kept his head down the entire time and never glanced over to Chris who sat to the right. Chris's father sat across from his son and kept staring at him.

"But those students—" Chris tried to reason but was cut off immediately.

"Should be none of your concern!" His father roared back. "How do you expect to work for the Pearson Industry if you can't even learn to ignore your peers?!"

Chris winced at his father's immediate, disturbed voice. "I can't be mean to anyone. It's not me."

"Then it's time to toughen up, Christopher!" His father roared out once again before taking another bite. Chris looked up at his father's intense gaze as he pouted.

"Your father's just worried for you," Sanders stated calmly. "He wants you to take over the company but with the way you act he's afraid for his company and for you."

"What would you do if I suddenly died right here—right now?" His father questioned. "You wouldn't know how to run a household, how to run an industry, not even how to balance your own checkbook because, Chris," his father chuckled, "not always will a secretary be there to guide you down the path of life holding your hand and standing besides you all the time."

Chris kept his head bowed, feeling tormented once again. His father kept looking up at idealistic views over the true reality, the true reality that his son had trouble in life than he had when he was younger.

"Quit trying to be like the Winner family," Chris muttered out before he realized what he was saying. He froze in fear after the words left his mouth and dropped the spoon. He stared up at his father in fear. His father stood from his chair immediately, glaring down at the young boy before him.

"How dare you!" Sanders continued to eat as if nothing was wrong. "You have no right talking to your father like that! If your mother were still alive, she would agree that your attitude has become the best of you!"

Chris lowered his head, feeling the tears threaten to fall. He hated when people yelled at him; It made him feel useless and caused him to cry—something he found cutting his legs would take the pain away from.

"Of all the things," his father continued to roar out. "You will return to school tomorrow and you will not skip again or else I will ship you away to the military and let them deal with your incompetence!" His father turned and stormed out of the room. Sanders, at that last statement, paused from his bite and looked up at the back of Chris's father until he left. Send him to the enemy? Hell no!

"Chris," Sanders stated calmly, gently. Chris looked over, the tears visible on his face. "Do you want to toughen up?" Chris nodded. "Do you want to prove everyone that you're capable of doing the unthinkable, the unpredictable, and the non-safest thing?"

"Yeah—I want them to see that I'm not all weak and boney like they take me for." Sanders nodded, taking in his mumbled cries.

"What else?"

"Those assholes had called me gay," Chris sniffled. Sanders blinked; he's never heard Christopher Pearson curse even with light words. Perhaps Chris was capable of going all out, he thought.

"They said I could never get laid and wondered if I've been raped by a guy in my youth," Chris sniffled again as he lowered his head.

"And you want to lose your virginity?" Sanders blinked in shock. Chris nodded. Sanders' mouth slowly dropped; this is coming from the most safest person he's ever known in all his many years of living!

Sanders looked down at his bowl of nearly-finished soup and set his hands on his lap. His bowl-cut, brown hair fell before his confused, blue eyes.

"I want to do dangerous things," Chris added in with a whisper as another tear fell from his eye. He stared down at the soup, suddenly not hungry any more.

Sanders nodded, "Fine." Chris looked up at him and blinked in wonder. "Tomorrow, head to my office instead of your first class and we'll go from there."

"Huh?" Chris blinked once again. "Miss class?"

"You've done it once," Sanders grinned to Chris and picked up the spoon to take another bite. "You can do it again."

"But what for?" Chris picked up his spoon but set it back down as he no longer felt hungry.

"I need a pilot for a Gundam; if you agree, all that you have wishes for will happen if you make them happen," Sanders finished his soup.

Chris looked down in thought. "The Gundams were enemies," he muttered before grinning up at his favorite teacher. He curled his left hand into a fist and brought it up to his chin. "I'll take it!"