Thank you all for the encouragement. It seems it did wonders; this chapter is the first thing I've written since May. I'm very grateful!
Disclaimer: You know the drill.
Control Freak Part Two
The paper was even better than he'd initially thought. Fidgeting with the unused red marking pen he held in his hand, Heero reread the final paragraph, unconsciously savoring the flow of the words. It seemed, he admitted to himself, that this final assignment would require little to no effort on his part.
Heero leaned back in his desk chair and pursed his lips pensively, tapping his pen absent-mindedly against the edge of his desk. He was intrigued, he had to admit. Despite his tutee's seemingly shambling nature, he had a knack for expressing himself on paper that was certainly enviable. He had more voice than any single writer had a right to and a vocabulary like a word-a-day calendar. Why was he in a remedial English class?
Snorting through his nose, he sat forward and planted his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in his hands. An essay like that would earn at least a seven, possibly even an eight on the AP grading scale. (1) Writing at that level came as a result of only three things: sheer talent, exemplary instruction, or some combination of both. Knowing what he did of the school Duo attended, he was forced to conclude the boy possessed something above average in terms of literary skills. He hated to admit to it, but that conclusion kindled a bit of respect within his mind.
He stared down at the sheets of uniform lettering, the handwriting so neat it could almost be mistaken for a computer print-out. Two thousand words in one night, he mused, and without the aid of a word processor.
A solid knock on his bedroom door interrupted any further thoughts. "Come in!" he barked, irritated at the intrusion.
Maria poked her head through the door and grinned. "Good thing I wasn't your mother, kid, or she'd rip you a new one about proper decorum. 'A true gentleman answers the door himself, rather than yelling like a barbarian,'" she sniffed, mimicking Mrs. Yuy's slightly haughty voice perfectly.
"I could care less what my mother thinks," Heero returned, rising from his chair to claim the fresh laundry the woman had come to deliver.
"Maybe you should care a little more," she replied enigmatically, handing over the neat stack of school uniforms. "I found this on your mother's night stand."
He set the laundry on the edge of his bed before taking the glossy pamphlet with a frown. "Ms. Plinkley's School For Well-Mannered Young Persons," he read. "Social graces to last a lifetime. Social, business, and dining skills. What is this, Maria?"
"Your mother's latest endeavor, but more importantly that what it is, look when it is," she replied seriously, taking the sheet and pointing to a schedule on the back. "Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:30PM."
"The same time as kick-boxing lessons," Heero dully noted.
"And we all know how your mother loves those."
He made a small sound of derision, staring in rapt fascination at the cover shot. He found it very hard to imagine himself wearing a ruffled poet's shirt and skintight leggings, but it appeared that was to be his fate. "Do you suppose I could salvage the situation with aptly applied social graces?" he inquired half-heartedly.
"Sorry, kiddo," Maria shook her head. "You know your mother as well as I do. Once she gets an idea in that head of hers, it sticks like shit to a dog's ass."
Flinching inwardly at her choice of words, he inclined his head. "Point taken." With a sigh, he handed the pamphlet back to the older woman. "You'd better put this back before she notices it's missing."
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir," she bowed and scraped repeatedly, backing slow towards the door.
"Stop it," he snapped. "You know I don't think of you like that."
Maria rolled her eyes. "Your parents need this more than you do," she confided, raising the pamphlet.
He had no inclination to contradict her statement.
"GET YOUR SCRAWNY ASS OVER HERE, MAXWELL!"
"COMING!" he hollered in response, his breath swirling visibly through the arctic air of the meat chamber. A forty pound slab of meat slung over each shoulder, he staggered through the rows of dismembered carcasses, trying not to think too much about what each slab of flesh once was. He'd been working in the meat processing plant for almost a year now and it still made him slightly ill at ease. Not that he was a converted vegetarian... but the thought had crossed his mind more than once.
He approached his boss, a burly man who strongly resembled the stereotypical lumberjack, flannel coat and all. In fact, his appearance was quite reminiscent of the Brawny paper towel man, complete with beard and razor-sharp axe. Currently said axe was actively engaged in dismembering a frozen bovine. Although they had machines to do that sort of thing, the man had a penchant for a fiery temper and hacking up livestock intended for general consumption did wonders for his psyche. Duo wondered what it said for his psyche that he continued to work for such a nut job.
Weaving slightly under the load draped across his frame, he reached the butcher's block and allowed the meat to slip onto its surface with a satisfying thump. Taking a deep breath, he grinned manically as the air burned through his lungs. Three AM. His shift was finally over. "Gotta head out, boss. Catch you tomorrow."
He turned to go, already peeling off his protective jacket and insulated work gloves. Before he'd gone more than a few steps, however, a solid pull on his hood jerked him nearly off his feet, causing him to skitter for traction on the icy floor. He regained his footing and glared over his shoulder at his employer, whose hand was currently firmly attached to his shirt. "What's your problem? Get the fuck off of me!" he snarled, aiming a kick backwards into the man's shin. He was still off-balance, however, and all the move earned him was a face full of concrete. He winced as his jaw connected with the floor and glared upwards with all the animosity he could muster.
His boss towered above him, his axe slung casually over his shoulder, laughing at his expense. It was not a Kodak moment. "Nice one, Maxwell. Now get your ass up and do your fucking job."
"My shift's over," he grit out, thrusting to his feet angrily, his gloves lying crumpled amongst the by-products riddling the floor. The plant was, through methods unknown to him, far removed from the health inspector's sphere of influence. He wouldn't have been surprised if the body parts strewn across the floor were older than he was.
"Your shift's not over til I say it's over. And I say it's not."
Duo shrugged and once more started towards the exit, wiping away a trickle of blood oozing from his split lip. "Who gives a fuck what you say? I'm leaving."
"Walk out that door and you're fired, kid."
He stopped dead in his tracks, shoulders tensing unconsciously, his hands bunching into fists at his sides. "You wouldn't."
"Like hell."
He spun angrily and snapped. "Who the fuck else are you going to find to put with your shit?"
"Who the fuck else are you going to find that will give a goddamn fifteen year old a job?"
"You did, didn't you?"
"How many other shits out there you think got their asses covered this well?"
"Plenty."
"Name one."
"I'll find someone."
"Not if I put word out that you're a thief."
His breath caught in his chest and he struggled to maintain his dispassionate tone. "I've never stolen from you."
"Who's going to believe you?"
"Fuck."
"Now put your fucking gloves on and get back to work."
He did.
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Footnotes
1. The English AP exam grades essays on a scale of zero through nine, nine being the highest. Correct me if I'm wrong (it's been years), but I'm pretty sure the only way to get a zero is to flat out not answer the question.
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*is very dissatisfied* Well, it's something.