Gamble 7: Thanks, I am
Sparks Kelly, splashey, Ramarama, PeliculaJane: Praise the inventor of the uniform!
Lady of Tir Na Nong: Yeah, detail/explanation is my biggest problem. I have this weird thing where I try to avoid the obvious in my writing, which should be a good thing, but is not when the obvious is: He looked like this or he was doing this because…you know, all the stuff that makes the story make sense. Also, no one fits in at private school! (And what the devil is a "cc"?)
Love97: It's all fluff really, isn't it? This will be fluff with an edge, like clouds made of metal wiring.
Tudilovesyou: I must confess, I go to the Mother of all private schools (& I really hope God forgets September this year) & I think the cuteness times 10 is a very accurate equation.
Madmbutterfly713: Don't you know? Spot's secretly a genius, beats out Einstein even. He even perfected the art of cloning (remember the rally scene at the end?) at the turn of the century! In fact, it is my secret belief that Roosevelt took him off in his carriage so that he could be his personal advisor. Hence, Roosevelt becomes President and Spot is secretly hidden in the White House, using his amazing intelligence to guide America through history. And what became of Spot's clone you ask? Well, he went on to Fan Fiction glory, wooing Mary Sues and fighting those wicked newsie leaders in Queens.
XXX
The carpet of the headmistresses' office was maroon. It had a gold swirl pattern that was like dreaming in Arabic. Spot learned this before his first class because he was sent there. He'd just experienced a classic "New Kid at School" sequence with the resident bully. Spot had been picked out like a safety pin in a bowl of marbles.
He'd entered the school and followed the other students up the grand staircase. He wondered why a school needed a lobby that probably rivaled the Ritz-Carlton in off-hand, snobbish glamour. As he neared the end of the steps, he'd noticed another girl standing at the top. She had black hair and white skin and her lips curled up in a crinkly smile. Spot's lips curled up as well, in praise to the creator of short plaid skirts and tight white polos. And then he saw the meaty hand resting languidly on her shoulder and the deep scowl on the face of it's owner.
"What are you looking at?" The boy asked. And this is how Spot failed his first pop quiz in Manhattan, because he answered the boy Brooklyn-style.
"I'll look wherever the fuck I want to," he said. The boy went at him pedal to the metal. His thick arm flew at Spot's face. Spot dodged. If there was one thing he had learned in Brooklyn, it was this. His eyes glinted, he waited. The other boy snorted like a bull. He swung again, and missed. The boy could tell this kid wasn't from around here; he didn't fight like someone with class, taking his punches and returning them politely. He fought like a stray dog, cornered in an alley.
"Fucking, low-class, street shit," the boy mumbled aloud. And every single one of Spot's insecurities about coming to this school was confirmed. The boy was right, so Spot gave him his legendary right hook.
As the boy moaned in pain, Spot felt a hand clamp around his upper arm. He whirled around, arm swinging. He jerked it back before it connected with the face of what looked to be a member of the faculty of this illustrious prison.
"Hold on there, kiddo," the man said, wryly, ducking his head a little. Spot's authority meter went off, flushing the adrenaline out of his system. He watched dumbly as the man, who had pinched eyes and wore a bow tie, ordered some students to take the other boy to the nurse.
Spot tried to keep cool, but his senses were starting to blur as thoughts blared through his head like a fire alarm. So this is it. You've done it. You didn't want to be here, you thought you didn't belong, and now you've confirmed it. You were right.
The faculty member ordered the crowd that had formed to get to class, his hand still encircling Spot's numbed arm. He turned to Spot. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of sorrow for the kid, his face was hanging and his large eyes were wide and shiny. "Follow me," he said, his voice softened. Spot dragged his feet down the halls, focusing on his steps, on keeping his eyes clear and neutralizing the strange heaviness he felt in his cheeks. They walked down a hallway, past classrooms lined with bright-eyed students listening to the first lecture of the day. Spot wished himself into one of the mahogany rooms, onto a chair facing the fresh green chalkboard. He could sit in the back and blend in, and be like all the rest of them.
But when he opened his eyes they'd stopped in front of a door with a gold plate reading "Headmistress' Office." He followed the man in and stared out the window as the man explained the situation to the secretary, who took notes. Spot tried to stop himself from thinking of those notes, how they would be typed and filed and placed in an iron vault called "Permanent Record." Instead, Spot looked out the window at the tiniest view of a Manhattan sidewalk. People shuttled this way and that in posh clothing. They all had an agenda, a destination. What Spot wouldn't give to trade places with one of them.
The man in the bow tie finished his story and turned back to Spot. He had trouble meeting Spot's eye, as if he felt guilty. "You can wait in there," he motioned to a room through an open door. "I better get to my class, the little anarchists are probably rioting by now," he joked, trying to ease the situation. Spot couldn't be mad at him; he seemed so earnest and genuinely nice. Spot wished that this hadn't been his first impression of him. He would have liked to have sat in his class and wowed him with a smart answer; tricked him into thinking he was a well-adjusted, ordinary kid. But now he would forever be the kid who'd gotten into a punch-up before the first class on the first day, if he got to stay at all.
He padded into the waiting room, hoping those golden swirls would wrap around his legs and pull him away to anywhere but here. He prayed that no one else would be in the room, so he could soak alone in self-pity.
But he had no right to hope, as the day was unquestionably not his. Another boy was already sitting in the waiting room, feet up casually on the coffee table like punishment was something he wore like a badge or a souvenir. He had brown hair and his uniform was ruffled so that he looked like a wanderer or a cowboy. In his hand he held a scrunched-up red bandana.
"So, what are you in for?" The boy asked, twirling his bandana around his finger like he thought he was a bandit in an old western.
"I got into a fight," Spot said, flashing his challenging, hopelessly Brooklyn eyes. Spot's defenses were sharper then most. They blocked off his insecurities like sentries and a spiked door.
The boy's eyes widened respectfully. He got into fights occasionally, but only if there was an audience. It was more of a performance then a sincere call for blood. "Who with?" The boy asked, looking for entertainment. He talked to people like a salesman, the king of finesse with occasional bs.
Spot hadn't bothered to ask his name before he'd attempted to carve his fist into the side of his face. "Stocky, Italian-looking, just got a fresh purple ring around his eye?" Spot described.
Jack folded his arms behind his head. "Yeah," he said, "that'd be one of the Delancey brothers. I've gotten into a few fights with them myself." Spot was a little skeptical about this, but he wasn't about to challenge the first person to actually be nice to him since he'd entered this damn place. Besides, he was at the headmistress' office on the first day, so he must not be as clean-cut as he looked.
"What about you?" he asked, referring to how he'd ended up here instead of in class with the rest of the school population.
The boy held up the bandana. "Dress code violation. Apparently this means I'm in a gang or something." Spot nodded, trying not to betray the fact that that was probably the lamest possible reason for him to be there. Spot was a little irked by this boy. He probably had this perfect life and yet he played, with pride, at the idea of being some kind of renegade. And here Spot was playing at the perfect life and unable to escape the fact that he was lowly, criminal.
"You'd get your ass killed some places, wearing that," Spot observed. The boy shrugged, like those places were as distant as bible stories.
"Jack Kelly," he introduced himself, extending his hand. Spot took it and shook it.
"Spot Conlon," he said back. And Spot thought, that even if this guy was full of shit, he still came from a good place.
"Jack Kelly?" A voice called from the secretary's office. She said it like she was reading it off a cue card with messy handwriting. "Miss Meadowlark will see you now."
Jack stood. "Guess I'm up. It was nice to meet you. Good luck in there," he said, holding out his hand. They shook hands again.
"Yeah, you too," Spot said, trying to check the gratitude he felt toward this boy, who had been so casually nice when Spot felt so throat-clenching desperate.
Spot gazed around the waiting room, feeling more prepared to "face the music." It couldn't be so bad. He let his mind wander and he thought of the girl at the gates. She was probably sitting in class now. He could see her, towards the back. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and her knees spread apart the tiniest bit. She was chewing on a pencil. No, make that a pen; he didn't want a girl with wood shaving between her teeth. The window was behind her and the lazy Manhattan sun lay it's tired light in her hair. Her face was dreamy, she was thinking, thinking about him!
Thinking of her reminded Spot of Central Park. He'd only been there once, as a child, with his father before he'd gone. But he remembered the green grass littered with lovers and families and artists; and the trees over the pathways dodging the sunlight as they waved in the crisp fall wind. His mother had been there, too. And he would always remember that day; because it was the only day that held any proof that they had ever loved each other, his mother and his father. The proof was this: as they'd walked down the path, she had laughed and smiled. She'd playfully thrown leaves at him and told Spot to join in. His father growled and chased her, both of them smiling so big their smiles extended off their faces and into the air. He caught her and swung his arms around her and pulled her closer. That was the only proof. They hadn't even reached the Merry-go-round before the spell had broken. Spot's mother had shoved him toward the ride.
"Get on," she snarled at his protests. "This is what you wanted. You've been begging for months."
Spot clambered obediently onto a pony, not even taking the time to pick his favorite. And as the ride twirled and dipped and lifted, he craned his head and watched their faces fight and their voices yell. When the ride finally jerked to a stop, his father was gone. Spot's stomach was knotted and his head was dizzy. His mother took his hand and led him away.
"You alright sweetie? You look a little sick," she asked. As if making him feel better might make her feel better, too.
"The ponies," he lied. "The ponies made me sick." As they walked home through the park, he looked at all the lovers and artists and families littered across the grass and he wished that he could be there too. And the girl at the gates made him feel that maybe he could.
XXX
A/N: Wow, this story just got really sad! So much for fluff! Don't worry though, because it has to get worse before it gets better and it will get better, I promise! After all, Medda is the Headmistress!