Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise or any of its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only
Author's note: Sorry it's been taking me a while between updates, but I'm already late on a paper and really have to focus on it. Hopefully I'll have more time during the Christmas break and the beginning of next semester, and will be able to keep things coming. Thanks as usual, to my betas – especially for getting on my case and reminding me to do the important stuff first (and sorry, but this ain't it).
Chapter 2: Chaos
"Hurry up, Malcolm, we're gonna be late!" Malcolm watched in amusement as Trip bolted upright at the sound of the alarm and darted out into the hall towards the bathroom. A few seconds later the boy returned, walking backwards, to stare at Malcolm. "Um… what are you wearing?"
"We are going to school, correct?" Malcolm looked down at himself. Shirt, shoes, pants – it all seemed to be here. He'd showered, so that couldn't be it.
"Not with you dressed like that we aren't. Why did you bring those things anyway? You look like you're headed to the boardroom, not the classroom." Trip raised one eyebrow while lowering the other.
"I don't understand." He'd grabbed these clothes while he packed, and they were hardly a uniform. Just neat clothes for whatever might require neatness – like school.
"Trip!" Fiona's voice emanated through the floorboards. "Get your butt in gear, Mister. You are not going to be late again." From the way Trip mouthed the words in time with her speech, it was clear that Malcolm's presence had nothing to do with the other boy's tardiness. "And no more 'Monday Morning Flu.' The only reason for you not going is if you're dead."
"Well, it'd be a lot easier to get my butt in gear, Mom, if I wasn't having to stop and listen to you all the time," Trip hollered back. He rolled his eyes at Malcolm's look of shock. "Relax. We do this all the time." He leaned in the doorway and dropped his voice. "At least with you here – as company – she won't be on my case as much." Something flickered across Trip's features. "And maybe it'll help with some of the other stuff, too." He shook his head and returned to normal. "But back to the important thing… you show up wearing that, and you are going to get killed. Übergeek Chester – I'm sure you remember him – even he doesn't dress like that. I'll see what James has, and then you can change while I shower." His expression changed again: now he looked disgusted. "Yeah, a lot of stuff's been happening to me since I last saw you. I can't pull that 'no shower' shit anymore. Not and have people still talk to me, anyway. I'm telling you Malcolm, growing up is not the great thing they make it out to be. In fact, it stinks."
Actually, I think that might be you. Malcolm tried not to smile as Trip headed off down the hallway again. After all, didn't they say that it was a part of puberty? He winced as he heard a crash and some swearing. What was it Trip said about people making fun of his nickname? He had to admit, his friend did look more like a disjointed scarecrow than he had previously, especially with his pale hair sticking out every which way from his head, and his newly awkward movements, as though he had too many joints, and they were all trying to move in different directions at the same time.
Trip returned, rubbing his elbow and carrying some clothes. "Here. These might fit. I think you and James are still about the same size, and I know you brought some running shoes, so at least you're okay on that front. Later, we can see if there isn't some of my old stuff you can wear. If not, I'll tell Mom that you brought all the wrong things and see if we can't get you some basics."
"Actually, your mother thought I looked 'very nicely dressed,'" Malcolm said.
"Yeah, for a funeral. Parents never understand. You show up like that, and the funeral's going to be yours. Now if you'll excuse me, I do have to get into the shower before…"
"Trip!"
"…the queen of darkness starts up again."
Malcolm shook his head as Trip disappeared. He couldn't imagine saying those things about, let alone to, either of his parents. Even at camp, Trip hadn't been this disrespectful, though there had been an undercurrent of something there. Like some sort of power-struggle between the two of them, which appeared to have gotten worse. At least then Trip had seemed to have some respect for his mother. Now…
"Trip! Hurry up! Breakfast is ready, now! Move it, Mister!"
Trip came charging back into the room, dripping wet and wearing only a towel. He cast a quick, apologetic glance at Malcolm, then started rummaging in the dresser. "Well at least you've got the brains to be polite in front of company," he muttered. He paused for a moment and sighed, hanging his head. "It's going to be a bad day."
Malcolm nearly commented before he realized that Trip was talking to himself. And something in the way the boy said it, indicated that 'bad day' was a code for something else entirely. Uh oh. Maybe this wasn't the picture-perfect 'Happy American Family' after all.
You can't even keep up appearances for company, can you? Trip waited until Malcolm had gone before hitting the dresser in frustration. So much for 'genteel Southern manners.' It was all there: the tone of her voice, the repeated yelling. Today is a fight day. Oh well, nothing to do but deal with it. Like I always do. He found some clothes that still fit and pulled them on, and combed his hair into something that might have resembled order if he could count on it to stay that way for five minutes.
He descended the stairs to find Malcolm at the table, munching on some bran cereal and milk as though he liked it. Mom stood at the counter putting together four lunches instead of three. June Cleaver with a twist. The unintended pun might have been funny, were it not his own mother.
He stepped up beside her and spoke softly. "Can I talk to you in the other room for a minute?"
She laid down the knife and took a deep breath, like she was trying not to lose it. "You don't have another minute, Mister. You're going to be late."
He looked her straight in the eye, not wavering. "I'd rather not discuss this in front of Malcolm, would you?"
"Fine." Her eyes flashed as she snapped at him.
Definitely fight day. He waited until they were in the living room and closed the connecting door.
"Now, exactly how would my son like to control my life today?" No mistaking that sarcasm, best just to ignore it.
"All I would like is for you to be in your room when we get back. It's bad enough that James and Lizzie have to see you, but there's no reason to drag Malcolm into it too. I'll tell him you've got a migraine or something. I'll lie for you. But Malcolm… Malcolm's got good intentions, Mom. And sometimes he can be pretty naïve. Do you want Child Services in here? 'Cause they'll take one look, and we'll be in foster care before you can blink." And we'll be split up, and James and Lizzie need me to take care of them.
She opened her mouth to say something and he shook his head.
"I didn't lose your job for you, Mom, okay? Just…" He sighed. Maybe the job was an excuse, or maybe it was actually a half-truth for her. Maybe if she hadn't lost her job it would be different, but… "I'm just asking that you show some courtesy for our guest, that's all."
"Are you saying your friend will report me to Child Services?" Oh, yes, Mom was definitely in nasty-mode this morning.
"No… but he'd probably do something to help, and end up talking to the wrong person and they would call Child Services. So, just do us all a favour and stay out of sight, okay? That's all I'm asking." He'd given up asking for more than that, knew it wasn't possible. He'd even almost given up on 'maybe, someday.' But I know for sure that today's not that day. He had his hand on the door to the kitchen, before he turned back. "Oh, and Mom? His name's Malcolm. Try to remember that, okay?" If she could be sarcastic, then why the hell couldn't he be bitter?
He finished up the lunches himself – Mom was too busy in the living room muttering about 'ungrateful brats' or whatever her term for him was this morning. She had too many for him to keep track of, so he didn't bother trying. Instead, he completed her job, and collected James and Elizabeth, straightening up his sister's clothes – how she always got her shirt on backwards or inside out, he'd never know – and re-braiding her hair.
"Is…" Elizabeth looked up at him questioningly, wiggling a loose tooth with her tongue.
"Shh." He glanced over at Malcolm who watched, but thankfully wasn't asking any questions. Trip busied himself with tying her shoelaces – she hadn't quite got the hang of tight knots yet, either – and helping her on with her backpack. He wasn't sure what was more depressing: that Elizabeth needed to ask about her mother, or that she didn't need an answer.
As he herded everybody out the door and turned to lock it, he felt suddenly small and alone. He chewed on his lip and took his time over the lock, partly from his shaking hands, and partly because he couldn't see. I want my Mommy.
Malcolm stared around him, trying to keep up while Trip navigated easily through the overcrowded halls, trying to remember which turn led to where, and how to get from here, back to there.
"You can share a locker with me, 'till you can get one of your own." Trip seemed to have recovered from his earlier spell of whatever it was that had been bothering him. Malcolm knew better than to ask what it was – Trip would probably just lie and tell him it was nothing. "I've got us together for first period, English, Ms. Kelley's not that bad. I mean it's still boring as hell, but she's not as bad as some.
Malcolm caught the padd Trip flung at him. "Right. English. Ms. Kelley."
"We're doing poetry right now, which is really driving me out of my tree. I mean who cares what a metaphor is, or what the writer 'really means.' I mean, how is that supposed to help us in the real world? They ain't going to ask us what 'purple mountain's majesty' is all about, they're gonna ask us can we fix a fluid pump or add up a bunch of numbers or something. Not – y'know – like I want some sort of desk job where I gotta be adding up numbers or something. Now, she likes an alphabetic seating plan, but 'cause you're new, and you know me – I mean R and T would be close anyway, but there's Lisa Richardson and dumbass Brad Singer in the way, not to mention Chess, who'll prob'ly have a fit when he sees you – I can probably swing it so you sit next to me, so I can 'help' you with stuff."
Malcolm could hear the quotes embracing the word help, even without Trip using the classic gesture. "Okay." The noise was a little overwhelming, not to mention the immense crush of people – it seemed like there were too many people for the space.
"Yeah, it's a little overcrowded," Trip seemed to read his thoughts. "They're s'posed to be building a new one soon, but they haven't got around to it, yet. Prob'ly because there's so much protected areas around – y'know wetlands and so – that it's difficult to do a lot of new construction."
"Okay."
Trip grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder, before closing the locker door. "Relax, Mal. You'll be fine. I mean, you're practically a freakin' genius anyway… with half of this stuff you'll prob'ly be helping me." And odd shudder ran through him. "Imagine, my first A in English. The world might come to an end."
"It would help if we were to start you speaking English first." Malcolm jumped back as Trip threw a mock punch at him. Then he grinned too. Before last summer, he never would have imagined trading insults with somebody, or even holding a conversation that didn't run along the lines of 'leave me alone.' But, though they hadn't gotten along from the first, Trip had never treated him as weak because he was small, or deficient for being smart.
He followed Trip through the swarming labyrinth until they finally reached the right door. The noise only diminished slightly once they were inside the room: students chatted constantly with each other, or played games on their padds, not paying attention to the instructor at all. Few of them were in their seats, some even sat on the front of the desks, and one or two looked more than just a little bit friendly with each other. Trip made his way over to the instructor's desk and said something to her, then she looked up at Malcolm and smiled, nodding. She then stood up and walked over, Trip trailing behind.
"So you're Malcolm. Trip informs me that you've known each other previously."
Malcolm nodded, uncertain as to what to say.
"Well, you'll probably find that our curriculum is a little different than what you're used to, but Trip assures me that he'll assist you in any way he can. Do you have any questions at the moment?"
"No ma'am." He could see several of the other students watching him, including Chester Rodriguez. Do you remember me, too? Probably… even somebody as annoying as Chester couldn't be accustomed to glasses of milk in his face at breakfast. Well, that's one enemy to start out with. Of course, with Trip it was also one friend, which put him farther ahead than he normally was.
Trip led Malcolm over to a pair of desks, sitting himself in one and waving at the other. "We're doing Browning right now." He wrinkled his nose.
"Oh?" Malcolm settled himself into the seat. "Elizabeth, or Robert?"
Trip groaned. "You have got to be kidding me, Mal. You don't actually know…"
"'Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and eat the cheeses out of the vats…'" Malcolm couldn't help laughing a bit as Trip closed his eyes and shook his head. "You never heard the 'Pied Piper of Hamelin?' I thought you'd be interested. Theft, deceit, a tie in to the vampire legends…"
"Oh, come on." Trip obviously didn't believe him. "This guy was into all that lovey-dovey stuff… he never talked about vampires. And that's a kid's story, not a poem."
" 'And I must not omit to say, that in Transylvania there's a tribe, of alien people who ascribe, the outlandish ways and dress, on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen, out of some subterraneous prison…'" The look on Trip's face as Malcolm recited was priceless. Trip looked so disgusted, it was funny.
"You know, Mal, you're a sick and twisted individual. I told you that before, when you were talkin' about throwin' dead bodies at people, but this is even worse."
"'It's not the chopping off of people's heads, that sort of thing can happen during the heat of discussion,'" Malcolm quoted, "'It's the praying over the body afterwards that chills the blood.'"
Trip gave him an odd, almost wary look. "You've been praying over dead bodies?"
Malcolm started laughing. "No. It's from a book. But you were talking about throwing dead bodies – I just thought I'd point out that there are things that could be worse."
"Sick," Trip repeated. "Totally sick. I'm gonna have to start sleeping with a light on and one eye open. I see you even start with some weird rituals and chants…"
Before Malcolm could answer, a high tone sounded, and instantly students began migrating to their seats. "Like Midwich cuckoos," he murmured.
"Huh? Now you're just showing off, Malcolm."
"I would have thought that would definitely have been your type of story. A town suffers a mysterious blackout, then later all the women have these identical alien children…"
"Oh. Village of the Damned," Trip snorted. "It's not a very good movie… any of them, really."
Right. He'd forgotten. Trip could be very literate, if it involved movies and comic books of suspicious origin. But don't get him to actually read or write anything.
"Before we start…" Ms. Kelley had to stand and wait for some of the noise to die down. "Before we start, I'd like to introduce a new student to our class. Malcolm Reed is here visiting us from England…"
"Why is he in this class?" Malcolm couldn't believe anybody interrupted, even someone like Chester. "He's ten-years-old or something."
"They start school earlier in England, dumbass. And he's smarter than you, not that it takes much." Trip didn't take well to Chester's insulting Malcolm. Clearly relations between the two of them hadn't improved, no matter what Jonathan had hoped.
"Please." Ms. Kelley held up her hands, obviously used to battles between the pair. "You're correct… the curriculum in England is different than in North America, and students do begin schooling at an earlier age."
Now Malcolm caught it, something that had been working on him since Ms. Kelley first spoke. She had very little of the typical American sloppiness in her diction. She must have studied in England at sometime, herself.
"So, if everyone can welcome Malcolm to our class, then we will resume where we left off last week: looking at Robert Browning's 'Love in A Life.' Now I asked you what you thought he was referring to…"
As the teacher spoke, she walked down each of the aisles, picking up what must have been homework from each student. Drawing even with Trip's desk, she stopped.
"Trip… may I have your homework assignment, please?"
Trip shook his head, not even looking up.
"That is the third assignment this month, Trip. Homework is worth a full ten-percent of your grade…"
Trip stared at her blankly – Malcolm recognised the look. It wasn't that Trip didn't understand; he just simply was going to refuse to argue or even acknowledge the statement in any way. You just give up, because you might as well speak to the wall. It almost looked like Trip was trying to figure out where the voices were coming from, and how the words could possibly apply to him. Not even Jonathan had been able to win out against that look, and Malcolm knew that Trip actually liked Jonathan.
"Very well, Trip. If you would see me after class…"
That's not going to get you anywhere either. Whatever was bothering Trip, Malcolm knew that the older boy would never discuss it – certainly not with a teacher. Oh, Ms. Kelley could try, but Trip once went for two days without food out of sheer stubbornness alone. Malcolm had witnessed that. And it seemed like he'd only gotten worse over the intervening months. Whatever was bothering him had to be very bad indeed. He won't even tell me, and I'm his friend. He told me when he thought about killing himself… which means that this has to be even worse. What could be worse than suicidal depression, Malcolm had no idea, but he suddenly realised that there had to be something.
Trip gave Malcolm instructions on how to get to his next class – American History – then stood and waited obediently beside Ms. Kelley's desk.
"Are you having difficulty with the assignments, Trip? As I mentioned earlier, you have missed three of them in this month alone." Ms. Kelley closed the door, trapping the rest of the class outside. "Now I can understand missing one – especially this one, with the arrival of your friend – but three is hardly acceptable. Is there a problem at home?"
"Everything's fine, Ms. Kelley." No way was he telling her. Ms. Kelley was one of those do-gooders who thought that everything could be okay if you did the right things and talked to the right people. But the world doesn't work that way. He kept his face perfectly straight, not giving her a chance to guess at a bluff.
"Because I have been speaking with some of your other teachers and this seems to be a chronic problem for you. Mr. Allard says that you haven't handed in a single assignment this semester, and Mrs. Jenks says you fell asleep in her class last week. Not only that, but your attendance has been poor as well – you have been late for class more than eight times, and not one time have you had an excuse. I have spoken with your parents about this problem…"
"Yeah, they've told me about it." Let her think he didn't care… it wouldn't be too hard, and she'd give up quicker. What was it, in that story he'd found, The Dirty Dozen? The story itself had been way better than the movie, and more explicit, too. Les enfants perdues. The lost children. Let her think that he was one of those, too far fallen through the cracks for anyone to reach. After all, it's not like it's a lie.
"Trip, this is a serious problem. You are in danger of failing a number of your courses… perhaps you would like to speak to a guidance counsellor?"
Perhaps you would like to shove it up your ass and die? Yeah, that was the last thing he needed, some unqualified headshrinker telling him that nothing was as bad as it seemed. That's because it's worse. At least she hadn't commented on his clothes yet. The only person who seemed to have that one figured out was his dad.
And you don't fight it, because you know it's just one more thing we've gotta deal with. Just because Mom lost her job didn't mean things cost any less, but Lizzie and James were growing too, and they needed clothes and shoes and food… So he'd taken to returning all but one or two things each time Mom took him shopping, and doing his best to squeeze into what he could of the old stuff, and wearing what he could as much as possible. Charlie'd put his foot down about shoes though – said he wasn't going to have Trip limping around and doing permanent damage to his health by jamming his toes into something that didn't fit. They'd also clashed over food when Charlie discovered Trip stashing half his lunch back in the fridge so he could take it the next day instead of a new one. And now with Malcolm… well, Dad would just have to learn how to deal with Trip cutting back a little further. Which would still be easier than convincing Dad to leave her… Dad believed in the vows of 'till death do us part.' Even if it's mine.
No, that wasn't it, either… Dad was just too romantic to see the truth – that faith and hard work weren't going to be enough, that Mom wasn't going to get better, that nothing was going to get better. He certainly wasn't going to tell Ms. Kelley or any guidance counsellor that, or that the reason he'd fallen asleep in class was because he'd spent the night going over the household budget trying to figure out another way to help make ends meet without getting caught. I wish I looked older… then I could get a job myself. Dad hadn't looked so hot the next day either; he looked like he'd spent the night crying or something.
Finally, Ms. Kelley seemed to get the message because she just sighed. "All right, then." She scribbled him a note excusing him for being late for his next class and waved him out the door.
Maybe it's better if I do flunk out… or if I just quit. It shouldn't be too hard to fake up an ID…there's gotta be some place that'd hire me. But Dad would kill him if he did that. They'd already discussed it. Not the fake ID part, but the quitting school. Dad wouldn't hear of it.
"Trip, it's great that you can think for yourself." Dad had said, "But start thinking about yourself for a change. You need school. This will work itself out. But you are not dropping out." Trip had finally given in, realising that this was one case where his father was going to outstubborn him.
Stop it. Or you're gonna lose it, and people are going to start staring. Note in hand, he detoured quickly into the bathroom. He hid out in one of the stalls until the last straggler ran off to meet the last bell, then went out to the sinks and stared at himself in the mirror, daring his image to blink first. His stomach growled – pretty soon it'd start hurting. He turned on the water and cupped his hand underneath the flow, drinking until the grumbling quieted down. Most hunger pangs were about thirst… he'd heard that somewhere. And anyway, the whole 'breakfast, lunch and dinner' thing was a pretty recent development, evolutionarily speaking. The human body didn't need half the food in the modern diet – he'd be fine. Thankfully, Malcolm hadn't noticed him skipping breakfast… no need to worry about James and Elizabeth on that front, he did it so often now that they simply accepted it.
He debated skipping class altogether, and just meeting up with Malcolm for third period lunch, but decided against it. After all, Mrs. Jenks had apparently been bitching about him lately, even if she did have a way of making physics the most boring subject in the world. I can learn more from Henry Archer in a single letter than I can from you in a month. Not to mention the tedium of her in-lab experiments. I spent a portion of the summer working out practical ballistics… watching a ball rolling down a ramp just doesn't do it for me when it comes to inertia. Too bad he and Malcolm had never gotten a chance to finish their trebuchet – though, apparently, Jon had had kittens when he got a look at the materials and worked out the actual scale of it. I wish I would've been there for that. Apparently the camp staff hadn't been too impressed either – it had taken a lot of work on Dad's and Jon's part just to get them not to press charges.
Ah, what the hell. He changed his mind again; after all, he hadn't done his homework for that class either. And the last thing I need is another lecture.
He strolled down the hall in no particular hurry, knowing that he had immunity stuffed in his pocket. If anyone stopped and asked… well, Ms. Kelley did say he had permission to be late.
He climbed the stairs, bypassing even the top floor. The fact that the door to the roof access stairwell was locked didn't bother him in the least – in fact, it kept out the undesirables. Pulling his lockpicks from his pocket – Don't leave home without 'em – he quickly disabled the lock, and stepped through, closing the door behind him. The upper door was just as easy, and disabling the alarm took only seconds. Then he was on the roof, his own private thinking space. Nobody'd think to look for him up here, especially after he'd made sure everybody knew he was afraid of heights. But as long as I stay away from the edges, I'm okay… after all, even if I fall it's only a short way to the floor.
He settled himself on the warm roof, letting the balmy autumn sun creep into his bones. Some days he just felt so tense, so brittle, his joints aching like he was an old man, instead of barely old enough to face criminal charges. And he couldn't do anything about it but get warm from the outside in – anything else and he'd have to confess to a doctor, who'd probably wonder why he was under so much stress. But it's okay. I can deal with it.
If you could only see me now, Jon. He stretched out, using the thermal properties of the tar-based surfacing to his advantage. Jon had been on his case half the summer to drop some of the pressure he put on himself. What would Mr. Future Starfleet think of the situation now? You'd prob'ly pitch a fit, and then give me another one of those goddamn hugs. At least Jon didn't feed him fairy-tale crap about everything being okay. After all, Jon had some grounding in reality. Nice as Henry could be at a distance, he could be a bit of an ass up close. Nope, Jon knew better than to discuss impossible options, though best not to tell him anything about quitting school either. I don't think you'd buy it as eliminating a source of stress.
But it wouldn't be the end of everything. There's still some possibility. After all, didn't they say Thomas Edison flunked out of school? And all those professors who told Einstein that he couldn't do math… boy were they wrong. And what about that guy Gates, who dropped out of his first year of University – okay, so he finished high-school, but he still didn't do what he was 'supposed to.' And maybe he was a bit of a crook – Edison too, for that matter – but I can do that. After all, weren't he and Malcolm perpetrating a major fraud this very second? Sometimes the ends can justify the means. In fact, there wouldn't even be an America if people hadn't been willing to break the rules. And it didn't have to be forever, just until Lizzie and James were okay, then he could finish up, and upgrade what he needed to. 'Cause they don't need to suffer, and half the problem is due to me, anyway. Really, when you added up all the damage he'd done over the years – to the carpets, to the walls, to the driveway, to furniture… the family must have spent a ton on repairs and replacements. Maybe we'd be in better shape if I wasn't so careless.
He sighed, and stared up at the sun, letting it dry his tears before they had a chance to fall. None of it really mattered anyway, all any potential employer had to do was look at this kid's face of his and start laughing as they sent him away. He supposed he could start his own business… something they let kids do, like yard work or something. But opportunities would be limited, because most people probably wouldn't buy a line like 'home schooled' to explain his willingness to work in the day-time.
Sometimes I wish… No, he couldn't let himself start thinking that again. Because Lizzie and James needed him now, more than ever. They needed him sane and stable, not some screwed-up nervous wreck. I owe them that, at least. They're too little to deal with any of this. And with Malcolm here… well, that made things more complicated. At least James and Lizzie knew, but he could hardly ask them to run interference. And he'd been honest with his mother: Malcolm did always have the best intentions, what he didn't have was experience. Your dad might be a son-of-a-bitch, but…
Trip sat up and pulled out his padd. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted an earphone and slipped it in, then connected it to the padd. Starting up a media file, he began a sketch with the stylus – of nothing, really. Automatic drawing. Apparently people did stuff like this years ago, thinking it was communication from the dead or something, though they tended to write, as though it would make the message clearer. Except writing was so… limiting. Some things couldn't be put into words, some messages were impossible to transcribe. He and Mr. Shigai had talked about that last week, after their game of Go – Mr. Hu had been sick and unable to make it that day, so there had been more time for talking.
"Ah, but writing is communication from the dead. All of the memorable people in history either wrote things, or had them written down. Oral history is nearly dead, and no one believes it anymore. Which is a shame: stories often tell us more than facts." Mr. Shigai hadn't been trying to be cryptic – Trip couldn't believe some people still held that stereotype – but he always said things in a way that made Trip have to think; unlike a lot of people, Mr. Hu and Mr. Shigai assumed that he could think. They were the only two adults Trip felt he could really talk to … but he couldn't talk to them about his current problem, either. 'Cause they'd try to help too… and nobody can.
A soft tone sounded in his ear, alerting him to the time. He saved his drawing file and stood up, stretching his neck a little to ease the tension. Two minutes to get down and meet Malcolm. He retraced his steps, resetting the alarm and locking the doors behind him. Time alone helped, let him get his mind back together. Or maybe it was the sunshine – maybe it did have magical properties like ancient people thought.
He made it down to Malcolm's class, just as the bell rang to dismiss them. He snagged Malcolm's sleeve before Malcolm could get lost in the crush. "How'd it go?"
"Interesting." Malcolm sounded like he actually was interested in American History. "The instructor is dealing with the Rebellion at the moment…"
"The Rebellion…"
"The Revolution as everybody seems to call it." Malcolm smiled slyly. "When you made the colossal mistake…"
"We won that war, and we became a freakin' superpower. How can you call that a mistake?" Trip couldn't help smiling a little, himself. That explained Malcolm's interest immediately: if it had to do with a war, Malcolm wanted to know about it. "By the way, has anyone ever warned you about your obsession with violence?"
"I am not obsessed with violence," Malcolm protested.
"Mal…"
"I am obsessed with mass violence." The smile lost any attempt at being sly, and gave way to a slight case of the giggles. "Now, according to the schedule you gave me, we're supposed to have lunch?"
"Yeah." Trip stopped at his locker and opened it without even paying attention to the lock. "But we're not going to the caf, because it stinks. I've got a better idea." He retrieved the lunches and handed Malcolm one. "Follow me." He led the way back to the roof; Malcolm knew all about his skill as a lock-breaker.
"Isn't this against the rules?" Nevertheless, Malcolm sat down cross-legged on the roof and opened the thermal sack that contained his lunch. "What are we having?"
"Well, yours is tuna fish… it's a good thing I finished them up, because didn't you say something about being allergic to grapes or something?"
Malcolm nodded. "And pineapple. And a whole bunch of other things. Why is it that allergies are always to something you love to eat? It's just not fair."
"I'm not." Trip took a small bite of his sandwich. That was another trick: if you ate with small bites and slowly, you didn't notice that you weren't eating as much. "I don't like spiders at all, let alone eating them."
"People eat ants," Malcolm shrugged.
Trip set his sandwich down on his knee. "Well, thank you very much, Mal… I just needed to hear that while I'm having lunch." He took a large swallow of water – at least this was easier to get away with. Nobody got mad at you for drinking water instead of soda. They just congratulated you for being healthy and didn't stop to think that water was cheaper, especially when it wasn't your own. But there was no rule specifically stating that he couldn't refill the bottle at school – not that anybody paid attention, either.
He saw Malcolm's gaze rest on the sandwich, and picked it up again. He took another couple of bites before he re-wrapped it and put it back in the sack.
"Is that one of…"
Trip snorted. "Malcolm, do you really expect me to eat a four day old sandwich? How much of a masochist do you think I am?" Inwardly, he cursed. Trust Malcolm to notice that Trip had one of the leftovers – but he couldn't bring himself to let them go to waste. Mom had spent way too much on food for that poker night. They couldn't afford to just throw it out.
Malcolm stared at him oddly. "Is everything okay, Trip?"
"Fine. Great. Couldn't be better." He tried to think of how to convince his friend to believe the lie.
"Because you didn't look to happy when you talked to your mother this morning, and you're acting kind of tense now." Yeah, trust Malcolm all right. The guy could read more into a single act than any ten-year-old going, or any thirty year old for that matter.
"Well, you heard Ms. Kelley. It's just the same-ol', same-ol'. They keep telling me I'm flunking out, shit like that. And I'm not any more popular than I used to be, so… same-ol', same-ol'," he repeated. After all, that was part of it, wasn't it? Best way to tell a lie isn't to lie.
"Oh. Well, if there's anything I can help you with…"
Trip felt a sudden rush of guilt, and smiled to cover it. "Thanks, Mal… if something comes up where you can…" Thing is, I can't mix you up with this… it's bad enough for enough people already.
"Well… I might be able to help you with your English class homework. What she assigned today didn't seem all that difficult."
"That would be great, Mal." Trip did let his relief show. So Malcolm was going to buy the line about school after all. And the truth was, getting Malcolm's help on homework would make things a lot easier. "I mean, don't let it get in the way of your own stuff or anything… I mean being friends with me is going to make it rough enough for you with some of the teachers… make sure you take care of yourself first."
Malcolm nodded. "Okay."
No, not okay. Not okay in the least. Trip was way too eager to accept Malcolm's offer of help. And that was one of the sandwiches he'd offered the night Malcolm showed up, Malcolm was sure of it. What's going on, that you can't tell me? Trip had never been heavy, but even his increased height couldn't explain the frailty of his appearance. Trip might have been complaining about spots on his face, but out here in the sunlight, Malcolm could see the lines and dark circles imprinting themselves below the other boy's eyes. And that discussion with his mother this morning seemed more than a little odd, even for someone as protective as Trip. I don't believe for a moment that you took over making those lunches because you thought your mother would do it the wrong way.
After all, I'm ten… I'm not stupid. And I've got a sister, too, and I don't look after her like you do yours. Especially not by taking over from his parents. He couldn't imagine pulling his mother or father aside for a 'conversation' like Trip had. And he recognised other signs too – Trip's blatant disregard for the most basic of rules, or the way he treated adults, like Ms. Kelley for example. You were like that when I first met you. Trip used to clash over the stupidest of things – like eating breakfast or doing laundry – just to keep people from figuring out how badly he was hurting. Maybe I should call Jonathan. He dismissed the idea as soon as he had it. For one thing, Jonathan probably didn't know that Malcolm was even in the United States, and the more people who got involved, the greater the likelihood that their scheme would fall apart. For another one, if the problem were one that Trip would discuss with Jonathan, then he probably already had.
He didn't say anything though – the last thing he needed was Trip worrying about him. If you think I'm worried, then you'll become too concerned about that. Trip didn't like it when other people worried about him; he seemed to think that he wasn't worth worrying about. Instead, he smiled. "Well… if I understand correctly, tomorrow's assignment is to pick out a poem – any poem – and analyse its lyrics."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." The trick worked, because Trip's eyes narrowed and he stared at Malcolm. "Did you say lyrics? That's songs… not poems."
"Actually… songs are poems. Most of the original poems were sung, because most people couldn't read." He couldn't believe that Trip hadn't made that connection.
"Okay…" Trip seemed to be considering. "That works, I guess. She said anything?"
Malcolm nodded. "She mentioned that the point of the exercise was to get us used to looking at rhyme and meter and meaning…"
Trip grinned suddenly. "You know… this might actually be doable. What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know. One of Shakespeare's sonnets maybe, or something by Dylan Thomas…" He found himself half afraid to ask what Trip might be considering.
"Malcolm… you're going to take an opportunity like this and squander it on something like that?" Trip shook his head. "When a teacher hands you this kind of a gift, you exploit it for all it's worth. Hmn… the question now, is what to choose from."
"Well… I could do something by The Clash, I suppose… especially if I bring in some historical context…" He knew what was coming, but couldn't resist the chance to needle Trip.
"Malcolm. This is not about historical context."
Malcolm widened his eyes, trying to go for a shocked look. "You… you mean I can't use the song most commonly listened to by British fighter pilots during flyovers of Iran during the 1980's?"
"The what?" Sometimes Trip could be way too easily manipulated.
"I never said The Clash was a nice band. They were one of the original British Punk Rock bands – very anti-social for the time. Though, really, most of the best poetry is… it's a challenge of standards and a call for a new way of thinking." The advantage to being extremely unpopular is that it leaves you lots of time to read. Especially since most bullies were intimidated by the thought of libraries. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of knowledge and ideas – maybe they were afraid that their brains would get crushed.
"Like I said, Mal, you are way too obsessed with violence. Mass violence. Which reminds me, Dad definitely says no building explosives in the back yard."
"I only did that once," Malcolm protested. "It was rather more… ballistic than I expected."
"So you said." Trip seemed to have forgotten his own interest in making gunpowder; maybe he'd figured out how. "Besides… we've got James and Lizzie around, and they might get hurt."
"Okay." He suddenly wondered which one of them was normal. After all, he didn't worry that much about Madeline… it wasn't that they didn't get along, but they didn't spend much time together. But Trip obsessed over his siblings… that couldn't be healthy either. That still doesn't explain your eating habits. He had a funny feeling that even if Trip hadn't been running late, the older boy wouldn't have eaten breakfast. Not this again. It would explain the gauntness, though. The question was: who was Trip mad at now?
The bell sounded and Trip stood up, draining the last of his water. "Come on. At least this class is interesting."
"Art?" Malcolm had been surprised when Trip suggested it originally – it didn't seem to fit with the teenager's personality.
"Yeah. It's…" Trip's face quirked into an odd expression – half smile, half sadness. "… relaxing. You don't have to think along pre-programmed lines, they just sort of let you go with the flow. Mr. K's cool that way."
"Mr. K." The thought of calling a teacher by his initial seemed almost too casual, even for Americans.
"Kinehan," Trip supplied. "He's great. I mean, he really encourages us to be creative and do what comes to mind. He says some of the greatest thinkers in the world – like Einstein and DaVinci – managed to come up with their theories because they exercised both sides of their brains. I mean, everybody hears about the Mona Lisa… but DaVinci was an amazing engineer, too… at least conceptually. And Einstein… well, everybody says that warp drive proves that Einstein was wrong… but there's spots in his work where he makes allowances for possibilities like that. Like Relativity… it applies to normal space, and we can't beat lightspeed in normal space. But people'd just rather trample all over something and say that the old guys were wrong… they don't want to look and see that those guys might've still been right." Trip sounded almost defensive, like an attack on Einstein was a personal attack on Charles Tucker III.
"Father says that too." Odd to see a similarity between Stuart and Trip, but there it was. "He says that modern medicine has forgotten that insects can be useful." Malcolm shuddered. "Still, I think I'd like modern medicine instead of leeches and maggots."
"Um… yeah." Trip looked absolutely terrified. "I'd rather have surgery without anaesthesia than someone stickin' bugs in my system."
"You make it sound like you're a computer." Malcolm couldn't resist the opening. Computer… bugs…
Trip's expression flickered. "Sometimes I wish I was." He spoke softly, but Malcolm managed to make out the words.
Malcolm didn't ask for clarification, sensing that this was an uncleared combat zone for Trip. Too many mines still there… and I don't know where they're buried yet. The last thing he wanted was for Trip to blow up – he wanted to be able to help, not do more damage.
Partway through the art class, he suddenly saw it. He was still trying to figure out what to draw for the 'paper and pencil' assignment they'd been given when his eye fell on Trip's desk. Trip was buried in his work and didn't notice Malcolm staring, but he couldn't help it. He really is good. Even with the simple tools of paper and graphite, Trip's drawing almost had an element of life. Malcolm could clearly see the three dimensions of the picture even through the distortions of perspective. What struck him the most though was the near perfect split between what Mr. Kinehan had referred to as 'space and negative space.' He almost sensed things living in the dark portions of the drawing, but what chilled him was the almost complete absence of any kind of emotion to the piece. He blinked, and it changed – now it looked like something else. What had originally been a picture of – well, Trip – it morphed into what appeared to be a half-decomposed skull, the main feature of which was a pair of flat-dead eyes. Computer eyes. He blinked again, and the poker face returned, a perfectly normal teenage boy.
Uh, oh. He wondered if anyone else would notice – if they'd see the dual image, or just the first one to present itself. But they must still feel disturbed. He half-hoped that somebody would see it, and would ask. Of course, Trip would probably just dismiss their concerns and convince them it was nothing… weren't teenage boys supposed to be morbid? Wasn't it a form of rebellion?
But I can send a copy to Jonathan, if I can get a hold of it. I can tell him what I think, and he knows better to believe that it's nothing. Trip might be able to fool school counsellors, teachers, and even his own parents, but Malcolm doubted that the other boy would be able to fool a witness. Jonathan's seen you in a bad state. He knows it's not normal rebellion. And maybe Jonathan could get through to Trip where no one else could. He'd done it before. Maybe he could help Trip, or get Trip the help he needed.
I need to get a copy of that picture. In the meantime he had to figure out something to draw, himself. I wish I had more guidelines. And not just for this drawing, either.