Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise, or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's note: Given the sketchiness of data regarding Trip's family, I've had to make up a few details. Also… (x) equals a change in time, but not perspective. Thank you to gaianarchy, kate98 and silvershadowfire, my wonderful and patient betas. They are the ones who make me look good, I could not do this on my own. And sorry about the wait… it's been a busy year, and unfortunately creativity sometimes comes and goes.
Chapter 3: Stress Fractures
"Hey, guys… why don't you run upstairs and get changed?" Trip herded James and Elizabeth into the house, taking Elizabeth's backpack from her and hanging it up on the coat-rack. He picked up James' from where it had been dropped and put it away too. Then he tapped Malcolm on the shoulder and gestured at the kitchen as his siblings took off at a run. "Go on, help yourself to something to eat, I'll be right back." He hoped Malcolm would take him up on it, because there was something he needed to check on.
"Okay." Malcolm didn't argue and it was all Trip could do to hide his relief.
Because I don't need an audience for this. He climbed the stairs more slowly than his brother and sister, though they'd been fairly quiet themselves. They've learned too quickly. They shouldn't have learned anything at all. He moved almost silently to his parents' bedroom and tried the door. The knob turned easily under his hand, and he pushed the door open carefully.
Oh God. He could smell it, even from the doorway. He scanned the room quickly and found her, on the floor beside the bed. You obviously didn't take too well to our discussion this morning. He hadn't expected anything else, though; sometimes he swore half of this was out of spite.
He hauled her up off the floor – nothing graceful, he wasn't that strong – and half dropped her, half dragged her onto the bed. After covering her with a blanket, he turned to the business of cleaning up: recapping the bottle and using a towel from his parent's bathroom to mop up the mess where she spilled the glass, before scrubbing the floor with another towel and some cleaner to hide the smell. She was snoring pretty good… it didn't seem like she was going to throw up. That was what really scared him – he'd found out that when people died from drinking it was usually from throwing up, then breathing it in, and drowning. As many fights as they found themselves in, he didn't want her to die. You're my mom. He tried not to start crying, he was too busy to start crying. James and Elizabeth needed their snacks. He might be able to trust Malcolm with a knife and a stove, but James was still iffy. And he had to get the housework done because Dad would have enough on his hands when he got home.
Yeah, when he gets home. Dad was doing a lot of overtime lately, and Trip didn't kid himself. I've got a good sense of smell, Dad – you think I don't notice? It had only been these last couple of days that Trip noticed the problem, but it was just one more thing out of all the little things Dad did to ignore or avoid the situation. Leaving me to take care of it. Leaving me to lie to James and Elizabeth about why you're not coming home. Leaving me to pretend that everything's okay. Leaving me to do your job. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his hands from shaking. I don't have time for this… I'll have a nervous breakdown when I'm dead.
He checked once more to make sure his mother was okay, then left, closing the door quietly behind him. When he got back downstairs, he found James and Elizabeth telling Malcolm how to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Trip waited at the door to the kitchen, listening as they gave him contradictory instructions for a job he probably knew better than they did.
He smiled a little. This was what family was supposed to be, wasn't it? People looking after each other? Too bad it was just the kids, and the adults didn't seem capable of taking part. He felt a twinge of guilt – Malcolm was a guest, he shouldn't be doing this sort of thing – but at the same time, it was good to have help.
"Hey guys." James and Elizabeth looked at him, with a question, and he nodded. "Yeah, Mom's got a headache again. She's lying down for awhile." They'd accept the lie – they wouldn't believe it, but they'd accept it – and hopefully Malcolm would buy it and not ask questions. He peered at the sandwiches. "Looks good." He turned to his brother and sister and narrowed his eyes. "Hands?"
Obediently, they held their hands up for inspection. Satisfied that they were clean enough, he nodded at the table. "Okay, looks like you've got things under control here, Mal. I've got some other stuff to take care of… you don't mind, do you?"
Malcolm shook his head.
"Great," Trip grinned. "Now you two behave yourselves. Listen to Malcolm, okay?" He watched as James and Elizabeth took their places at the table. "And remember, don't chew with your mouth open, and don't talk with your mouth full. Especially you, Lizzie." He shook a mock-warning finger at his sister. "Conversation can wait until you swallow. After all, Malcolm is a guest – there's no need to gross him out."
He left them in Malcolm's care again and headed to the back of the house. In the utility room he assembled his cleaning supplies – dustcloths, furniture polish and glass cleaner, things he could never leave unwatched around his siblings – and grabbed the small vacuum cleaners as well. In the living room, he set the automatic vacuum to work on the floor before going to work with the hand-held one on the furniture. Dad expected the house to stay neat, and if Mom wasn't going to do the job… Somebody has to. Partway through, he sensed somebody watching, and turned to see Malcolm standing in the doorway.
"Can I help?" Malcolm lifted his feet as the auto-vac sped by, sucking up any dirt that might have invaded since yesterday.
"Malcolm, you're a guest." Trip checked to see if there were any spots on the cabinet front he was polishing. "It's bad enough I've got you fixing your own food. You don't need to go diving into the housework, too."
"It's okay. I'm used to doing chores."
"It's fine," Trip lied. "I've pretty much got this down to a science anyway."
That's why I'm worried. Trip looked a little too efficient at what he was doing. Somehow this seemed worse than when he was back at camp, and that had been disturbing too. There's a difference between chores and this. Even Father doesn't expect me to clean the entire house. Keep his room neat and do his laundry – whether at home or at school it was the same thing – and a few other things once and a while, but the level that Trip seemed to be going to was frightening. As soon as the older boy finished with the living room, which now looked like a showpiece, he moved into the hall.
"If you really want to do me a favour, you can make sure James and Lizzie wash up after they've eaten and before they go out to play." Trip unfolded a small stepladder he'd included in his cleaning materials and set it up so he could reach the top windows. "And keep an eye on them – they know they're not supposed to go out in the street, but sometimes Lizzie gets excited and forgets."
"Okay." And when were you planning to do your homework? No wonder Trip was failing school, if this was his routine. It was amazing he even had the energy to go to school every day.
I doubt you'd be surprised that I was warned about you. Fifth period Spanish, to be precise. Not that Trip had failed Spanish, but the instructor had muttered something that Malcolm probably hadn't been meant to hear. Since it was introductory Spanish, the man probably hadn't expected Malcolm to understand it either. But Spanish is close enough to Portuguese for me to get the basic meaning. Not that Malcolm earned himself any better a reputation by using unaccented Portuguese to comment on the man's failings as an educator. But it's better than staying quiet. He learned that one at camp too. The memory of Trip's reaction when Jonathan gave them lines made him smile. Then he stopped, halfway through ushering Trip's siblings out the door. That was important, too. It fit somehow with Trip failing school – he knew it.
I'll have to look into that. Trip had been truly appalled at the possibility of writing lines, and it couldn't have been the simple drudgery of the task. After all, housework isn't all that exciting, but he does that. Oh well, it was just one more item to add to the list of things to ask Jonathan. How he could ask him, Malcolm still wasn't sure, but he knew he'd definitely have to ask.
He did as Trip requested, working on his English homework while watching the other two play. He didn't feel like joining them, even though he was closer to their age. He was the same age as James, but that was only chronologically. I've never been much for playing, anyway. That had been one of the reasons he'd found himself becoming friends with Trip: Trip wasn't much of a kid, either. We're both strange.
He'd finished the English assignment and was halfway through the Spanish one when the sounds of cleaning finally stopped. He expected Trip to join him, and was slightly surprised when he didn't. Instead, there was a ten-minute lull before he sensed someone looming over him.
"You know when I said 'watch' I didn't mean you had to just sit here." Trip dropped down on the step beside him.
Malcolm shrugged. "That's okay. It's given me some time to do my homework. Have you decided what you want to do for yours, yet?"
"I dunno." Trip kept his eyes fixed on his brother and sister. "I don't really care, anyway. It's just a stupid English assignment."
"Didn't your teacher say that you've missed three already?"
"It's only ten percent of the mark." Trip pulled up a long blade of grass that reached up beside the step. He started shredding the narrow leaf, not even looking at what he was doing. "It's not that big a deal."
"I could help you."
"I think they call that 'plagiarism,' Mal." Trip began rolling the pieces of grass into little balls.
"I said 'help you,' not 'do it for you.'" That was cause for concern, too. Trip tended to want to do things for himself, not get other people to do them.
"Well, that's the only way it'd get done. Because I'm not doing it." He seemed to have forgotten his earlier interest. Apparently, even the opportunity to upset his teacher wasn't tempting anymore.
"I thought you said you liked Ms. Kelley." Malcolm added another item to his list. Won't even torment adults anymore. If anything would get Jonathan's attention, that would.
"What's that got to do with it?" Trip began flicking the balls of grass out towards the lawn. "Besides, that was before she got all busy-body nosy on me. And I though Jon wanted to be a social worker. Like it's any of her goddamn business what my 'home-life' is like."
Malcolm kept silent. If Trip realised what he'd just said, he'd get even more upset.
"Besides. There's nothing wrong. I just don't like doing homework, that's all."
"And your mother is sick." Something about that didn't quite ring true, but he wasn't going to call Trip on it. Sometimes the best way to find things out was to pretend that you didn't have a clue.
"Yeah. She gets migraines, same as me. That's why we've gotta keep it down." Except that he hadn't been 'keeping it down,' as he cleaned the house. Another lie, but Malcolm had no idea what it was meant to cover. And migraines didn't last all day either. Even Trip's had been only about an hour or so at worst. Nor did they occur daily, as far as he knew, so that still didn't explain why Trip did all the housework, and not his mother. Even if she worked part-time, surely she had time to do some of it. And Trip clearly did the housework a lot – that was the only way to explain his proficiency.
"Hey, are you okay with casserole? I'm sorry I forgot to ask… but I just wanted to get it in the oven so it'd be done in time. I could make you something else if that's a problem." Out of grass to throw, Trip drew his feet up onto the edge of the step he was sitting on and rested his chin on his knees, crossing one arm in front of his legs and the other one underneath his knees and grasping his elbows. It was an odd position, but one Malcolm had learned he favoured.
"What's in it?" If it wouldn't kill him, Malcolm wasn't going to argue. I don't want you going through extra work for me. You do enough as it is.
"Just the basics. Meat, carrots, peas and some green beans. And potatoes."
"That should be alright." And it couldn't be that bad… he'd survived eating institutional meals for most of his life.
"I'll probably do up chilli come the weekend. It takes more time to put together. You okay with spicy food?"
"Is it spicier than a vindaloo?" Why was it that Americans assumed that Britons only ate bland foods? Do you think you have the world's only supply of chilli peppers? Besides, the Empire once covered most of the Earth. You can find almost any kind of regional dish somewhere in England. Did they think that there were tea plantations along the coast of Dartmouth or something? It wasn't that long ago, historically speaking, that Hong Kong was still one of the colonies. Or India, for that matter. Maybe historically to Americans – but to them, life didn't start until1773.
"I don't know… what is that?" Trip turned his head to look at him, a worried look on his face.
"If you don't know, then probably not," Malcolm smiled. It felt good being able to outdo Trip. After all, the older boy was a better athlete and artist and chess player. And yet he hates most of it. Trip was amazing at baseball, but it had taken a fight to get him to play. Jonathan had had to make it a punishment. And he refused outright to play chess – the only time he had, had been to prove that he didn't need to learn. So when I know something that you don't know… of course it was also great that Trip didn't treat knowledge from outside his own experience as a crime.
"Must be pretty hot, then," Trip decided. "So… what did you think of your first day of school?"
"Not too bad." Malcolm finished the Spanish homework and saved it. "It's nice not having to wear a uniform."
"Yeah, military school must suck like that."
Actually, that's not the reason. "Most schools have a uniform code, not just military ones."
"Malcolm, this is the twenty-second century. Don't tell me they still make you wear a uniform just to go to school." Trip sounded more than a little sceptical.
"We actually take our education seriously – or at least the educators do. And my father insists on a proper, formal education."
"Yeah, well my dad'll just be happy if I don't drop out," Trip muttered.
Drop out? This was worse than he thought. A few months ago, Trip had been aiming for Starfleet, now he was talking about quitting entirely. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Do what?" Trip suddenly looked startled.
"Drop out of school." Inwardly, Malcolm cursed. Hadn't he decided that the best course of action was to stay quiet and not draw Trip's attention to his move into unguarded conversation?
"Don't be ridiculous, Malcolm. Nobody's dropping out of school. That would just be stupid." Trip stood up suddenly, brushing off his jeans. "I gotta go check on dinner." He headed into the house before Malcolm could say anything else.
Brilliant. Now he's going to be even more tense, because he's going to worry about what he might say around you. Malcolm lowered his own head to his knees, but he didn't cry. He didn't cry anymore, hadn't since the summer. He felt like crying though, because Trip clearly was on the edge again. Then he remembered something. That could work.
He looked up. "Excuse me, but would you two mind coming in for a moment?" Trip probably didn't want them out here without supervision, but he didn't want to leave Trip without supervision.
Fortunately, they didn't argue – they were beginning to accept him as their brother's surrogate. Instead, they dropped their toys and headed inside without a word. Then Malcolm went to the kitchen and began a search of the cupboards until he found the dishes. Without saying anything he began taking down the plates to set the table.
"What are you doing?" Trip came over to stop him. "You're a guest, Malcolm."
"I thought you said I was your brother," Malcolm countered. "You said we were blood-brothers, and that made us family." The ritual had been Trip's idea, surely he wasn't going to try to get out of it.
Trip scowled. "That still doesn't mean you have to work. You're ten. You're too young. There are laws against that."
"You just turned thirteen," Malcolm countered.
"That's still older than you." Trip took the plates away and headed for the dining room.
"I didn't think that mattered to you." Malcolm took advantage of Trip's absence to grab the silverware. He then followed Trip and started laying out the places.
"Malcolm, you don't have to do this."
"Why not? You do." As planned, his words stopped Trip dead.
"Malcolm…" This time it came out as a warning.
"Don't try to tell me that you do a normal amount of chores for an American family." Not if he remembered conversations overheard at camp correctly.
Trip slammed one of the plates down with more force than necessary. "Malcolm. I'm fine. There is nothing for you to worry about."
Well, I'm worried anyway. He shut up though, knowing that arguing with Trip would only make it worse. Besides, if I don't worry about you, who will? Jonathan maybe… if Malcolm could somehow get hold of him without giving away their conspiracy. As soon as I figure out how, I will.
Damnit. Trip clamped his jaw shut, and finished setting the table, trying to avoid looking at Malcolm. That was just fucking brilliant. First you open your big mouth and tell him that you've considered dropping out of school, and then you gotta go jumping down his throat. Getting mad wouldn't make Malcolm go away. Even if other people bought the denials just so they wouldn't have to deal with him, Malcolm had more than once proved his ability to be a pest. He was worse than Elizabeth sometimes. And that was a dirty trick, bringing up the whole blood-brothers thing.
But there's nothing for you to worry about, Malcolm. Malcolm had enough worries as it was – he didn't need to add Tucker issues to his list. You didn't sign up for that shit. It's my problem. I'll deal with it. Besides, Malcolm was the fragile, sensitive type. He couldn't deal with this level of hassle. Malcolm was an idealist. Trip wished he could still be that way.
And you're a way better person, too. He never would have stepped in like Malcolm did that first night back at camp. You were getting away scot-free, and I was the guy gonna get nailed. All you did was break curfew… I was the one who did a Break and Enter. Malcolm was the guy who stood up to Jonathan too, when Jonathan was being too one-sided. Malcolm had guts.
I can't even stand up to my mother, and she can't even stand up. Nope, Malcolm was definitely a good person, and you didn't wish bad things on good people.
Maybe that was what this was: payback for all the things he'd done, some sort of universal punishment or something. But why have you got to punish James and Lizzie, too? He went to get the glasses – the only way he could stop Malcolm from doing the whole job was to do it first – and caught a glimpse of himself in the polished surface of the refrigerator. What looked back at him wasn't at all pretty: a mess of spots and sunken hollows. No wonder girls won't talk to you. Girls liked good-looking guys, and he was not one of those. And the prize for ugliest man in the universe goes to… It wasn't fair, either. People kept saying what a good-looking family he came from, and he looked like something out of that Bradbury novel, the one they made into that movie. 'Something Wicked This Way Comes' all right… anyone'd agree with that. Not one of the kids either, but someone who'd ridden that merry-go-round a few too many times.
The front door opened, distracting him from his thoughts. Dad's home. Amazing. It looked like Malcolm's presence could work temporary miracles. Why else would Dad have broken his new routine to show up for dinner? Good thing I set him a place. That had been more to pretend to be surprised when Dad didn't show up rather than any real expectation of his appearance.
He heard his dad thanking Malcolm for helping, and involuntarily winced. Sure, Dad. But it means nothing when I do it. He squelched the thought. Of course Malcolm deserved to be thanked. And I'm part of this family. It's my job to help out. You didn't need thanks for just doing your job. You just did it, in return for… well, in return for family and a house, even if the family was fucked up and the house a bitch to clean. Especially if you didn't stay on top of it every day.
Charlie came into the kitchen and grabbed something to drink from the refrigerator, not even bothering to look at what it was. "Where's your mother?"
"Upstairs." Trip pulled six glasses out of the cupboard, trying to juggle them into his arms. "Sleeping."
"You're going to break those." Charlie headed out again, and Trip swore silently.
"Don't offer to help or anything," Trip muttered. Yeah, 'fucked up' was a good way to put it all right. When the ten-year-old houseguest was more concerned for people's welfare than anyone actually in the family, 'fucked up' was about the only thing that could describe it. He managed to get the glasses to the table in one piece, defying his father's predictions once again. But then again, you have no idea how good I am at this, anyway.
Malcolm glanced up from laying a knife and fork beside one of the plates, but said nothing.
No, I'm not okay. But I'm not burdening you with this shit. If Malcolm wanted to bring up the brothers thing, then fine. I don't make James deal with it either. So there. He couldn't win an argument with Malcolm on the subject, so they just wouldn't argue about it.
"After dinner could you give me some help with that art project?" Malcolm's question sounded like it was meant to cover something else, but… maybe I'm just being paranoid. Malcolm had seemed a little out of his depth in art class.
"Sure," Trip agreed, cautiously. "If you don't like the class, I'm sure we can arrange to switch you into something else. I mean, now that they think you're supposed to be here and all, it shouldn't be a problem.
"That's okay. We probably shouldn't cause too much fuss – just in case someone does check records. I just need some clarification on some of the instructions."
"All right. After dinner, then." At least if he was helping Malcolm, he wouldn't have to worry about his own assignments.
Dinner ended up being very quiet; apparently, Dad had things on his mind that he didn't want to express in front of a guest. Great. I wonder what that could be. Malcolm didn't seem to notice, or maybe he was used to a lack of conversation over food. One plate remained empty. Fiona didn't make it down. Malcolm didn't comment on that fact either, and that was worrying. It was as though he already knew that there was more to it than just a headache. This being Malcolm, he probably did.
Damnit. How had he thought he could hide something like this from the world's best observer? You're an idiot, that's how.
Just don't ask, Mal. Please just don't ask. After all, there was a major difference between knowing and admitting. And if Dad wouldn't admit it by now… don't upset him any more than he already is.
With dinner over, Charlie stood up and started to clear the table.
Uh, oh. Trip hurried to join in, and James and Elizabeth took their cue and disappeared. "Why don't you head on up, Mal?" Trip tried to sound casual. "I'll be there pretty quick."
Malcolm glanced back and forth between the two, then turned to follow the others. Charlie waited a bit before starting. "I got a call today at work. Care to guess what it was about?"
"I didn't show up for physics." Trip picked up a stack of dirty dishes with a jerk and headed for the kitchen. Charlie followed.
"That's the third time this year. And the semester has just started. I thought we had an agreement."
"We agreed I wasn't dropping out of school." Trip started putting the dishes in the dishwasher. "I just can't spend an hour and a half listening to her drone on about heat transfers and conductivity. I know more than she does." He took his dad's stack and added them. "It wasn't my idea to take the stupid class."
"You need a science class. And physics was your idea."
Seeing as you gave me a choice between that and Baby Science. Sure the school system called it 'General Science,' and it was the course most eighth graders took, but it would have been like showing up at the library for 'Story Time.' "I go when there's a test."
"Attendance is part of your grade. Like homework is. Which I'm told you're not doing, either."
Trip said nothing, just kept loading the dishes.
"This is becoming a serious problem with you," Charlie crossed his arms. "You used to be a good student."
"Relax, Dad." Trip slammed the door of the dishwasher shut. "I'm not doing drugs or anything." You might want to look a little closer to your room for that. "And I'm not robbing banks, either. Despite what my teachers would like you to believe, I am a responsible person."
"Responsible? Not showing up for classes is responsible? Talking back to your teachers is responsible? I think you might want to look in a dictionary for the definition of that word." Charlie's voice grew louder and more tense with every sentence.
"Hey, at least I come home to look after my family," Trip shouted. "I don't spend my time out God knows where, doing God knows what. I don't spend my time getting plastered. Do you think that dinner just appeared by magic? Do you think they all do?" He shouldn't be doing this, but he was too tired to hold on anymore. At least Malcolm was upstairs and the floors and walls were pretty solid. "Who the fuck do you think takes care of this place?"
"Do not use that language with me. I am your father…"
"You coulda fooled me. When was the last time you were home on time? You think I'm not responsible? At least I'm not the one out screwing around."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Charlie's voice matched Trip's in volume now.
"Gee, Dad, I don't know. I guess that perfume that keeps clinging to you is part of a new project. The newest thing in highways management?" What do you think I am, an idiot?
"You've got no right to accuse me of something like that." Charlie's tone dropped, became almost menacing.
"No right? No right? I'm your fucking son. Your kid. I mean I know I was a mistake, but that's hardly my fault."
Charlie closed his eyes. "Don't go there, again, Trip. You were not a mis…"
"Bullshit." Premature, my ass. Like that was anything other than just a convenient explanation to cover the truth. You weren't ready for me at all.
"I am not even going to continue with this." Charlie raised his hands as though to cover his ears.
"Yeah," Trip muttered. "Soon as it comes around to your lack of accountability…"
"Fuck." Charlie grabbed Trip's shoulders and shook him lightly. "This is not about what happened when you were born. And even if – if – you weren't planned, it hardly means that you were a mistake. Furthermore, if I wasn't accountable, we wouldn't even be having this discussion, because one of us wouldn't be here. What this is about is the fact that you were given a life, and you're throwing it away. Take it from me: it's very competitive out there, and if you don't want to believe me, you can ask your old counsellor. Do you think he got into Harvard by slacking off? By skipping his classes? You won't be able to get any kind of job if people don't think that you're reliable."
"Parentage might have played a factor," Trip shot back. "The fact that he had some. And he goes to Stanford." Okay, so Henry was a jerk, sometimes. But he'd probably had a mother who knew what time of the day it was on a regular basis, and a father who knew the East coast from the West. You'd think that working for DOT would require that much at least.
"What are you two screaming about?" Fiona staggered in, shielding her eyes from the light. "Could you please keep it quiet? I have a headache."
Trip turned and ran, not going anywhere in particular, but needing to get away. The kitchen suddenly felt too small. He felt trapped there, like if he stayed, he'd die. He found himself at the old tree in the yard before he stopped. He glanced up at his room. Malcolm had a light going up there – with any luck he wouldn't have been able to hear much, if any of the argument.
Why did I say you could stay? How could living here be an improvement over what he'd had? Trip leaned against the tree-trunk then sank down to the ground. At least he could breathe out here, but that didn't change anything. I don't think. I just said you could stay, like there was nothing wrong. He could have tried to suggest something else. It wouldn't necessarily have given away that there was a problem. Tucker, you are such a shit. And now: his stomach hurt, his throat hurt and his head hurt. It didn't sound like anybody was coming after him either.
Yeah, real responsible Dad. Good to know you love me. He put his head down on his knees, too tired to fight the exhaustion anymore.
Malcolm winced, listening to the shouts. He crept out into the hallway and down the stairs, staying as silent as possible. There is definitely something wrong. Trip only shouted when he was well past the point of being hurt – when he was feeling desperate. The conversation was all wrong, too. You sound like you're the mother. One of Trip's comments explained a lot too, confirming the suspicion that Fiona's problem was much more than mere 'headaches.' So that's what you've been dealing with. No wonder the older boy was under so much stress.
Then Fiona weaved her way past, not seeming to notice him at all. For once, he was grateful for his innate invisibility. Then Trip ran out, and the back door slammed behind him. Uh, oh.
Then Charlie and Fiona began to argue, in lower tones.
"God, look at you." Charlie sounded even more disgusted than he had when Trip called himself a 'mistake.' "Our son's flunking out of school, and you can't even pay attention."
"I'm not the only parent around here. Maybe if you spent some time in the house once in a while, maybe if he actually had a father to look up to, he wouldn't be in such a mess." Fiona attacked back. It was clear where Trip got his arguing technique.
"At least I'm capable of being a role model. Or would you prefer he followed in your footsteps?"
"Really? When was the last time you actually disciplined him? Your son walks all over you. He's got more balls than you do."
Malcolm knew he shouldn't listen in, and that he should probably chase after Trip, but he couldn't move. His mother and father argued, yes, but not like this. This was vicious. They weren't arguing about an issue, they were just out to hurt each other. And how can you say those things about Trip? He suddenly found himself wishing he hadn't imposed on his friend. Things weren't that bad, back home. Not enough to justify putting Trip under extra stress. Why couldn't you have just said something to me? Given me a hint? Then I wouldn't have come.
Finally, he tore himself away and headed after Trip. He found his friend under the tree, fallen asleep. He considered waking the other boy, but decided against it. You need all the sleep you can get. Instead, he went back in and up to Trip's room, and pulled the quilt off Trip's bed. He carried it down and outside and used it to cover Trip.
He went back inside, and Charlie caught him in the hallway. "Everything okay, Malcolm?"
Malcolm shook his head. Trip would probably hate him for this, but Trip was in over his head. "No sir. Trip's fallen asleep outside. He doesn't look very good."
Charlie closed his eyes, looking like he wanted to cry. "Okay, thank you." He headed outside and Malcolm followed.
Charlie picked Trip up carefully, and carried him inside. Trip didn't even stir, not even when Charlie laid him down on his bed. Charlie took Trip's shoes off and laid them beside the bed, before straightening out the quilt.
"Is he going to be okay?" Malcolm sat down the rollaway bed that he'd been given.
Charlie sighed, then seemed to catch himself. "He'll be fine. He's just stubborn, that's all."
You believe that about as much as I do. Charlie also seemed to know almost as much about what to do about it as Malcolm did. Mrs. Tucker is wrong… you do care about him. But Trip couldn't see it either, because he was so busy trying to handle everything on his own.
I should go home. Except that would risk exposing their fraud, and then Trip would be in big trouble. Trip had enough problems as it was, he didn't need everybody's worst suspicions confirmed, which would give them even more reason not to look for the good stuff in him.
He waited until Charlie left, then tiptoed over to the computer and turned on the monitor, praying that the light wouldn't wake Trip up. He typed in Jonathan's contact information and scanned in a copy of the picture. He didn't send a commentary – he figured Jonathan could just look at the source and guess who it was from. Or at least who'd drawn the picture. Better if Jonathan figured that Trip sent it himself, rather than figuring out from a message that Malcolm was behind it and sounding an alarm.
Please, please, please figure it out. Somebody needs to do something. Then he returned to his bed for his vigil.
"What the hell?" Jon stared at the picture that appeared on his screen, seeing but not believing. He rechecked the source data – apparently, it came straight from Trip. Which is strange in and of itself. He'd been about ready to head out for the evening. Now he wasn't so sure if he wanted to. That is the scariest damn thing I have ever seen in my life. This was no random drawing – there were definitely elements of 'self-portrait' in it, clearly visible to anyone who really knew the artist.
Then again, there aren't many of those – are there, kiddo? Hell, he hadn't even known that Trip could draw – his handwriting was certainly no indicator. What is it this time?
"That is freaky." Gilbert, his roommate, leaned in over his shoulder. "Can I have a copy for my desktop?" He glanced at the upper corner of the screen. "Hey, it's that guy again. Remember, the one I traced for you? Like I said, he's on a couple of my favourite forums."
"Really? I must have missed that part." Gilbert was a computers and engineering freak. He'd practically had an orgasm when he found out just what Archer family Jon was a part of.
"Yeah. He's got some pretty cool insights, too. Really out of the ordinary, but some of them work after you think them through a bit. I mean, some of his ideas really put a different spin on one of my projects – helped me figure it out. I think he's one of those really old-school guys with not a lot of formal training, but he's got the practical experience. I think he's on one of my computer forums as well, but we don't tend to be too big into I.D.'s over there." In other words, a hacker forum. Oh yeah, Trip would fit in well there. Rules were not exactly his style.
I hate to break it to you, buddy, but your 'old-school' genius is only thirteen years old. Gilbert probably wouldn't be too impressed upon finding that out. But genius could certainly describe him. Especially if you put 'twisted' in front of it. Jon had to admit, he missed the little monster. Letters back and forth just weren't the same. They lacked that horror quality that only a face-to-face encounter could invoke. "I met him over the summer. You're right, he's pretty cool." For a miniature felon with cannibalistic tendencies. His arm still hurt every time he thought about the brat.
"Wow." Gilbert tapped the screen. "But that is sweet."
"I'll keep that in mind." Then again, if Gilbert thought it was cool, mightn't Trip as well? What with both of them being hackers?
I wish I could believe that. If Trip were a normal kid, or even a normal overly-bright kid, then maybe he could. But he couldn't lose the image of Trip huddled up in the woods in the pouring rain and crying his eyes out. Or broken to pieces and dripping with blood,willing to sacrifice even his own life.
Something else about this didn't seem right. Trip wasn't the type to reach out for help on his own – not in any way as obvious as this. No, someone else had to do that, didn't he? But even if Trip sent a copy to Malcolm, and Malcolm sensed a problem, the question still remained. Why had Trip sent a copy to him?
What's going on here, kiddo? Unfortunately, with Trip it could be anything. He'd have to do some digging to find out. But somehow, a party didn't seem all that important anymore.
How the hell did I get here? Trip sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. Last thing he remembered was being outside, he couldn't recall having come in.
He glanced towards the spare bed where Malcolm slept, fully dressed and on top of the covers. Ah, hell. I promised I'd help you with that homework, and instead I pass out on you. Trip Tucker fucks it up again. Why Malcolm put up with him, he had no idea. You can't be that lonely. There was just one explanation: Malcolm actually liked him. I don't deserve a friend like you.
But that was the way it worked out. First real luck I've had in my life. Still, if bad things were a universal punishment, you had to wonder what Malcolm'd done wrong. Between all the bullies and a screw-up friend, he couldn't catch a break. And it's not like I was nice to you, to start. Hell, he'd picked Malcolm as a spineless goody-asskisser on first sight. I'd never have wasted the time. I'm glad you did. It was Malcolm who made the effort. It was Malcolm who didn't back away. What Trip couldn't figure out was why. After all, Malcolm wasn't stupid, he was a good judge of people, so why would he get himself wrapped up with such a pain in the ass? I couldn't even stop those guys from beating you up. Hell, they'd almost killed Malcolm after Trip got involved.
Yeah, Mal, you really picked a winner. He tiptoed over to his computer and punched in a few codes. He couldn't sleep, so he might as well do something. He caught sight of a piece of information on the screen. Someone had just used this computer to contact Jon. Directly, too. Trip glanced back at Malcolm then shrugged. You couldn't blame him really. Jon was one of the few people ever who treated Malcolm like something other than a freak, and then Malcolm's dad went and forbade Malcolm to talk to him.
I'll bet that freaked Jon out. Yeah, getting a message straight from Trip Tucker – that would be a new one. Suddenly, Trip froze. What did you tell him? If he finds out that you're over here… that's a huge risk. You shoulda asked me first… I could've re-routed it. Hopefully, he just told Jon he was visiting. Jon would probably buy that, and not go digging. Jon could be trusting that way, and Malcolm would be the last person he'd expect to lie about something like that. If it was me, you'd check it six-ways to Sunday. From Malcolm, it's believable. And for good reason: Malcolm was a good kid. Trip was the bad influence.
Might as well live up to it. He logged into one of his favourite forums – one specifically dealing with network security issues, and how to overcome them. In other words, a hacker's heaven. One post caught his eye, specifically about artwork. Odd, for a forum like this.
Son-of-a-bitch. He looked back at Malcolm who still lay dead-still on the bed. You crazy son-of-a-bitch… what'd you send him that for? His picture stared back at him with its dead, mechanical eyes. Only one way it got up here, and that was if Malcolm sent it to Jon, and Jon's crazy-ass hacker roomie got hold of it. Several people had already commented – Trip decided to add one of his own.
The artist clearly has deep-seated issues of inadequacy. There are several traces of an unhappy childhood – this person probably had over-achieving parents. He tapped his teeth and thought. In all likelihood, the artist is either suicidal, or has had thoughts of suicide in the past. This work displays many indicators of an anti-social personality, possibly tending towards criminal behaviour and violence. This person probably belongs in a mental institution. Given that ol' Stanford boy hadn't included a credit, most people would probably assume it belonged to him. And if Jon saw the comment, he'd probably laugh his ass off. Jon already knew Trip was screwed up. He didn't need any picture to tell him that. And me bein' a smartass will prob'ly make you feel better anyway.
He fooled around a little more, until light began to invade from outside. Early to bed, early to rise… well he sure as hell wasn't healthy and wealthy, and I doubt anybody'd go with wise.
He shut down the monitor and tip-toed carefully down the hallway to the bathroom. After a quick shower and change, he headed downstairs to start breakfast.
"Hello." The voice from the doorway made him jump.
"Jesus, Mal. You always give people a heart attack first thing in the morning?" Those were the two truly freaky things about Malcolm: he could move so silently that he could sneak up on a bat, and he was at his best early in the morning. And I'm not. Waking up was the worst part of the day – it generally happened just after he managed to get to sleep.
"Sorry. Can I help?" It seemed that Malcolm still had trouble with the basic concept of 'guest.'
"Sure. I'm just thinkin' pancakes and sausages – an' orange juice, of course. Just gimme a sec, though… I need coffee." He reached into the pantry, and pulled out the beans. His one indulgence, and one he'd have to give up. With Malcolm here, we really can't afford it. He'd given Jon a lecture about coffee over the summer. One thing about that guy, he had absolutely no taste. But premium ingredients cost premium cash, something they just didn't have.
He ground up just enough for a single serving – he'd make more later for Dad if he had to. If Dad was even still around. Leave early, come home late. Yeah, if Dad wasn't fooling around, it'd be a miracle.
"So, what'd you and Jon talk about last night?"
Malcolm paled, and looked like his old, scared self. "Nothing much." Clearly a lie, but Trip decided not to call him on it. He didn't want to fight this early in the morning, and he especially didn't want to fight with Malcolm.
"I'm sorry I didn't get to give you that help with the art project. But they'll prob'ly give you a break, seein' as it's your first week and all." He sipped at the brew, then took a bigger swallow.
"That's okay," Malcolm said. "You were tired."
"Yeah." He couldn't think of anything to explain it, anything that would come off as believable. Especially not since he didn't know what Malcolm saw or heard last night. Instead, he started laying out the ingredients to make lunch – no sense getting breakfast ready too early, after all. He checked the fridge and had to fight not to swear. It looked like Dad had been cleaning again, and threw out the leftover sandwiches. Why do you gotta do that? Did Dad want them to go bankrupt? There was nothing really wrong with the sandwiches – a little stale maybe, but they wouldn't kill him.
"So, what do you want? I'm guessing PB&J is out… but we've got some ham and some cheese in here, and a little roast beef…"
"Any of those would be fine."
Trip turned around, holding a block of cheddar in one hand and a package of deli meat in the other. "Malcolm. You're the one that has to eat this. Don't tell me that you don't have a preference."
"Ham, then." Malcolm's eyes dropped to the label before he spoke, naming the one that Trip already held.
You gotta be the polite one, don't you? He thought he'd broken his friend of that habit – obviously more work needed to be done. I'll have the PB&J. Nothing wrong with it really. Carbs, protein, and cheap. The perfect food. So what if people thought it was boring? Food wasn't about fun, food was about sustenance, pure and simple.
He got the lunches assembled, then started preparations for breakfast.
"Chocolate sour-cream pancakes okay with you?" They sounded weird, but tasted good. "They're Lizzie's favourites."
"Chocolate sour-cream?" Malcolm sounded a little sceptical.
"Try 'em. If you don't like them, I can make you something else." Trip paused. "You're okay with chocolate, aren't you?"
Malcolm nodded. "I had my shots last week. I should be okay with almost everything for the rest of the month."
"Shots?" Trip winced. "You need shots so you can eat? That's horrible. I'm glad I'm not allergic to anything other than spider-bites. I hate going to see the doctor. All that time in the hospital over the summer nearly drove me nuts." He paused. "As long as you're sure you're okay. 'Cause I don't want to make you sick." That was another thing he hadn't considered. If Malcolm went to the doctor, then the doctor would need medical records, and would probably inform Malcolm's parents, and they'd be busted.
Yeah, I really didn't think this through. Oh, well… four little words would take care of it, in a way everybody would believe. 'It's all my fault.'
"These are very good." Malcolm swallowed another mouthful of the odd pancakes and reached for his glass of orange juice. Trip had actually made the juice from fresh oranges – he'd argued that anything else wasn't worth drinking.
"Well, I figured if they could do it with donuts… it's just a little trickier cooking them." Trip shrugged.
"I coulda told you they were good. Trip makes the best pancakes," Elizabeth avowed.
"Don't talk with your mouth full." Trip's voice was stern, but Malcolm could see the flash of pride on his friend's face.
It was just the three of them and James for breakfast. Trip's mother had walked in while they were preparing it and promptly walked out again, and Trip's father had left shortly after putting Trip to bed.
He works two jobs. Malcolm realised. It was the best explanation for it, and it fit with the timing. It also meant that Charlie got about as much sleep as Trip – no wonder they were both on edge.
He glanced over at Trip who was herding his sister away so he could brush and braid her hair, while James trotted after them. I bet he hasn't told you, because he doesn't want to put more pressure on you. He doesn't want you feeling more guilty than you already do. Malcolm felt rage bubbling up inside him and it was directed at Fiona. How can you do this to your family? I may not like my father, but he wouldn't let me starve myself, and he wouldn't leave me to look after Madeline and the house and everything else. And Trip was starving himself: he'd eaten little last night and hardly anything this morning – the bulk of the food went to James and Elizabeth… and now me. The sandwich he'd made himself for lunch barely even qualified: he'd spread the peanut butter and jelly so thin that they'd hardly provide more than flavour. Even if Trip didn't starve himself to death, he'd end up doing permanent damage to himself, if he hadn't already.
Malcolm slid down from his chair and collected the dishes from the table, putting them in the dishwasher. He knew it would irritate Trip, but his friend would just have to deal with getting a little help.
Trip did glare at the clean table when he returned, but otherwise didn't comment on it.
"Hey, I've got practice today… would you mind collecting James and Lizzie for me, and walking them over to the field? It's only a couple of blocks." Trip put the appropriate lunches in the appropriate backpacks and handed Malcolm his.
"Sure." Malcolm picked up his padd with his homework on it, and watched as Trip finished getting his brother and sister ready. Every little bit helped, right?
Trip listened impassively to his coach's speech. "…academic probation, Tucker. You've got two weeks to straighten up, or they're pulling you off the team. You're supposedly smart, I'm sure you can figure out what that means."
Yeah, no more having to listen to you. There was always an upside if you looked for it. The only other thing it meant was another black mark on his record, which already looked like the bottom of a deep well at midnight with a new moon.
"Now get out there." Coach shoved him towards the field, and he jogged out to where the offensive line had already assembled.
He took the snap and faded back for the throw, scanning for a receiver. Then he felt it, a body slamming into his and taking him to the ground, but his foot caught, and didn't move with the rest of him. He heard a snap this time, and his leg exploded with pain. He screamed, he couldn't help it.
"Jesus Christ!" Coach didn't sound angry, he sounded scared.
Trip looked down at his leg – the white cloth of his pants had turned red, and he saw…
He blacked out.
Ohmigod. Malcolm jumped up as Trip started screaming. He caught a glimpse of the damage, then grabbed James and Elizabeth and turned them away. They didn't need to see… that. Not only was Trip's leg broken, but the bone had torn its way through the sparse flesh, creating a bloody mess. He hoped Trip would be okay… he hoped that Trip would live.
I have to get hold of his father. Didn't Trip say he worked for the Department of Transportation or something? "Let's go call your father, okay?" Better Charlie than Fiona.
"Is Trip hurt?" Elizabeth began to cry.
"Yes, but they're taking care of him." It hadn't looked good, though. Malcolm hadn't seen anything like that outside of the movies. Even when Jonesy had beaten Trip up… even that hadn't looked like this.
He glanced back instinctively. Trip was shaking, and the coach was yelling at someone to get blankets and call an ambulance. Shock, Malcolm realised. The problem was that everyone else seemed to be suffering from it, too. They stood around, unable to move.
"James. I need you to go to the office and tell them to call an ambulance, then call your father and tell him that Trip needs to go to the hospital. Take Elizabeth with you. And hurry." Malcolm barely waited for them to start for the office before he turned and sprinted for the locker-room. He started grabbing clothes until his arms were full and headed back for the field. They might not be blankets, but they'd work.
The coach looked at him gratefully when he dropped the pile of clothing beside Trip. They worked to cover Trip up. The coach's jacket was already serving as a makeshift bandage.
Thank-you, Father, for making me listen to all those first-aid lectures. Stuart had spent hours drilling his son in life-saving techniques, even as Malcolm had grown frustrated, wondering when he'd ever use them. He'd never imagined that Trip would be the one he'd use them on – at least not for something like this. Once again he found himself straining desperately to hear the sound of an ambulance, and praying it would get there on time.
"How the hell…" the coach muttered.
He's been starving. To a normal, healthy teenage boy the hit would have meant nothing. But Trip's non-eating habits had given him a good set of brittle bones and nothing to protect them. His body was trying to grow, despite the fact that it had no materials to work with. The wrong impact at the wrong angle… don't you dare die. Please, don't you dare die. He heard it finally, the high-pitched cries of help on the way. Professionals rushed in and took over, leaving Malcolm to sit and wait.
(m)
At least this time I have something to do. For the second time in less than six months, Malcolm found himself waiting in a hospital lobby for news of Trip's condition. James and Elizabeth sat on either side of him, looking to him for support. Malcolm and James might have been the same age chronologically… but I'm Trip's friend, which makes me older to them. They relied so much on their brother, and now that responsibility had fallen to him.
Charlie had picked them up at the school and raced straight to the hospital. Now he hunched over an endless set of forms – Malcolm overheard 'permission for surgery' being one of them. Every now and then the man paused to pinch the bridge of his nose; he looked like he was about to start crying. Or he'd look back at his kids and try to smile, but the smile wouldn't hold.
"Is Trip going to die?" Elizabeth was crying, now that Malcolm told her she didn't have to be brave. She was only six, and to her, Trip was the world.
"I hope not." Malcolm couldn't think of what else to say. 'No' might be a lie, and he hated when people lied to kids about stuff like that. Obviously, Elizabeth knew what dying meant, so there was no sense pretending that it couldn't happen. And I don't know. Trip had been so pale and by the time they took him away, he looked already dead.
Finally, Charlie came over and joined them. "Thank you." He sat down beside James and took his son's hand, probably just needing something to hold on to.
"Can I get you some coffee, sir?" Of any of them, Charlie had to be the worst off. Little sleep, and his worst nightmare coming true. Malcolm could see it on the man's face – he might try to be impartial, but he loved Trip best. The troublemaker, the source of stress, and yet somehow the favourite. So much so, that Trip interpreted concern as attempt to control.
"Excuse me, Mr. Tucker?" The woman who spoke didn't sound sympathetic. She sounded almost too professional. "Can I ask you a few questions about your son?"
"Who are you?" Charlie blinked, looking confused.
"Dr. Lana Mendez," The woman looked annoyed at having to identify herself. "In an unusual case like this, we have some routine questions…" The emphasis she put on 'unusual' made it clear that a sports injury wasn't the issue.
Charlie closed his eyes, and Malcolm felt a sudden rush of terror. "You think that Trip is being abused." Charlie said it calmly and matter-of-factly, almost as though he'd been expecting this.
"Mr. Tucker, allow me to be frank. Your son Charles shows signs of advanced malnourishment. Do you have another explanation for it?"
"Trip sometimes doesn't eat," the words came out before Malcolm could stop them. For all he knew he was doing more damage, but it wasn't fair to see Charlie accused of hurting his son. "He does it himself. Nobody makes him."
"You are?" Dr. Mendez raised her eyebrow at the small, dark haired boy whose accent didn't fit.
"Malcolm Reed, ma'am. I'm a friend of Trip's. And I know other people who could tell you the same thing." He hoped she'd look at the other two: well-fed and taken care of. Admittedly, Trip was the one who did the feeding and taking care of, but that only proved that he had the opportunity to eat if he wanted. If anybody did the hurting in the Tucker family, it wasn't Charlie. It was Fiona. But if I say anything about that, Trip will kill me. Trip really wouldn't want this lady poking around. "He knows it upsets people. That's why he does it." At least that was why he used to do it: he'd tortured Jonathan that way all the time.
She pulled him off to the side. "If you want to help your friend, Malcolm, you can tell me the truth. This has been more than sometimes…" She bent over to talk to him, her posture one of intimidation.
"It is the truth." Malcolm interrupted, frustrated. "Trip doesn't eat by his own choice, not anybody else's. He's been like that as long as I've known him. When he's mad at people, that's what he does."
"Do you think your friend is mad at his parents?" Dr. Mendez just wouldn't quit.
Malcolm looked her straight in the eye. "No." Trip would be proud of a lie like that: an outright falsehood spoken with all the certainty of unqualified truth. "Trip loves his parents. I've never even seen them argue." That much was true: at camp, Trip had argued with Jonathan – not his parents – and he hadn't actually seen the fight with Charlie. "Ask him." He felt his stomach tighten as he spoke. What if she couldn't ask Trip? "He'll tell you."
"I will be asking him," she confirmed. "Do you remember when your friend was hurt over the summer?"
What? What did Charlie or Fiona have to do with that? "Yes, I do. Some people were going to beat me up, and Trip made them stop. Jonesy did that. We were at a camp. His parents weren't even there." He suddenly knew what his father meant when Stuart referred to 'report reading idiots.' "And neither were mine, or anybody else's. That's why they call it camp." Dr. Mendez might have had a medical degree, but she wasn't very good with people. Not only that, but she was treating him like he was a small child. He hated that.
How would Trip deal with someone like this? Trip seemed to have no difficulty in letting adults know he was annoyed. Taking a deep breath, Malcolm straightened up. "Also, Dr. Mendez, I am not stupid. I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to blame Trip's mother and father for what happened. They had nothing to do with it." He got angrier. "I know that you think that because I'm only ten that I'll say whatever you tell me to, or that I can be tricked into saying what you want. But you're wrong."
Dr. Mendez stepped back as though he'd hit her. "I'm only trying to help your friend."
"No, you're not. Or you wouldn't hurt him by saying those things about his parents." Maybe Trip couldn't be hurt by what he couldn't hear, but if he did find out… "They don't hurt him." He turned and stomped back to where Charlie still sat with his other children.
"Thank you, Malcolm." Charlie smiled weakly. "I didn't quite expect…"
"It's not fair to say that you hurt him." Malcolm could feel himself shaking. The last time he'd told off an adult… well, that had only been Jonathan. And Jonathan wasn't anything like Dr. Mendez. "You can't make Trip do anything he doesn't want to do."
"I know." Charlie sounded so sad that Malcolm couldn't think of anything more to say.
Trip slid in and out of consciousness: he wanted to wake up, but something kept making him go back to sleep. Finally awareness and pain won out, and he found himself staring at a disturbingly familiar white light. His leg…
Memory returned, and he wanted to throw up. Someone rushed over and held a basin in front of him, but he pushed them away. There were more important things to worry about, things like, "James? Lizzie? Are they okay?"
"Are James and Lizzie your brother and sister?" A dark haired lady came to stand beside him, sounding concerned.
"Yeah." He closed his eyes again, but his mind fought against the clouds. He had to stay clear. Something wasn't right.
"Why are you worried about them, Charles?"
Bingo. Nobody called him Charles unless he was in trouble, or they were up to something. Even drugs couldn't stop him from recognising that.
"Because I got hurt. They were there, and I'm their brother." Best not to lie about things that could be checked.
"They're with your father, right now."
"Good. And Malcolm?" Malcolm had done this hospital thing before; he'd have to apologise for making him go through it again.
"Your friend is there too. Charles, do you know what happened?"
"I got sacked." Embarrassing, but true. "And my leg broke." It shouldn't have though… he'd been hit before and come out okay.
She sat down in a chair beside his bed, cozying up. "Do you know why your leg broke?"
"The shear force was too great for the material, and the shear-modulus proved greater than the elasticity." Let her swallow that one. He could do breakages in his sleep.
It took a moment for her to speak, clearly she hadn't been expecting anything technical. Welcome to my world. If you want to waltz around the truth, Lady, I can dance. Sick still didn't make him stupid. She definitely was up to something because she sounded like Ms. Kelley on a mission from God. "Charles, we ran some tests, and those tests tell us that you haven't had enough to eat in a long time."
Am I an idiot? No? Then why are you talking to me in small words? "Yeah, so? You gonna make me?" One thing: by pissing him off, she was bringing him out of the stupor.
This time she actually jumped. "Charles…"
"Bite me, Lady. For starters, I hate the name Charles, and for another, you shouldn't be asking me questions while I'm on drugs." They didn't let cops do that in the movies. It wasn't fair.
"Why don't you like to be called that?" She jumped on the admission like she'd landed the fish she'd been trolling for.
"Because I don't like it. My name is Trip. My friends call me Trip. My enemies call me Trip. My teachers call me Trip. Even my parents – who actually named me Charles – call me Trip." Hell, Jon had never called him Charles, even when Jon was being annoying. "Now what are you trying to find out, Lady?"
"That's Dr. Mendez. I'm trying to help you. If someone has been hurting you…"
Was that it? "Jesus Christ, Lady. Nobody hurts me. Nobody even tries to hurt me." Yeah, his mother probably wasn't trying.
"I heard you were hurt at your camp, over the summer."
"Yeah, and I was also beating the crap out of the other guy at the time. Kinda mutual." Anything else? "You ever hear of the term 'false allegations?'" You could get good dialogue from old movies. "Or maybe 'harassment?'"
"Charles…"
"Go to hell, Lady. Nobody makes me do anything I don't want to, okay? My parents don't beat me, and they don't starve me. You wanna bust them for something? Bust them for nagging me to eat. And explain that one to the judge, I wanna see that." Stupid bitch, how the hell did she get a medical degree in the first place? "Now go get me a real doctor. I want to go home." He could tell by the look on her face that she was convinced. Was probably changing her mind about having kids of her own, too. Two down, several billion to go. Jon swore off fatherhood after five minutes with him, as well.
They still didn't want to let him go. They wanted to keep him for observation but stubbornness won the day. It was fun seeing Dr. Jennings, his regular doctor, tearing a strip off Dr. Mendez. It wasn't so much fun getting Dr. Jennings' lecture.
"Trip, despite Dr. Mendez being wrong about other things, she is right about your bones. You're growing, right now, and you need to get proper nutrition. That does not mean eating when you have time." Dr. Jennings knew Trip's habits too well, or at least his old ones. "It means eating at least three solid meals a day. It means getting enough nutrients – I'm putting you on some supplements, as well, to at least try to catch you up. And no more sports, either – even when that comes off." He tapped the heavy cast on Trip's leg. "And don't even think of taking this off before I say you can."
"What if it itches?" A stupid question, but it wasn't like he needed to impress Dr. Jennings. Dr. Jennings already knew he was a jerk.
"These newer ones don't itch that much, Trip." Dr. Jennings just shook his head. "You've got our best model."
It was more than just a cast, too. He'd read about stabilizers like this – they were designed to pretty much do everything. There were sensors in here to monitor his wound – check for bleeding, measure pain levels, monitor any infections and take care of the problem, or alert proper authorities if needed. It was temperature regulated and waterproof – he could go swimming if he didn't mind drowning. Yet it maintained airflow over his leg, too. Later on, it could be programmed to stimulate the muscles and prevent atrophy. All in all, it was pretty cool. Theoretically, it also couldn't be removed without a doctor… but Dr. Jennings knew Trip when it came to things like that, too.
"I mean that, Trip. We don't need a repeat of the braces incident."
Trip tried to look innocent and failed. "That was an accident. And anyway, they hurt." He'd just misjudged when trying to take them out, and hashed his lips a little. "And it was two years ago. I don't do stuff like that anymore." Besides, he could use something like this. Rag on me about homework now, Ms. Kelley.
"Right." Dr. Jennings took out a pen and scribbled something on the outside of the cast. "Try to keep that in mind, so you don't end up back here."
Trip read it, and grinned. He liked Dr. Jennings. Dr. Jennings didn't treat him like a kid. And obviously Dr. Mendez had bitched about something, or he wouldn't be staring at shear equations on his brand new cast. "You mind writing me a note excusing me from physics class, too? I'd hate to walk in with this – I might confuse my teacher."
Dr. Jennings just bopped him on the head with his padd and walked out, laughing. Only when he was gone did Trip relax.
Okay… at least I'm getting out of here. As for the rest… I gotta come up with something.