A/N: Thanks for reading!
Chapter Eight: It Was You
1:03 P.M.
Bender walked through Shermer High School's empty hallways, smiling to himself at the disturbance he'd caused. Not only did it add a little bit of variety to his day, but it also scared the shit out of Vernon, who'd probably crapped all over himself trying to get out of the bathroom in time. Bender didn't know exactly what had happened since he'd left almost immediately, but he could imagine that Vernon wasn't very pleased at the interruption.
"Hey!"
Bender turned to see Mr. Ryan, one of the science teachers, walking towards him. "You're supposed to be outside!" he said.
Bender nodded understandingly. "Actually, I'm with the fire department. We're looking into some suspicious activity."
Mr. Ryan furrowed his brow in confusion. "What?"
"Yes, we're looking for an older gentleman, approximately fifty years of age. Grey hair, orange skin, sour expression."
Mr. Ryan sighed angrily. "Alright, that's enough. Get outsi-"
"BENDER!"
Bender looked down the hall to see Mr. Vernon walking towards him in long, angry strides.
"Ah, there he is." Bender turned to Mr. Ryan, clapping the older man on the back. "See to it that this man is arrested, will you? He's a danger to himself and the students." With that, he turned and started running down the hall.
1:03 P.M.
There were advantages to being invisible.
For one, invisible people didn't have to go outside for fire drills. They could stay inside, where it was warm (though, in the case of a real fire, it might be a bit too warm) and not have to stand around in the freezing cold listening to the cheerleaders talk about which football player they were screwing that week.
At least, that's how Allison saw it. Other invisible people might actually enjoy listening to those kinds of conversations, but she much preferred the quiet comfort of an empty art room, where she could focus on her drawing and not have to worry about being interrupted by her teacher, who thought she was being helpful when she told Allison what a wonderful job she was doing.
When Allison arrived back in her classroom, she sat at her favorite table in the back and brought out her sketchbook, her pencil flying over the page in little bursts. After a moment, she stopped and stared at the scene in front of her, blinking rapidly. She hated being alone. Sometimes she told herself that it wasn't so bad, but deep down inside where it really counted, she hated the fact that none of her fellow art students knew her name. She hated that no one noticed that she'd gone back to her classroom, that she ate lunch by herself everyday, that her parents spent more time on the phone with her siblings' teachers than they did speaking with Allison, their daughter.
But then came the confusing part: she also liked being alone. It was the truth, too. She liked the quiet, the stillness. She liked the fact that she didn't have to live by anyone else's rules and that she didn't have to answer to anyone else's stupid questions or stupid assumptions. She liked the fact that she didn't have to worry about what someone else was thinking or saying or expecting. So, how can someone love and hate something all at the same time? It was a paradox.
No. A double-edged sword.
1:04 P.M.
"So, next week's meet."
"Yes, sir."
"You ready for it?"
"Yes, sir."
Coach Dickinson nodded thoughtfully as he stared off into the distance. "You wrestled against Jefferson last year, didn't you?"
Andy nodded. "Um, yeah."
"What'd you think?"
Andy paused. "Well, um, they're a strong team."
Coach Dickinson nodded again. "Yes, they are. Very strong."
Andy wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond to that, so he just stayed quiet. After a moment, his coach looked over at him. "You're a good wrestler, Clark. No, a great wrestler."
Andy paused uncertainly. "Thank you, sir."
"That's not a compliment. It's a fact."
"Oh."
"You've got strength and speed, but talent can only get you so far. It takes hard work to be the best. You proved that last year at the state finals, but I'm sensing this year that your drive is waning."
Andy's eyes widened. "Um, no, sir. I want to win."
"Do you?"
"Yes, of course."
Coach Dickinson looked him straight in the eye. "When it comes to competitions like these, there are only two kinds of wrestlers left standing at the end. The winners and the losers." He paused. "Which one are you?"
1:04 P.M.
Bender ran through the English wing, then the Journalism wing, pausing every few seconds to see if Vernon was still following him. The old bastard wasn't all that swift, mentally or physically, but he was damn tenacious, especially when he was pissed off.
After a few minutes of wandering, Bender ended up in the art wing, which was as silent and empty as the rest of the building. He was careful not to make much noise, though he was pretty sure that Vernon had no idea where he was. He crept down the hallways and stopped at the nearest doorway to catch his breath. After a moment, he stood up straight and glanced into the classroom, which was unexpectedly occupied.
"What the fuck?" he muttered.
It was a girl, dressed in black from head to toe, sitting at one of the tables at the back of the room, hunched over a sketchbook. She wasn't drawing, just staring at the page. Whatever she was thinking about, it couldn't have been very good, because her mouth was set in a straight, angry line, and she was sitting so still that she looked as though she'd gone into rigor mortis. She must have been completely absorbed in her thoughts, because she didn't seem to know the he was there.
"BENDER!"
Bender glanced back behind him to see Vernon running towards him from the far end of the hall, his ragged breaths audible from more than fifty feet away. Bender looked back into the room, where the girl was staring back at him, eyes wide with shock. When she saw him looking at her, she made a funny face and slammed her head onto the table in front of her, letting her fur-trimmed hood fall into place over her head.
Bender tore his eyes away and looked back behind him, where he could see that Vernon was less than ten feet away. Bender pushed off from the door and started running towards the History wing.
"You can't run forever! I know it was you, Bender! I saw you!" Vernon's threats were punctuated by uneven breaths, but he wasn't all that far behind him, much to Bender's surprise.
Bender ran out into the main hall, turning the corner so that he was headed towards the Foreign Language department. He ran past the boy's bathrooms, right by the water fountain, where a small water puddle had formed, thanks to dozens of careless students and a faulty spout. Bender, who didn't see the puddle, ran straight through it and ended up flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him.
He lay there for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to catch his breath. Further down the hall he heard voices, then hurried footsteps growing louder as they approached. A couple seconds later, Vernon's face appeared above him, upside down and out of focus.
"Gotcha," he wheezed, taking sharp, shallow breaths. "Gotcha, you little shit."
Bender took another deep breath and grinned. "Speaking of shit, sir, you might want to clean off your zipper. It looks like you've got a little-"
Vernon let out a deep growl, then hauled Bender to his feet and dragged him off to the principal's office.
1:05 P.M.
Allison lifted her head from the desk, peeking out from under her hood to make sure that the boy was gone. When she saw that the window was clear, she let out a deep sigh and looked back at her drawing. She wondered if he'd recognized her, or if he'd gotten a good enough look at her that he would know her face if he saw her again in the hall or one of her classes. Probably not. He was twenty feet away with a pane of grimy glass between them. He probably couldn't even tell if she was a girl or not.
Allison went back to her drawing, and a couple of minutes later the bell rang, releasing the students back into the building. Allison didn't look up from her picture, even when the door opened and students began filing back into the classroom, one by one. No one looked at her or asked why she was there. Maybe they assumed she was a fast runner and that she'd simply beaten everyone back to the classroom. Or maybe they just didn't care.
Mrs. Stevens arrived last and took off her coat, draping it over the back of her chair. "We've got a few minutes left. Just do what you can. We'll pick it up again tomorrow."
Allison stopped drawing and looked at her pencil, which he was clutching so hard that her knuckles had turned white. Maybe she wanted him to recognize her. Maybe she wanted him to tell everyone that she'd skipped out on the fire drill and didn't go outside. And when he did, maybe she'd turn to him, look him straight in the eye, and smile.
Maybe.
1:05 P.M.
Andy stood rooted in place, his vocal chords frozen. He cleared his throat. "A winner," he said quietly.
Coach Dickinson nodded. "Good. I think so, too."
Andy nodded mutely. A moment later, the bell rang, signaling that it was safe for everyone to go back into the building. Coach Dickinson patted Andy on the shoulder, then started walking back towards the building, barking orders at a group of wrestlers that had been distracted by some girls nearby. Andy stood there for a moment until Joel, one of his teammates, came up from behind and slapped him on the back. "You gonna stand there freezin' your ass off all day?"
Andy looked up and shook his head. Joel moved away and started walking towards the building, rejoining the rest of their teammates, who were still pestering the two nerdy boys they'd pulled the prank on earlier. It occurred to Andy that his father might have enjoyed seeing them joke around like that. Andy couldn't even remember how many stories his father had told him about his high school days, about all of the jokes he'd played on guys like those two. Weak guys.
Andy thought about joining them, but didn't. He walked slowly, his sneakers crunching softly on the icy grass, and followed his team back into the building. The locker room was twice as full as usual since the fire drill had put everyone behind schedule, even the class that had gym that period. Apparently all of the coaches had given up on instruction for the day. Andy walked over to his locker, popped it open and sat down on the bench.
"When it comes to competitions like these, there are only two kinds of wrestlers left standing at the end. The winners and the losers."
Andy grabbed a roll of athletic tape from his open locker and started unwinding it so that he could wrap his knee, which was throbbing from the cold. As he worked, he started thinking of his father's words from that morning, about his place in their family. What was his father's definition of a loser? Someone who lost matches? Someone who complained, who wasn't the best, who showed their weakness?
"Are you giving up on me? I won't accept that!"
Andy slammed the roll of tape down onto the bench. What made a person a winner? More importantly, what kept them from being a loser? The fact that they were strong and fast, or that they were just stronger and faster than everyone else?
"Your intensity is for shit!"
Andy took a deep, angry breath and picked up the tape again. He tugged it across his knee, pulling it harder than necessary and sending a bolt of pain rippling up his leg. He grit his teeth and tugged even harder. Once more, then again.
"Which one are you?"
Andy looked across the aisle from him, where a tall, geeky looking boy was changing out of his gym clothes. Andy didn't know his name, but he recognized him as one of the boys Ray and Joel had been making fun of out on the front lawn during the fire drill. The boy turned away and started removing his gym uniform so that he could change into his regular clothes. Andy looked down at the roll of athletic tape in his hands and the pieces fell together.
"I won't tolerate any losers in this family!"
He pulled a piece of tape from the roll and stood from the bench.
A/N: Thank you for reading. : )