Title: Better Hallway Vision

Chapter Summary: Brian, before and after detention.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything at all relating to The Breakfast Club.

A/N: Brian is the character I relate to the most. I really enjoy writing about him. I hope it shows.

Chapter Two: Stick to Your Guns

Friday, before Detention:

"You messed up, kid, it happens once in a while." Allen Johnson's hands were tight on the steering wheel as he lectured, belying his outward calm. Brian felt the same, sitting quiet and sullen in the passenger seat of the beat-up red station wagon, but inside, his heart was pounding. He couldn't believe he'd gotten caught. At least his sister wasn't there to help him get his ass chewed. She really seemed to enjoy it. And at least his dad wasn't quite as shrill as his mom could be. When Diane Johnson hit her stride, she climbed those octaves like a staircase.

He sighed and leaned his head against the window, only half-listening as his father droned on about responsibility, and not letting his mother down, and not letting other kids put things in his locker. He'd never lied to his parents before, but he'd rather lie to them for the rest of his life than let them know that he had taken the flare gun from the trunk of his parents' car, and he had put it in his own locker. Because he had been considering taking his own life, because he got an F in shop class.

Apparently, lies come back to bite you in the ass. Once he'd spouted off his bit of nonsense, his mom had gotten on his case, grilling him about who had access to his locker combination, who had keys. He'd made the mistake of telling her that only the main and assitant principals and the janitors had keys. She jumped right on the janitor theory. Brian tried to calm her down, saying that none of them would do that; he was even friends with one of them, and Carl was a really nice guy.

"A janitor!" she screeched. "You're friends with a janitor?" Then came another long spiel about "no wonder your grades are falling"-falling? He hadn't even told her about the F-"no wonder you're getting detentions. You're friends with a janitor! Well, you better stop associating with him, you better stop speaking to him, or so help me, I'll..." She went on with empty threats, the same ones she always used. No more TV, no more going out, no more using the car. They were empty because he never did those things, anyway. A familiar pressure had begun in his chest at the start of her diatribe; recalling it now, he caught himself rubbing his sternum. Whenever his mother laid into him like that, he felt like he would explode if she didn't shut up soon.

It wasn't so bad right now, with his dad talking to him about it. His dad was calm, reasonable, but he continually stressed the part about not "letting your mother down." No one should let Diane Johnson down, or so help her, she'll...something. Crack wine glasses, or something.

And then there was his dad's old stand-by: "Think about your future, son." Brian kept his gaze directed out the passenger side window, afraid that if his dad looked at his face, he'd see the thoughts roiling behind it. I almost didn't have a future, Dad. My own mother makes me want to kill myself.

Mr. Johnson pulled into the driveway, and Brian was out of the car before the engine even quit. He slung his book bag over one shoulder and went into the house, heading straight for the stairs. He could smell something garlicky cooking in the kitchen, and his sister's patented circular-breathing chatter came from the same direction. He hurried upstairs, hoping to avoid another confrontation with his mother. But she must have heard them arrive, because she came into the living room just as he reached the top step.

"Where are you going, young man, without even a hello for your mother?" Brian paused, frustration making him clench his right hand into a fist. The pressure started. He just stood there for a moment, until he had a tight clamp on his emotions. Then he plastered a fake smile on his face and turned around. She was standing with her arms crossed, an oven mitt on her right hand. She had an angry expression on her face, but she also looked a little hurt. With a guilty sigh, Brian went back down, kissed her on the cheek, then climbed the stairs again.

"I'm going to study some before dinner, Mom."

He could feel her triumphant smile burning into his back. "Good boy. And I better not catch you reading any of that… that aliens and robots crap. How can you get into Harvard if you read that awful stuff?"

"Yeah, Harvard," he murmured, going into his bedroom and closing the door behind him. He dropped his knapsack by his desk, and hung up his jacket on the back of his door. His room was very neat, almost obsessively so. Two full book cases lined one wall of the small rectangular room, with his bed and nightstand taking up the opposite wall. His desk faced out the only window in his room, beside which he had tacked the Harvard pennant his mom had given him when he was a little boy. Would Harvard accept you if you had an F?

There were more books lined up on his desk, along with a cup of pens and pencils, and a stack of spiral notebooks. His notebooks were labeled with all his different subjects in black magic marker. He sat down at the desk and pulled one out from the middle of the stack. It said "Triganalysis" on the front. He opened it and flipped through the pages until he came to the next blank one. Then he grabbed a pen from the cup and started writing.

Friday, March 23, 1984

4:26 pm

I couldn't do it. Now I've got detention because it went off in my locker. When I told them yesterday, they went apeshit. Especially mom. What else should I have expected? I let her down. She'll probably have a stroke when I tell her about the F. That goddamn elephant. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I almost did it because of a ceramic elephant. I almost killed myself...

It feels strange to actually write it. When I think about it, it's just an idea. It's a concept. It's ... rest. But when I write it, it slaps me in the face. Suicide. And yet, even when faced with the reality, I almost still want to do it.

Heh. I can see it now. A coffin, some flowers, a cheesy picture of me up on an easel, and mom crying into a black handkerchief, saying, "If only he'd studied more, this wouldn't have happened." Then dad would put his arm around her shoulders and say, "I'm sorry our boy let you down, Diane. Maybe Lisa can get into Harvard."

Then Lisa would be asking for my room.

Brian put the pen down and chuckled, then he leaned back in his chair. Letting his head fall back, he placed one hand over his eyes. After a few moments, tears slid down to his temples and into his hair, tickling his ears. It was never going to end. He let himself wallow in self pity and hopelessness for a minute or two; then he took a deep breath and sat up straight again, wiping his face with his sleeve and rubbing at his eyes. He shoved away his emotions, and decided to forget his life for a while. Going over to his bookcases, Brian studied the well-worn spines. Each and every one, he had read at least once. After a few moments of indecision he grabbed a paperback at random and went to his bed. He flopped down into his favorite reading position, on his stomach with his chin propped up on a pillow. With a bit of surprise he saw that he'd grabbed Joan Vinge's Psion. He'd only read it once since he bought it almost two years ago, a rare purchase of a new book. He usually only bought books from the used book store, but this one sounded so good, he couldn't pass it up and risk forgetting all about it by the time it appeared at Secondhand Stories. Brian remembered enjoying it, but not much about the story.

He reached over to his back pack and pulled out a random text book—history—and placed it next to his pillow. He opened it to the chapter they were currently reading in class, ready to look like he was studying in case his mom decided to look in on him. Then he opened Psion and started reading. Soon his life fell away as he became totally absorbed in the characters and the plot. He fell asleep reading, never hearing his mom call him for dinner.

Saturday, after Detention:

The red station wagon was waiting for him. He took a deep breath of the late March air, and it felt sharp in his lungs. Despite that, he felt better than he had in a long, long time. It was such a good feeling to know that he didn't have to be perfect. He could just be Brian. And today, he could tell his mom about the F, because it didn't matter anymore. That kind of stuff just wasn't that important.

His dad was silent as Brian climbed into the passenger side of the station wagon. Mr. Johnson looked tired, and Brian couldn't remember the last time his dad had actually had a Saturday off. There were bags under his eyes that hadn't been there five years ago. His dad was a supervisor at a steel plant, on his feet at least eight hours a day, most of the time more than that. Maybe that's why mom wants me to go to Harvard. So I don't become my father.

Allison had said none of them could help it, that it just happened. You eventually became just like your parents, and there wasn't anything you could do about it.

Mom thinks Harvard is my only ticket out of Shermer.

But what if I don't want to leave Shermer? He glanced over at his father, weary and older than his years. But every day he did it: he got up and went to work. He did it for his family. There was nothing wrong with that. Brian was suddenly struck by how proud he was of his father. Especially since he knew his dad had had other plans before Brian was born. He knew from family conversations overheard on holidays that his dad had been going to college to be an architect. He didn't know what had derailed those plans, but he used to find drawings and layouts of houses in his dad's office in the basement.

"Come on, son," Mr. Johnson said before slamming the driver side door and going toward the house.

Brian was so lost in thought, he didn't even realize they were home. He hauled himself and his books and thermos out of the car. On the way to the door, he thought about detention, about the things that had been said that afternoon, and what those things meant to him. He was worried, unsure if they were all still going to be friends come Monday.

But he forgot all about the detention as he walked through the front door, and saw his mom waiting for him. His dad was standing beside her, looking slightly confused and very worried. Diane Johnson's face was pale, her lips pinched and white. Her blue eyes burned cold fire at him. Silently, she pointed to the couch. In her hand she held a notebook, neatly labeled in black magic marker. He didn't even have to look at the title to know which one it was. Brian felt the pressure crowding into his chest again, making it hard for him to breathe. He went to the couch and sat down.

She knows about the F, he thought. Oh, god, I'm not ready.