He was tired.
Too tired to mind the angered expression of the small lady sitting across from him. Dash could tell that she was annoyed, what, with him having adjusted himself in the chair for what seemed like thee fifth time in the last minute or so, but that nagging ache that whined upon his backside was enough for him to take that scowling squint that he'd known so well, and return it with an smile, if only to distract himself from...it. From the staring, the itching that made him want to retreat into the corner, to curl in on himself and disappear.
Anything to make her stop looking at him, to melt away from her anger for how could she be angry at him if he wasn't there?
How could she be angry if he wasn't there anymore?
Of course, if it were that easy, his mind posed with quiet resignation, then he wouldn't be here at all.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he pondered that possibility of doing it, making himself...disappear...but just as quickly discarded it.
Now wasn't the time.
A disjointed cough ahead of him through pursed lips called his attention, snapping his eyes back to the desk, but strangely enough, not to her gaze, scanning the intricate wood engravings of the furniture. Dash could still feel them, those eyes, knowing that she expected him to return the gesture, a tentative tapping of her finger on something he figured was her desk meant to capture his attention, or maybe stave off the irritation of having to talk to him.
It wasn't as if they were on the best of terms, anyway.
'What are you waiting for?'
'Look at her, look at her!'
'You should keep ignoring her, see what happens...'
Carefully, slowly, he breathed, stretching his features into a wide of a smile as he could muster, straightening his back and lifting his face where a grimace once stood. He had to be sure to ignore the twinge of irritation that he felt with himself at the notion of turning away, of frowning.
How or why would do that when he felt that he should be happy? How could he when a haughty grin cracked along his face?
He was always happy.
See? He was smiling.
"Oh, sorry. Did ya need somethin', Ishi? Hope I didn't do anything to get in trouble, and on such a beautiful day, too!" His voice was loud, too loud for such a small, quiet room, and more than that, he was a liar.
It was cold, wet, and grim outside, the distant voice of thunder almost comedic in its timing, despite him hoping that it had since stopped this morning, the rain persisting since the night before.
It would make getting home a lot wetter, he guessed, and a lot harder, his distant subconscious reminded him, though smiling sheepishly at the pressing look the woman was giving him. The boy found himself with that jittery shake that wormed through him when people did that, when they looked at him for too long. From across a pristine wooden desk, the tired, dark eyes watched him, stared at him, tapping away at dark mahogany until it abruptly stopped.
Of course, Dash came to attention at this, but he'd be lying if he said that he could focus everything that he had on her and only her; thoughts and whispers playing like silent curses in his head made that a bit...difficult.
"Mr. Baxter, I was hoping that you wouldn't be in trouble, but that may not be the case if you keep up this behavior going forward. I fear that you may not be taking seriously just how profoundly your tardiness, in-class actions, and lack of effort your grades." There was a breath, a moment of pondering in the still air as she watched him for a reaction, something she could latch onto.
But there was nothing as his smile never faltered.
'She has a point.'
'See, you aren't trying hard enough, you idiot.'
"Not to mention the fact that you were seen pretending to have a mental illness? To say that you have simply been out of hand for the whole of the mere two days that school has resumed its lessons is baffling to me, and an understatement to just how disruptive you've been thus far. You need to try harder to, if not for yourself, then for others, not to disrupt everyone with your nonsense, Mr. Baxter."
"Try...harder? Pretending to..." Dash could feel his smile waver, dissenting into a small frown as he averted his gaze, that veil of energy that he'd put on falling away for a breadth of a second and a wave of tiredness following suit.
It was true, wasn't it? Taking his mind as far as he could take it, he could remember getting a tardy slip just yesterday, the odd stares of his classmates, even his friends, as he all but stumbled to his seat, the seed of awkwardness burrowed deep as the lesson began to pick up speed again.
This wasn't anything new.
He should be used to it, being made into an example by others where being late and not doing your work would get you, he would give her that.
Maybe he just wasn't trying hard enough, just like she said.
He'd been trying, and failing, for years now to grasp what they were telling him, to understand the lessons, to turn in his meager work. It was in bitter memory that he recalled sitting there in the library, hours upon hours passing as his student tutor remained painfully absent, leaving him and his scrawled notes there as a spectacle that the other students, much smarter and clever than he, to gawk at. He couldn't recall how many days that he'd stayed after school to try to get help; usually he would settle for simply going home. but he guess that somewhere, deep in him, there was something that wanted to learn, to understand.
Though, after a while, it was bit much to ask of him to keep being the object of their amusement.
He could hear them, rumors and whispers about how stupid he looked, how he honestly thought that anyone would want to be caught next to him, helping him? It must have been a common train of thought as his seat was always left empty as the clock hands lumbered by.
He'd chosen to leave, and he didn't look back, though his grades suffered for it, neglected enough where he'd already failed several, if not every, class he had.
Of course, he couldn't let them see that he was as embarrassed, angry, and disappointed as he felt.
How silly would that look, he wondered?
It had been his own fault after all.
It had been foolish of him to even think that he could get help from the very people that he's shoved into lockers, or pushed around and teased; Dash figured it was their little way of getting back at him, of settling the score.
He couldn't blame them.
The teen could imagine that it was pretty liberating to know that you could help someone, but not doing it, be it from spite or otherwise.
This fell right into his "act", the pretending game he played, and he agreed.
Maybe he was making up the voices in his head, the way his mood seemed to take a nose-dive every other day; could he just...make it stop? Perhaps if he just willed it away, he wouldn't have to be such a bother, you know? Why should anyone have to deal with his shit?
"Not trying? Psh, I was, I mean, I am! I totally am. It's not my fault that the class can't handle me." To be honest, he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, her or himself. Not that it mattered, as she didn't seemed convinced, or maybe, he didn't say anything at all?
It was hard to tell. Everything felt sort of...fuzzy.
He couldn't even tell if he had spoken, or if these were just in his head.
It was always a bit hard to tell.
Whether he was really...anywhere, sometimes.
Seeing her raise a thin, sharp brow, he could tell that she was tired of him, that he patience was waning.
Though...who could blame her?
He was annoying and...and stupid.
He was really just a bother to, well, everyone.
Stupid.
STUPID.
STUPID.
His intuition could tell him everything that he thought that he already knew, watching as she seemed to ease her expression with a tired sigh before leaning back in her chair, opening the adjacent drawer, and pulling out a slip of paper. Silent as she scrawled down something along its lines, Dash couldn't help but readjust himself in the chair, noting with quiet annoyance the burning ache of his backside, and the quiet desperation of wanting to leave.
To go where, he didn't know.
"Mr. Baxter, I really want you to make out this year with good grades. This world...this world is different; you just can't account for sports and good looks to get you the things that you want. You have to want to do well, you need to try much harder than you have, and I will be calling your parents to arrange ways of doing so."
A breath passed, then another before Dash felt himself exhale a shaky breath, suddenly at attention that he hadn't been before.
Handing him the slip (or more like sliding it across the desk), the woman didn't think twice when the teen made no move to take it, a sickening pale flush drenching his features as his thoughts raced.
"Call my...parents? You...what do you...?" His hand seemed to drift on it's on toward his sleeves, scratching, scratching at the fabric, reading the words "Parent Conference" on the slip before his head began to spin.
No.
No, no, no.
She can't do that.
He couldn't...he couldn't let her do that.
Dad would be mad.
Mom would be mad.
He didn't like it when they got mad.
Oh, God, I'm so scared. Please help me.
Absently, he took the slip from the desk, bristling toward the ground as his heart went 'Thrum, Thrum', constantly beating in his chest, though he could vaguely register muffled words upon his ears, but they didn't make sense.
None of it seemed to make sense, not when the blood in his ears pounded, pounded away like insects on the brain.
What was happening?
He needed to...he needed to breathe.
It's...so warm...
Too...warm...
Burning...c-can't breathe...
It was through a touch from the woman that the boy felt his skin melt, pulsing like hot plasma through his veins as a shuddering breath bubbled past his lips.
She was talking, yelling, muttering; so many sounds, yet despite that, he could focus on nothing but the sticky sensation of her hand on him.
Their hands.
Touching him.
Pulling him.
Hitting him.
Please, I'll be good, I promise.
"Michael?! What is going on with you?!" Really, it was too fuzzy to discern, but he could have sworn that she looked almost...worried?
'No. N-no, no...,' The boy began, feeling his stomach begin to heave.
There's no way that anyone could be worried about him. She was probably just annoyed or angry.
Yeah, that made more sense, didn't it?
Why else would she have touched him. if not to punish him?
That's the only thing that made sense...but why didn't she do it, then?
"I...I-I...what?...," Taking his jacket sleeve, Dash wiped at his mouth, feeling the gleaming warmth of saliva dribbling down his lips, and equally so were the hot tears that slid down his cheeks, as clear as his eyes were blue.
Yet no more clearer than the budding torrents of embarrassment that flooded him in the moment, there, on the ground, his pants soaked with urine.
Michael , are you alright? It looks as though you've-," Breaking that quiet word was a slur of boisterous laughter, loud and resonant even in the sickly air of the office, drenched with the stench of waste and oppressing breath of tension. Leaning back on his hands, the teen almost appeared to shift entirely, donning that familiar, empty smile, lessening his cackle to a soft chuckle, avoiding her gaze all the same.
"Ah, well, do you think I could get to class? I'd hate to miss any more than I have already, you know?" Loosing another chuckle, the teen didn't wait to hear what she had to say, taking in hand in stringy backpack before trekking the length of the room.
He could still hear her calling his name as he left the space, but the sticky feeling of disgust kept his smile, that empty smile, plastered on his features.
