Jaime sighed, glad the school day was finally over. He'd have to stay a bit to work on some projects, but after that he could go distribute some of his résumés. He wasn't sure anybody would actually consider him because of his condition, but he was willing to try. After all, if there's a will there's a way, isn't that how the saying goes? He kept telling himself that the whole day, intent on not letting the whole situation bring him down. His dad was gone and it was up to him to ensure his family was alright.
Jaime wheeled himself to the school library, not running into anyone who'd bully him for once, and promptly entered. Although it was after school and just after the midterms, the library was still buzzing - although he didn't think something could buzz while being silent - with anxious students looking for books, working on projects, or sleeping in some dark corner.
He made his way to a vacant table, somewhere between the fantasy and psychology sections. Being as quiet as he could, Jaime emptied his backpack - filled with some pens, the school agenda, some notebooks with loose sheets given by the teachers and an old battered book held together by tape- onto the table and flipped through the pages to find what he was looking for.
He had to write a short story for his English literature class. Usually Jaime would spend that class half paying attention and half sleeping. However, when the teacher had mentioned writing a story as an assignment, he found himself excited. He had brought his favourite book for inspiration, although truthfully, Jaime could almost recall every passage by heart.
Turning to the book, he carefully opened it. He was greeted by a yellowed page with slightly smeared ink. It read "Property of Alberto Reyes," written in a childish imitation of cursive writing. Jaime's father had had that book since he was in second grade - where he learned to write in cursive, he would tell Jaime.
Carefully, Jaime turned the pages, many of the inner corners were slightly tattered, and only held in place by some clear tape. The book itself was older than Alberto by a few years. It had been published in 1949, about seven years before he was born.
Jaime recalled how his father had told him that his own father had given him, Jaime's father, his first edition copy of the book. He didn't know why, but that knowledge made Jaime feel giddy about his book. He knew it wasn't worth much on the market - most first editions fetched about ten dollars in acceptable condition - since his book was so battered. He didn't care though, it was one of the things his father had left him, and to Jaime, it meant the world.
He read the title aloud for what was probably the millionth time. "Gods, Graves and Scholars, by C.W. Ceram."
It wasn't a fantasy book per say, but Jaime found it difficult to believe everything he'd read in that book to be fact rather than fiction. He always thought if the author wanted to relay facts he should have written it like an essay and not a story. But who would find that interesting? he asked himself.
Without thinking about the issue further, Jaime started reading. He'd jot down some notes about some interesting passages in his notebook, or would make mental notes to check some of the facts when he had get the chance. He quickly found some interesting ideas and closed the book.
He started writing half-heartedly, but was quickly taken by inspiration and found he didn't want to stop. After finishing a couple pages and rereading them, he though,t even as a first draft, that it sucked. His writing style was just horrible. Whenever he'd try to make a detailed description or use metaphors it would sound too flowery, almost like a satire.
Hey Scarab, he thought.
What is it? Do you require assistance? it replied.
Can you, like... record my thoughts? Jaime awkwardly asked.
It could be arranged. It would greatly enhance your writing; that much is certain.
Despite having the scarab mock him, Jaime chuckled. It wasn't often the scarab displayed emotions, much less positive ones like humour. He let himself enjoy the small moment before replying.
Yeah, I know. You told me once that the armour can print things? How does that work? Like where do you get the paper?
The "paper" is in fact dead skin cells that-
Ew! Hermano, that is disgusting! Jaime visibly cringed.
That would otherwise simply be called dandruff.
Oh, uh... ok. So what happens to make skin paper?
It is a complicated process you do not have the mental capacity to comprehend at the moment. But to answer your question: yes, I can print things.
Jaime nodded to himself. This was good - perfect even. He could turn in an awesomely written story and he wouldn't even have to write it! He wished he'd have thought of using the scarab that way before!
Quickly glancing at the clock, Jaime notice he should be getting home soon. He should have left the library to deliver his résumés a while ago, but was so engrossed in his story that he'd lost track of the time. Cursing silently, Jaime put his things back in his pack, being extremely careful with his prized book, and left the library.
He quickly made his way to the deli where Tye had started working. Once inside, Tye immediately handed him a sandwich.
"Here, that's for you, Hermano," he said with a small smile.
With a quick thanks, Jaime exchanged his résumé for the sandwich and left.
Jaime made his way back to his house, making sure the sandwich wasn't crushed or undone during the trip. He reached his house and with great difficulty - his step-father decided that leaving a large wooden plank near the stairs would be enough for him to come and go. It's not like his family could afford anything better, but it was still frustratingly difficult.
Eh, a few months ago this would've been so easy, Jaime told himself while trying to push the wheels so he could roll up the plank. He somehow managed to shimmy myself to the door, and pull at a piece of rope tied to one end of the plan to pull it up. He opened the door, and with difficulty, managed to lift the front wheels of the chair into the house. The rest was easier and he pulled himself completely inside, slamming the door behind him.
Jaime looked into the living room. For once his step-father wasn't home, which meant he was probably at one local pub or another. Mama wouldn't be back for a while, and Milagro was doing her homework on the small table in the living room. She looked up at the doorway. Her smile widened when he gave her the sandwich .'From Tye', he told her with a wink. She blushed and sputtered some thanks.
He rolled back towards the stairs, and prepped himself for the embarrassment that he had to endure to get to his room. He took his backpack off the back of the chair and swung it onto his shoulders. Pushing himself off the chair, and landing on the stairs, he turned towards the now empty chair. He folded it up and stuffed it near the coats and shoes.
Rolling onto his stomach, his legs dangled uselessly over the last couple of steps. Breathing deeply, he started pulling himself towards the top of the staircase. It was an embarrassing and unpleasant endeavour and it would inevitably give him carpet burns during the process of shimmying up the stairs.
Milagro bent her neck to look at him, but stayed put. He had told them the first few nights that he wasn't dead weight to be carried around.
He made it halfway up the stairs when he had tp take a break. He felt hot and his arms were burning, sweat dampening his skin beneath his shirt. This is like doing pull ups nonstop, he complained to himself while catching his breath.
The scarab doesn't bother trying to force the armour onto him either. He, she or it knows that he never wanted to suit up again - excluding for homework - and that even if he did, not in front of his family.
With his breathing levelling off, he pulled himself up the rest of the way. Luckily, his room was the one nearest to the stairs; the door on the left. It's also the smallest, which suited him just fine. The bed is to the left of the door in the corner, and occupies a large part of the room. There's a small dresser on the right side, just out of the reach of the door. Next to the dresser is a small wooden worktable, and my dad's guitar in the far left corner, in front of the window. The paint on the walls is as old as me, an old blue just barely deeper than the one on my armour. The carpet is flattened against the ground and it offers no more softness, only dust and - if we had any - animal hair, that sort of stuff. He tossed his bag at the foot of the worktable, just next to the dresser.
He pulled himself onto the bed, the mattress sagging underneath his weight; the age-old lumps framing his body comfortably. Pulling out his wallet, he dropped it next to his bed, sighing.
Hey, how much do we have in our bank account? I ask the scarab.
Not enough - according the average amount of money a family of four should have, it replies.
"Mierda," he swore under his breath. He knew Mama wasn't home and Papa was gone, but habit tell him he's gonna get hit for swearing near Milagro - even when she is downstairs and not even within earshot.
He wished someone would just GIVE him money or something, that'd make things a hell of a lot easier.
What about charities? Although my personal pride -
You have pride? He interrupted.
It continued as if he hadn't interrupted. - wouldn't normally allow it, we have a family unit to sustain as well.
He shook his head. Mama and my step-father won't allow it. Mama because she thinks others need them more than us, and my step-father because his pride won't allow it... If only Robin Hood existed here in Texas, he thought derisively.
Robin does exist; he is of our ex-team-mate.
Not Rob, Robin HOOD. You know, steal from the rich and give to the poor? Search it online, it wouldn't kill ya to get someculture...He thought as he drifted off to sleep, even though it wasn't very late.
When Jaime woke up the next morning, the first thing that greeted him was the scarab saying: Jaime Reyes, our account now has sufficient funds for a family unit of four.