Starstruck

Chapter Three: Make You Fall Real Hard In Love

By: Jondy Macmillan

My family moved from California not long after I met Christophe. Frankly, I was relieved. I didn't know what to do when my father forced us to spend time together; whether to be apologetic and friendly or to fake a stiff upper lip and act like I was proud of the fact my mum had called me a ruffian in the wake of our fight.

He was nothing but angry, sullen, and silent for the whole of our meetings, and well…I was six. I wanted sunshine and smiles and hugs from my mum. We weren't exactly compatible.

So yes, the move was a relief, for a little while. It was a new place, new friends to make, new lies to tell. Ah, that last bit.

Somehow I'd gotten it into my head that being the son of a sailor man wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I decided I'd be infinitely more interesting to my new schoolmates if they thought perhaps I was descended from a foreign dignitary. Of course, the other six year olds had no clue what a dignitary was, so I opted for the next best thing.

I became Prince Gregory.

For a little while.

We shifted from town to town so quickly in those years that no one had time to catch me in a lie. My mum didn't put it to rights; she knew, but she figured it was something I'd get bored of, like every other game of make-believe. I was close to the point of giving up the whole charade, actually, when I got called out.

It went down like this; I walked into class one morning, fully intent on being surrounded by a gaggle of girls during recess who would beg me to regale them with tales of princesses and unicorns and even the occasional dragon when my world shattered. There, standing in a pair of muddy jeans and a stained white t-shirt, looking like he'd just run through a tornado, was Christophe.

I just knew he was going to ruin everything. From across the classroom, he met my eyes. Only a flicker, only for a second. It bothered me that he wasn't acknowledging my presence, that his face stayed expressionless. I was so scared, in a way I'd only ever been when I'd done something horrid, like break my mother's favorite vase or track mud all over the white carpets; but I was going to use my time wisely. I spent my entire math lesson agonizing over what spin I could give my story, how I could prove my word over Christophe's when he inevitably spilled the beans to everybody. I would have spent all of my English lessons doing the same, had a knock not sounded off at our door.

One of the older kids, a fifth grader, was standing there in that awkward-but-cooler-than-thou way older kids always had. Hands shoved in their pockets in deference to the adults, but their chin held a little higher than all us first graders could ever manage. Fifth graders were worldly, in all the ways we wanted to be.

This one bowed his head a little, but still managed to look snotty and stuck up. When he told the teacher that I was wanted in the principal's office, his eyes were trained straight on me.

My stomach turned. This was all Christophe's fault. It had to be. I'd never once in my life been made to see the principal, and now suddenly I was being corralled in there like some kind of delinquent. The fifth grader walked me there, an executioner at my heels. He kicked the backs of my shoes vindictively, and I could feel tears welling in my eyes.

What if they'd found out? It was just a stupid lie. It wasn't hurting anyone. Not really.

So why was guilt pooling in my stomach?

I knew I'd done something wrong, and maybe that's why my face burned red the moment I finally came to stand before our principal.

She was kind. She dismissed the haughty fifth grader and knelt down on one knee to meet my eyes. I had trouble meeting hers in return as she earnestly explained that lying came in conflict with the school's zero tolerance policy because it could lead to larger, more dangerous lies.

I may have cried a little; I wasn't used to being on the bad side of authority.

By the time I'd gotten my slap-on-the-wrist warning and was sent out to recess, my dad's voice was running on repeat in my head.

"Cowboy up, son."

That's what he'd say when I'd fall and scrape my knee, and wanted nothing more than somebody to kiss my boo boos away.

"Cowboy up, son," he'd say, instead of kissing my wounds. He'd ruffle my hair and smile and whirl me around in his arms until I was smiling too, and had completely forgotten that I wanted something as mushy and gooey as a stupid kiss.

Except now, instead of smiling, I was pissed. Well, as pissed as a six year old can be. I passed the fifth grader in the hallway and he smirked, like I was a bug he was deciding to let live, just this once.

I marched out onto the field where we had recess. Populated by a sandbox, a swing set, and my entire first grade class; it looked like a battlefield to me. Christophe was sitting beneath the lone tree at the west corner of the sandbox. His pale arms sticking out of his t-shirt looked sallow and malnourished, and for a second I wanted to give him my lunch instead of trying to make sure he could never eat solid food again.

The second passed.

Just before I reached him, a group of girls I knew pretty well walked by. They cast me pitying looks. The principal had explained that she wouldn't call out my lie. It was up to me to build integrity and all that. So I knew what those looks meant; Christophe hadn't just told the teachers that I wasn't who I claimed to be. He'd told everybody.

My vision went red.

The next thing I knew, I was standing over Christophe, chest heaving, knuckles covered in blood that must have come from his face judging by the amount flowing free from his nose. He was glaring up at me with murder in his eyes. Then he lunged at me. It was a repeat of the day we'd met with no chaperones to step in and tear us apart.

Christophe tackled me to the ground, kicking his foot into my gut and shoving his elbow into my face, in the hollows of my eyelids so that I could barely see to fight back. I clawed at his hair and his face, my fingers slick from coming in contact with his bloody nose. Eventually I found a foothold and managed to flip us over, so that he writhed beneath me, fists and feet flying like a hissing, spitting cat. I punched him and punched him and punched him 'til I wasn't really aiming anymore, just trying to make him hurt, because he'd hurt me.

It all lasted a minute, maybe. Except when a teacher pulled the two of us apart, I was exhausted, as though I'd been pummeling him for hours. He regarded me warily out of the corner of his fresh black eye. It made me feel like I was mentally unsound and might attack at any moment.

We were taken to see the principal. It was my second trip that day, and this time, there was no kneeling down to my level or gentle voice. She called in our parents with brisk professionalism, and half an hour later, the two of us were being dragged out of school to the local McDonald's.

Why McDonald's, you ask?

Well, the 'rents wanted to discuss us. Christophe's dad and mine were reasonable about the whole thing; neither was fussed about something as teensy as a schoolyard fight.

Mum and Mrs. DeLorne weren't having any of it.

Christophe and I sat on a bench away from them, both watching with sullen intensity. At first, when I saw the conversation slowly going in Mrs. DeLorne's favor, I thought it was a good thing. Perhaps we were to be moving again?

The thought gave me cool relief.

Until they called us over, that is. Our parents sat us down and explained that we'd been displaying increasing amounts of unacceptable behavior. To Christophe it seemed like the speech was old news. His dad delivered it in a slow drawl that seemed steady and familiar. My father stumbled over the words and kept glancing at mum in askance. 'Do I really have to say this?' his eyes demanded.

By the time they were done, all I could do was sputter in a meek voice, "Y-you're sending us away?"

Christophe just grinned; more of a fierce baring of his teeth than an expression of happiness. Like a dog showing some fang.

Mum sipped on her soda straw with a grimace, as though she couldn't find the words to explain what was happening. Finally she withdrew, licked her lips, and murmured, "Gregory, honey. It's only for a few months."

"Yardale is a fine school, son," my father said with absolutely no conviction at all. He didn't want to ship me off to boarding school. I could see it in his expression.

It was Mrs. DeLorne, I knew, who had planted this seed. She wanted to be rid of her wretch of a son, Christophe, and somehow had succeeded in luring my parents into allying with her. Once she'd planted the seed of doubt that I might be trouble, my mum had jumped on board, hoping to stave off the problem before it grew.

Dad was a sailor, a tried and true squid, and he wouldn't- couldn't say no to a curriculum that was structured with uniformity, discipline, and teamwork. It would've been like saying no to the mores of the Navy. Mr. DeLorne too.

That was the problem with growing up as a military brat. I learned quick that my father had the capacity to be a good bit more childish than I ever could hope to be. At the same time I was boxed in with the expectation that I could submit to the same strict regimen that he'd been forced through in basic training. I was supposed to take all of the blows with less of a childhood. It didn't seem fair.

It wasn't fair.

"Mum, no, mum, please!" my voice got shrill as I tugged to her hem, slipped under the table and clung to her knee. She glanced away, ashamed of me. It was the first time I'd really comprehended it was possible for my mother to look at me with anything but love and pride. I'd disappointed her before, but never on this level. Never to the degree that she'd wanted to be rid of me.

"Dad," I glanced up at him, knowing my cause was already lost.

At the time, Christophe's silence hadn't struck me at odd. I'd thought it was just a peculiar character trait of his; maybe even residual guilt for ratting me out.

It never occurred to me that maybe the word 'Yardale' had left him paralyzed.

With fear.

A/N: Why hello, there. Long time, no see. I haven't forgotten about this story, but thank you for the reviews that ended up convincing me to post sooner rather than later. I'd missed these two. I regret that I'm again posting a rather short chapter, but I really do think the next few will be longer. And hey- Yardale! That should be exciting. Maybe Christophe might even get -gaspshockawe- dialogue! Please review!