Chapter 3: Distractions


Richie made sure to wear long sleeves for the next couple days as the bruises from the Bang Baby scuffle faded. As if the punishment for his reckless behavior weren't already enough—Virgil was acting unsure and tentative around him—and on top of that, it was getting to be unbearably hot. Steam floated up from the asphalt and concrete, heat waves distorting the horizon. Everybody huddled in the shade during lunch, and Richie sweated buckets going from class to class.

The most unbearable part of his Wednesdays was physics class—not because he didn't like the class, but because it was always after lunch during the hottest part of the day. Even the most astute super geniuses were susceptible to post-lunch food coma.

"Hey Richie," Thomas Kim said as the boy took a seat next to him, jolting Richie out of his stupor. "You don't look so good."

Gee, ya think? Richie forced a smile. "I'm a little hot, is all. Nothing much."

"You should change into your gym shirt," Thomas commented, his nose wrinkling imperceptibly. "It might stink, but at least it's got short sleeves."

"Thanks for the advice, Tom… but you're in long sleeves yourself."

Thomas tugged at the collar of his button-up and adjusted his tie. "I've gotten used to it, I guess."

"Your dad still makes you wear a tie and a shirt to school?" Richie sighed. "Did you attend a private school back in Korea?"

"Well," Thomas said, "I only tested into a third-tier elementary school, which really disappointed my parents. I didn't understand why at the time."

Richie raised an eyebrow—testing to get into elementary schools? And he thought all the crap you needed for college—AP scores, SAT scores—was difficult.

"Well, it looked like it worked out for you, anyway," Richie mused. "You got into CalTech, right? That's pretty far away."

Thomas grinned. "I'm looking forward to it."

Their physics teacher walked in, and class started. Richie was past paying attention—senioritis was really starting to kick in, and he felt lazier than ever, especially when he was sitting next to workaholic Asian kid Thomas Kid. The kid really put everybody else to shame—smart as a button without the help of mutagenic gas. And with his Bang Baby past being common knowledge, Thomas probably milked it for all it was worth in his college app essays. Richie sighed, and opened his notebook.

He passed Daisy on his way out of class, and she gave him a speculative look, as always. He raised up his hands in a gesture of surrender and beat her to the punch. "Nobody yet, Daisy."

She frowned. "I really don't believe you, Richie. But we still got that bet going, so don't let us down, okay?"

"Just wait," he said, and headed off to his next class.

Taking bets? Honestly, it was kind of ridiculous. Then again, Richie was probably so wrapped up in his own world he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been told.

He saw Virgil across the hallway, looking sort of lost. Reflexively, Richie fished his cell phone from his pocket and began scrolling through old text messages, head bent down, pretending not to see the other boy.

All his text messages were from Virgil: Bro, meet me at the Burger Fool in twenty. Rich, what are you doing after school today. Something came up, dog, I'm gonna be late. Sorry.

When Richie looked up again, Virgil wasn't standing there anymore. He put his cell phone away and trudged on.

Virgil found him at lunch, sitting on one of the benches at the front of the school, flipping through his chemistry book. There was nothing Richie could do about it; no excuses, no reasons to jet. He cursed inwardly, he should have gone to office hours or something today, to see Mr. Dean about his homework for class—even though he got perfect scores on all of them.

"What's up, bro," Virgil said, trying to play it cool. Richie wanted to laugh.

"Nothing much," he said instead. "Just a little tired. You?"

Virgil set his sack lunch down on the bench with a thump and leaned back. "Don't give me that shit, Richie. It's been bugging you since the other day. But I just want to know what's been bugging you like this."

A little tired, a little hot, a little this, a little that. Richie was full of excuses, and he couldn't bring himself to lie again. Truth was, he was completely alert, completely full with all of what his senses were picking up—the slight breeze in the air, their shadows like puddles at their feet, the smell of Virgil next to him, like Calvin Klein cologne and soap. He really hated that cologne. It was a present Daisy had gotten for him a couple months ago, and he still wore it even though there was nothing between them now. Richie had mentioned it to him one time, to which Virgil had protested, what? It's good stuff. Might as well use it. Typical.

"Sorry I chewed you out the other day," Virgil started, but Richie cut him off.

"It was my fault," Richie said. "I didn't ask the right questions of the authorities. I handled it pretty badly. If anybody's going to apologize, Virg, it's me."

But Virgil wasn't placated. "I just wondered how they managed to corner the Bang Baby in the first place, you know? Sometimes they don't need us, so we shouldn't have rushed in like that—"

"Cut the "we" crap, Virgil. I don't need you to sugarcoat it for me." Richie balled his fists in his lap. "I ran off first. I saw trouble, and I wanted to fix it." No need to tell why he ran off, really. Trouble? Yeah, it wasn't Bang Baby trouble that drove him off. He'd come dangerously close to letting another piece of Freud slip from his talkative, tell-all mouth.

"It's like—" Virgil said, his voice straining. Richie knew this was hard for him, knew it was hard for Virgil to try to explain things to Richie like he was a little kid. "It's like this, bro. Just because it's a Bang Baby doesn't mean that he—or she—is bad, you know? Just because the police are following him doesn't mean that he's got an agenda."

"This coming from the Bang Baby with the biggest agenda of all of them."

"Hey, hey." Virgil's voice was light, terribly cautious. Richie hated it when Virgil did this, handled him with kid gloves. Just get pissed already, Richie fumed. "I mean," Virgil continued, "Ebon's probably got a bigger agenda than we do."

"I don't have an agenda." Richie stood up. "Actually, the only thing on my agenda right now is to finish school. Graduate. And before all of that, get a date."

"For prom?" Virgil raised an eyebrow. The conversation was venturing into safe territory; Virgil felt it was safe to ask questions. Richie closed his eyes and let out a small sigh.

"Yeah," he continued on anyway, despite not wanting to discuss the topic in depth. "Apparently they've got some sort of bet as to who I should go out with."

"Who's 'they?'" Virgil made quote signs in the air.

"Daisy and some of the girls."

Virgil's eyes brightened as if in the throes of a brilliant idea. "You know, you should ask one of them."

Richie shrugged, feeling keenly self-conscious. "I'm sure most of them have dates already."

"You never know until you try."

"It's easy for you, man." Now he was getting angry, and for no good reason. "They just come to you, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Virgil's voice was getting louder, too.

"I'm talking about Daisy." Richie thrust his chin out defiantly. "She's like the ultimate backup plan, right?"

"It's not like that, Richie!" Virgil's eyes flashed. Richie swore he saw little purple sparks of electricity fly off Virgil's head.

"Save it," Richie said coolly. "I need a date. I know that it's not going to be Daisy."

"Who's gonna go with you if your attitude's like that, man?"

Richie pretended not to hear him, staring ahead at the basketball courts. The bell rang after a length pause between them. Richie mumbled a hasty goodbye, picking up his backpack and walking to his next class, and resisted the urge to look back apologetically.

"Madelyn, you have a date for prom yet?"

The girl in question slammed her locker shut and whirled around to face Richie, a look of intense scrutiny on her face. Richie felt like he was being cooked on a skillet. Don't even talk about preheating the oven to four hundred and fifty degrees—Madelyn's eyes are like the sun.

"Why are you asking me?" She said. Her voice was terse, like she was in a hurry. The girl always walked with her nose in the air, eyelashes full of mascara, her Mercedes Benz parked out way in the back of the school parking lot so nobody would dent it. The last bell had rung. Richie had been waiting by her locker for twenty minutes before she showed up, and the hallways were just about deserted.

"Because your eyes are like the sun," he said, almost truthfully.

Madelyn burst out into peals of laughter. "That's not how you do it, Foley."

"Okay," Richie sucked in his breath and tried puffing up his chest. "I need a date."

"Nope," Madelyn tsked under her breath. "That's not right either."

"Do you do karate?" Richie raised an eyebrow.

The petite girl narrowed her eyes and took a step back, raking her eyes up and down Richie. "I could school your ass, if that's what you mean."

"Because your body is kicking," Richie deadpanned.

They stared at each other, neither wanting to back down to the other. Finally, Madelyn looked away, fiddled with her books. She let out an exasperated sigh.

"Okay, fine. But do it the right way tomorrow. Red roses are the tackiest thing ever. I want two dozen white roses."

"You're not going to a funeral…" Richie murmured.

Madelyn turned on her heel and glared at him. "It'll be your funeral if you don't. I'll tell the whole school that Richard Foley got down on his knees begged me to take him to prom like a big baby."

Richie watched her walk away, wondering how she managed to wear the same damn plaid skirt every day, and why the hell it was so short. The consensus among guys was that yeah, Madelyn was a hottie, but nobody wanted their dick cut off when they weren't looking. "You couldn't get a date even if you tried," he called down the hallway, on an impulse. "We're in the same boat."

"Don't be condescending, Foley," Madelyn called back, heels clicking smartly on the tile. "Who's asking whom?"

The next day it was all over school, just shy of being front page news in the paper. There was hardly anything Richie could do for damage control, since he came to school with rather obviously carrying a lush and fragrant bouquet of two dozen white roses in his hand, and a box of chocolate in the other in case the white roses weren't enough. He had to carry the former through the day until he could present the offering to his lucky date during lunch.

When he finally tracked her down, Richie didn't receive half of the accolades that he had expected in the first place (and he had deliberately kept his expectations low).

"You got roses without baby's breath," Madelyn fumed. "And I'm only worth a box of $3.99 drugstore chocolates? I get it, Richard." Her posse gave Richie alarmed, indignant looks and they had begun to attract the attention of a few lunch-goers. He could have sworn that Madelyn was starting to foam at the mouth, and flames were licking at the corners of her lips. (He deduced that if her eyes burned like the sun and her mouth breathed fire, Madelyn's head must therefore be a huge ball of condensed hot gas.)

"What kind of a date doesn't know that roses are automatically guaranteed with baby's breath? I mean, did you tell the florist to deliberately pick out the baby's breath when you bought them? Did you save like, a buck for your efforts? Oh poor, poor Richie Foley, too poor to even ask a girl out to prom the right way—"

"I'll just take them back, then," Richie said indifferently, reaching out for the flowers.

"Oh, no." Madelyn pulled the bouquet out of his reach, equally cool. She stuck her nose into the bouquet and took two satisfied sniffs. "I don't think so. Leave the chocolates on the lunch table, I don't even want to touch them. Have you kept them in your backpack for like two weeks? The box is all dented on the side. I can't even believe you. Look, just make sure you buy the tickets today."

Said ticket-buying would have to take place with Daisy, who was not going to be pleased with his choice of prom date. Richie felt a bit of petty, maniacal glee when he finally sought her out—his choice had probably thrown all bets off the table. He wondered what lucky soul had put her chips on Madelyn; she'd be cashing out soon enough.

Daisy gave him cow-eyes from halfway across the quad before they were finally within talking distance. "Please, Richie, tell me it isn't true."

"I'll need two tickets, Daisy." Richie pulled out his wallet. "How much is that? Like a hundred bucks?"

"A hundred-seventy," Daisy replied reflexively. "But Richie—!"

Richie blanched at the price, but sucked it up, digging around reluctantly in his wallet. "Here you go."

"Richie, who made you ask Madelyn?" She rubbed her temples, as if fending off a migraine. "You could have done so much better."

"Ask Virgil," Richie shrugged, pocketing the change and shoving the tickets into his wallet. "Apparently he thought my attitude wasn't going to land me anybody."

"So you had to choose the mother of all bridezillas?" Daisy protested. "What, to get back at him?"

Richie held his hands up in defense. "Chill out, okay? I didn't ask her to marry me. It's just a dance."

"Richard Osgood Foley," Daisy pursed her lips, and Richie wondered why people liked calling him by his full name when they were pissed at him, "she's going to get so anal on you. She's going to have you wound around her pinky finger and if you don't listen to her, she's going to go into bitch fit mode. You're not going to have a good time. Rethink it."

Richie took a step back. "You're being awfully commanding yourself—and it's not like I can de-invite her."

"I'm just trying to tell you as a friend. I don't want you to regret your decision. You should go with—" Daisy shrugged helplessly. "With—"

"I'm sorry you didn't win your bet," Richie said gently, trying to keep as much sarcasm out of his voice. "But this is my decision. And plus, if Madelyn calls all the shots on prom night, I'll have less to worry about."

"She's a control freak," Daisy shot. "You'll be miserable."

Whatever, Richie thought. She's just a marginal addition to my total misery. "I wouldn't worry about it." He tucked his wallet back in his pocket and gave her a cheery smile. "I'll talk to you later, Daisy."

The rest of the day passed by without much commotion, though Richie endured his share of stares and whispers from the senior class during passing periods. He texted Virgil saying that he'd be going straight to the Gas Station and that Virgil didn't need to wait up for him. Though the day had passed just like any other for the most part, Richie was exhausted to his bones.

It was blistering hot outside, and Richie had the urge to change into his Gear costume right that moment so he could jet to the Gas Station instead of walk. But that was the catch with having two identities—you had to maintain the other one.

He had been hard at work in the basement lab for about two hours when the door slammed upstairs. Virgil came downstairs moments later, flinging his backpack onto the chair across Richie, leaning over the counter.

A few moments of silence passed before Virgil spoke up. "Nice to know you got it all straightened out, man."

Richie figured he was talking about his choice of a date. "You never know how it might turn out." Richie shrugged, and looked up.

He was surprised at what he saw. Far from being sarcastic in any way, Virgil's smile was easy and forgiving—like he forgave Richie for all his silliness with Madelyn, like he forgave Madelyn for being such a bitch.

"Guess we gotta hope for the best," Virgil said, and kept on smiling. "I mean, I don't know what the big deal is with everybody. I think she's pretty cute, and if you can put up with her attitude—well, good for you."

"I've handled Bang Babies with worse attitudes," Richie said flippantly. "Taking Madelyn to prom will be a walk in the park."

Virgil gave him an amused glance and shrugged his shoulders. "If you say so."

"I do," Richie retorted, and, embarrassed at his lame reply, ducked his head to hide the blush he could feel coming on.

With nothing more to say, Virgil turned on the television and began doing pushups and situps, and Richie continued at his workstation.

He decided to call it quits around seven, and Virgil asked if he wanted to come over to his place for dinner. They headed back to the Hawkins residence, the walk a little more quiet than usual, with Virgil resorting to commenting on the weather as a last resort. Richie tried not to think about it too hard and managed to keep complicated thoughts at bay until they arrived at Virgil's front step, the smell of basil and garlic wafting in the air.

"Italian, my favorite." Virgil opened the door, all smiles. "Sharon, you better not have burned the garlic bread!"

"I'm saving those pieces for you," Sharon called back from the kitchen. "Hurry up and set the table! I thought you two were going to be back fifteen minutes ago."

Richie followed Virgil into the kitchen, letting himself open up to the pleasant normality that pervaded the Hawkins residence—the Italian cooking, the sounds of playful banter in the kitchen between Virgil and Sharon, Mr. Hawkins coming through downstairs, his footsteps light and cheery, his voice warm as he greeted Richie, like Richie was a part of the family. Same old, same old.

That was, until he accidentally spilled some marinara sauce on himself while helping himself to the spaghetti, prompting an outcry from Sharon and a grin from Virgil, causing him to start. He regained composure as soon as he could manage, and looked busy by dabbing a napkin, somewhat futilely, at the red stain on his shirt.

That weekend, Daisy insisted on accompanying Virgil and Richie to the Men's Wearhouse to help them pick their tuxedos, citing defensively (before either of them had even asked) that the boys probably had no idea what would look good on them and what wouldn't. Richie wasn't fooled by her excuse, seeing the pink pooling in her cheeks, but Virgil had just sighed good-naturedly, as he was prone to do, and accepted Daisy's offer.

To be fair, Daisy was actually doing an active job and not spending all her time ogling Virgil, which was how he was in this situation right now. He just hoped that his voice didn't reflect the irritation he felt.

"That cut just isn't right for you, Richie," Daisy grimaced. Richie looked at himself in the mirror. He had reserved a tuxedo online—pigeon-grey, three-button, non-vented, 100% wool, and Ralph Lauren. The website had guaranteed that it would be the perfect look to any contemporary event. Richie wasn't exactly sure what that meant, or why he had remembered all those details, but he supposed this was just one of the perks of being a super-genius with a super memory.

"But it's Ralph Lauren." He summoned his best sagely look, hoping that the mention of a designer label would convince Daisy that he knew what he was doing—or at least get her off his case.

Virgil both blinked back at him. "Ralph who?" Virgil's eyes were round. Richie winced and realized what he had just said and how it had sounded. Okay, maybe it hadn't been a great idea to show off.

But Daisy wasn't even remotely fazed. "I just think the Ralph Lauren is a bit… mature for you, Richie. It makes you look old. Now if you're looking for something young, Cavalli is—"

Virgil came to his rescue. "Well, Madelyn did say that she'd hoped that a Dakota U guy would ask her to prom, but she had to settle for Richie. This definitely makes him look older and more distinguished." Richie rolled his eyes at Virgil. The other boy blinked, big chocolate brown eyes feigning innocence. "What?"

"Seriously, guys," Daisy sighed. "But Richie, if you're sure about it—"

"I'm sure."

"—then I'm going to help Virgil with his tux." She hooked Virgil's arm with hers and dragged him down the aisle. Richie watched them stroll off in the reflection of the mirror, and was about to look away when Virgil looked over his shoulder, met Richie's eyes in the mirror, grimacing, mouthing help me!

Richie smirked back, and shifted his gaze back down to his suit.

The dark grey of his suit complemented the ensemble he'd chosen to wear underneath—a white vest with a champagne colored shirt, a black tie. It was a little mature, Daisy was right. The suit put at least a few years on him—but that was how he wanted to feel. Looking into the mirror, he wondered if he wasn't actually looking into the future—Richard Foley, 22 years old, an MIT graduate with a bachelor's—or even a master's, if he really wanted—in computer science, electrical engineering, molecular biology—maybe even phi beta kappa, going to work for the Real World. He wondered where he'd be, this Ralph-Lauren-suited person, if he'd be going by Richie, Richard, or who knew, maybe even Dick (that thought was frankly horrifying)—and if he'd still be wearing glasses or if he'd be a contacts sort of guy, four years from now.

He bit his lip, concentrated a little harder on the image of his face, watching it squint and relax, alternating, little wrinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. This face—would it still be hidden from the world, behind Gear's helmet? He wondered if he'd have gone public, giving speeches to underprivileged kids and politicians, touring around on the lecture circuit. He wondered if people would care about what he had to say, if his opinion mattered, how many papers he would have published by then. Maybe he'd be sitting at a desk job, making a hundred grand a year, doing his thing as a researcher, consultant, or analyst for a private firm, the CIA, or the Department of Homeland Security—or maybe he'd still be riding the air currents on his jet boots, soaring behind Static—

Would he be alone?

Present Richie looked at future Richie, unknowing and unsure—future Richie looked back, his gaze just as lost, as if he couldn't believe that he could have been this person, so many years ago, a skinny teenager in a Ralph Lauren suit, shaking in a rented pair of Kenneth Coles.

His eyes grew hot, and Richie looked away from his reflection quickly, just as Daisy called his name and told him to come to see Virgil's tux.

Richie couldn't think of a better distraction. Of course, his super-sized brain wouldn't let him rest on that thought, though, and self-directed inquires flowered—distraction? what's the context for your distraction? Why do you want to be distracted? What are the alternatives to being distracted by this? He walked over to the dressing room area, hands in his pockets, fingering at the lint, thoughts bursting in his head, noisy and annoyingly articulate, super-genius thoughts, frameworks, lines of questioning intent on divining the truth within the phenomenon.

Daisy waved her hands with a theatrical flourish, her grin plastered happily on her rosy face. It was obvious that she was crushing on Virgil to just about everybody except Virgil, and Richie was almost envious of her lack of self-consciousness.

"Well, what do you think?" She gestured proudly and almost possessively, as if she were the one who had designed and made the suit, and Richie was just there to admire her handiwork.

The tuxedo-wearer in question was outfitted in a black shirt with a dark grey vest underneath a fitted, creamy off-white suit. It brought out the rich chocolate hue of Virgil's skin.

"…I like the colors," Richie managed. His voice sounded abnormally flat, even to him.

Virgil tensed and Daisy immediately looked alarmed, looking back at Virgil as if she had spilled something on him without knowing it, or had ruined the effect in some way. "That's it?" She made a raspberry noise and stared playful daggers at Richie. "Oh come on. He looks great!"

And reluctantly, Richie let himself see the whole picture.

Virgil's broad shoulders carried the suit very well. His pose—unaffected, so it couldn't really be called a pose—seemed out of the pages of a men's fashion magazine, on the suave and self-assured side. Richie wondered absently if Virgil had been practicing this pose, if he was actually taking himself seriously with his hand oh-so-casually placed in his pocket like that.

For all his posturing, Virgil's face betrayed a hint of embarrassment, but chocolate-colored eyes stared defiantly into Richie's own as their gazes met. Richie felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart pound louder and faster.

Distraction, his brain screamed, what is—

Richie blinked and in that instant that his eyes were closed, he was looking inward at the millions of Richies in his central cortex, slaving away ardently in front of their neuron-computers, inputting command lines and codes at frenetic paces, shouting back and forth to each other like stock brokers except they weren't watching the NYSE, they were watching the rise in his heart rate, body temperature, the expansion of his blood vessels, trying to regulate with rationality the speed at which his blood was driving through his circulatory system, everything humming madly.

Shut up.

The humming ceased with an audible click. The Richies went on a coffee break. No more what-ifs, no more suppositions and hypotheses and solving the equations for all the variables. For one week.

He could manage that much, couldn't he?

Richie smiled slowly, letting himself all the movement of the muscles in his lips and his face, the way his left eyebrow was cocking upwards, the warm, base feeling that pooled in his chest and at the bottom of his stomach. He dragged his eyes away from Virgil's, followed the length of Virgil's tie into the vest, down the five cloth buttons, resting momentarily on the shiny silver of the belt buckle before moving down the sharp creases of the slacks, his gaze finally ending at the sheen of the black patent leather shoes. His head still tilted downwards, he flicked his gaze back up and met Virgil's eyes again, letting his smile widen imperceptibly. The other boy's face was flushed, his jaw clenched with tension.

"Well?" Daisy was getting impatient.

Richie shrugged nonchalantly. "It's a little flashy, but I like it."

Brushing past the two of them, Richie ignored Daisy's expression of confusion and Virgil's half-murmured, sotto voce um, Rich?

"I'm going to get changed—meet you by the registers. Oh, and you guys want to grab a smoothie after we pay?"

Notes

Thanks for tuning into Chapter 3 of Disambiguation! I'm so thrilled that there still is enthusiasm for this story and I'm very excited to be starting this up again. :) This chapter had been in hiatus for a long time and I sincerely apologize for the two-year delay. I hope that writer's block doesn't hit again for a good while…

If you enjoyed this chapter, I would love so much to hear your feedback! I thrive on reviews and it definitely helps me to gauge the interest in the story so I can invest the time into writing quality future chapters. I promise that the next chapter will see some more action and drama between our boys... ;)

Cheers,

radishface