Here's my disclaimer
Fourth period seemed to go even quicker than normal. It was chemistry, so Scott wouldn't have minded had the circumstances been different. Unfortunately, once the bell rang he was supposed to be in Mr. Sundry's office.
His "suicide scare" yesterday had been effectively kept from Evelyn. Bobby, the idiot he was, apologized profusely for tackling him. Scott still wasn't sure how he'd managed to tackle him in eight foot water, Bobby being a stocky five ten.
The other three, with the possible exception of Angel, had kept a close eye on him the entire night. It wasn't as though Scott wanted to kill himself. He had briefly entertained the idea the day before. But he was glad Bobby had found him and stopped him, since he hated the idea of being weak. Although even if he wanted to, Jerry and Jack made it difficult, what with "forgetting" to leave a knife at his place. As if he would actually slit his own wrists at the dinner table, in between the potatoes and meatloaf.
The closer he got to Mr. Sundry's office, however, the more he wished he'd sunk to the bottom of the lake like a stone. He hovered outside the door nervously, entertaining the idea of bolting. What could the guidance counselor really do? The threat of being sent away lingered in his mind, and he closed his eyes and steeled himself, knocking lightly.
Mr. Sundry was at his desk reviewing some files. He chewed distractedly on the end of his pen. All things considered, it could be worse. Mr. Sundry was young and slim, with almost effeminately long brown hair and square black glasses. He was undoubtedly attractive.
Scott thanked every star he had that his future did not lay in the hands of Mr. Cowl, the sweaty, overweight math teacher with acne on his neck and a bad comb over. If it had to be a guy, at least he wasn't hideous.
"Scott." Mr. Sundry said, smiling slightly. "Sit." Scott did as he was told. Just because he was glad he wasn't sucking off Mr. Cowl didn't mean he was happy it was Mr. Sundry. "I'm glad you're here." Mr. Sundry leaned across his desk. "Do you know why?"
"Because-" Scott hesitated, digging his nails into the chair. "You told me to come back, and I did?"
"Sure. Why not. I'm just glad to see you. Come here." Scott felt alarms going off in his head. He stood again and moved over to the counselor.
Mr. Sundry touched his lip gently, still swollen slightly from the previous day. You couldn't really see it unless you knew where to look. Mr. Sundry, being the cause, knew where to look. He stood, towering over Scott, and tilted his head back, pressing his lips against Scott's much more gently than before.
Scott kept his eyes trained on the wall behind them, on a very important looking degree. He tried to read the words, but the letters were too small. Mr. Sundry's hands were going uncomfortably close to the waistline of his baggy jeans, his tongue begging entrance into Scott's mouth. He frantically concentrated harder on reading the word, struggling to make out the confusing letters as Mr. Sundry's hand pulled Scott's down the front of his boxers. The first letter was an R. No, maybe a B. Definitely a B. With his free hand, Mr. Sundry kept a hold on Scott's unoccupied wrist, his other hand busy. He reddened as Mr. Sundry came in a wet, sticky mess into his palm.
Mr. Sundry pulled back. "Bestow." Scott said stupidly, staring at the degree. His wrist was numb where the man was holding it, and Mr. Sundry gave him a funny look. He let him go and zipped up his pants.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Scott."
Scott left the office like the hounds of Hell were on his heels. He went to the bathroom and scrubbed his palm clean, until it was bleeding slightly. He rolled up his sleeves, staring at his wrists. One looked normal, with the exception of faint nail marks. Mr. Sundry had made him bleed yesterday. His lip was fine, except it still hurt to touch it. But his other wrist. Scott stared sadly at the red ring looped around it, already bruising.
Cursing, Scott dragged his shirtsleeves over his thumbs to hide his tender skin. He dampened a paper towel and wiped his eyes, trying to take the sting away. It was only November. Only fucking November. He would never get through until June.
Taking a deep breath, he sidled out of the bathroom and shuffled down the hall, hitching his backpack higher up on his shoulder. The thought of eating made him nauseous. Instead of going to the cafeteria, he headed for his locker, intent on sneaking a cigarette by the back door.
"Scott?" Jack and a few of his drug addict buddies were goofing off by a water fountain. Jack checked his watch and frowned. "Shouldn't you be eating lunch?"
"Um-" He tried to leave discreetly, saluting Jack mockingly.'
"Yeah, kiddo. What are you, twelve? You should get some snacks." His taller friend curled around Scott, looping his arm over his shoulders. Scott ducked away.
"Pete, lay off." Jack complained. Pete ruffled Scott's hair.
"Relax, Jackie. I'm just having a little bit of fun." He laughed, his arm heavy on Scott's shoulders again. His palm was stinging and his head hurt.
"Whoa kid. Are you okay?" Jack's other friend, a gangly boy with a nose ring and hair so red it looked like a crayon, yanked Pete away. "Yo, Petey, you make a habit of hurting little kids?"
"I'm fourteen." Scott said, rubbing his eyes. "See you, Jack." He bolted before either Jack, Pete, or the other guy could say anything else.