Perchance to Dream
Disclaimer: See Prologue
Summary: Stanley has a bad day.
-.-
At School I
-.-
Have I ever said that I hate school? Because I do. I hate school. I can't wait for May to end so I can graduate and get the fuck away from here. I doubt I'll ever come back. I don't really have any reason to visit "good old SPHS" when/if I visit home from college.
The place sucks. It needs a paint job and new lockers, and new teachers, and a lot of other new things that it'll never get. It could be demolished tomorrow and I wouldn't give two shits. I'd just sign up for online AP classes and teach myself from home for my last semester.
Today, though, my reasons for hating school are simple. For the first time in three years, I opened my mouth in class. It wasn't because I was called on, at least, not the first time. The first time I simply muttered "Ethan Allen" when my History teacher asked who had been the leader of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War and none of the other idiots in the class knew who the hell she was talking about.
After that, I was made to answer any question that went unanswered after thirty seconds. Who was the largest signer of the Declaration of Independence? Where did George Washington spend the winter of 1775? What's 5 times 2? What does the acronym ROY G. BIV stand for? John Hancock, Valley Forge, PA, 10, and the colors of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Have I mentioned that I go to school with idiots?
I can't believe myself. The only thing worse than the fact I opened my mouth without thinking the first time is the way my teachers asked me subsequent times. Like I was a fucking kindergartner or some retard who rides the little short bus. Like "Come on, Stanley, C'mon, boy!" They didn't say that, all they ever asked was "Stan," but their eyes were pleading with me and saying that.
I was followed by whispers in the hallway. Most were probably along the lines of "Oh My Gawd, it speaks!" A couple, though, at least were of a malicious nature. I know this because on my way to English, my last class before lunch, Clyde walked directly into me with an open bottle of water. First, he knocked me to the ground. Second, the bottle sloshed somewhere around half its contents all over my shirt.
I swore, loudly, and moved to get up, but was stopped by Clyde placing his boot on my chest.
"I don't appreciate being made to look like some sorta retard," he said. I glared at him, not really wanting to open my mouth and let out any of the retorts that were buzzing around my skull like angry bees.
"We cool? Just keep your fuckin smart mouth shut, like that, and we'll be fine. Have a great day, assface," he said, emptying the rest of the bottle on my shirt where his foot had been. Had my locker not been on my way to class, allowing me to pick up a sweatshirt and wear it over the drenched garment, I likely would have followed him and beat him upside the head with my Chemistry text.
As it was, I muttered curses to myself as I hurried through the hallways, determined not to be late to English. For reasons unbeknownst to me, we're studying the works of William Faulkner. We're working our way through The Sound and The Fury. As far as I can tell, it's a story about a retard and his family set in some place called "Yocknopatiffle" – or something – County, Mississippi. Mr. Quinn is sorta-kinda obsessed with the guy. Faulkner, not the retard. Although, he HAS been focusing on him a lot, so I dunno.
Now, even he's asking questions. Well, he always asks questions, but he's asking questions specifically of me. We're on what's supposedly the hardest part of the book to understand, the second one, and no one else appears to have bothered to read it.
"Mr. Marsh!" Mr. Quinn says. He has a very loud and commanding voice…he probably did theater once upon a time. Given the tightness of the pants he wears, and the fact that he seems to always have some article of pink clothing on, I'd go out on a limb and say he almost CERTAINLY did theater once upon a time.
"Sir?" I answer, wearily.
"On page 112, why do you think Quentin told his father that Caddy's pregnancy was the result of incest between them?" Oh, son of a bitch… That's not even a hard one!
"Um, well, Quentin's pretty much the epitome of a Southern gentleman, so he's really protective of girls and women, especially his little sister. He's sorta horrified when he finds out she got knocked up before getting married, and decided that he would share in her punishment in Hell, so he told his Dad this lie."
"But his father knows he's lying," Mr. Quinn points out, to the snickers of a couple of the kids, taking this as a rebuke of my intelligence.
"But the truth of it's not important, sir," I reply. "What's important is Quentin's motivation TO lie, and that's because he's very protective of his sister. He knows that what eventually happens to Caddy'll happen if their father finds out she got knocked up by someone before marriage, and probably thinks that he'll think differently if it's a result of promiscuity within the family."
"Interesting thought, Marsh," he replies. "Do you identify with Quentin, perhaps?"
"Would I lie to my parents if my sister got knocked up and say I did it, then get all angsty and jump off a bridge when they disown her? Um…first off, the thought of ANYONE wanting to knock up my sister is just disgusting, and second off, I think you've gotta be pretty dense to throw yourself off a bridge just because you don't like the way the world works."
"So…you're more like Jason then?"
"The cynical one that wants a lot of money? Yeah, I guess so. Of course, when you're in my position, it's pretty hard not to want a lot of money, know exactly what you'd do with it, and especially not to be cynical. Jeez, sir, stop tossing me softballs," I close sarcastically, leaning back and brushing a stray strand of hair away from my face.
The rest of English goes by rather smoothly, in my opinion. After that comes lunch, which usually is the most boring part of my day. A few years ago I was reluctant to enter the cafeteria because of all the whispers that forced me to keep my head down while I shuffled off towards the corner, as far as possible from my former status in the center of the room with all the other cool kids that were my friends.
After a few months, the whispers died down to nothing as my new routine became … well, routine. With the exception of the stray new kid who came over and made an attempt to sit with and befriend me before being dragged off and admonished by his guide, everyone left me alone. I've gotten used to this, like I've gotten used to everything in my new so-called life.
Thus, I'm more than a little disturbed when I'm greeted by a rush of whispers as I enter the cafeteria. I don't know what they think's up with me, and I'm not entirely sure I want to, but all this attention appears to be from the fact that I'm doing things again. I don't want to be doing things, I'm being forced to do things, but they don't understand that.
In the lunch line, I manage to avoid it all, but when I turn away from the counter, I run into Craig this time. I mean this literally, I run into Craig. I turn around and BAM, Craig. And, Craig's lunch tray. Which is covered in puddings, pastas, and salads. All of which find their way onto my sweatshirt, along with my own food, as I fall down again.
"Watch where you're going, genius," he sneers, dropping the tray on my head as he wanders back to the end of the line to get another lunch. I sigh in defeat, rubbing the back of my head as people step over me. None of the teachers that monitor the cafeteria come to my aid, nor do any of the students. By the time I'm able to pick myself up off the floor, there are only ten minutes left in lunch. Just about enough time for me to walk out of the lunchroom, into a Janitor's closet, "borrow" a garbage bag, and package up my probably ruined sweatshirt to make a trip home tonight.
Now down once again to my still-damp T-shirt from the Clyde Incident, I drop the bag off in my locker before heading to P.E. At least maybe it'll dry out in the arid atmosphere that is the locker room, while I change into a plain white T-shirt and J-Mart shorts.
I'm up in the gym before anyone else even enters the locker room. Coach gives me a funny look before marking me down in the attendance book and telling me to run three laps around the gym. Nodding, I start in on it, and I'm nearly done when the rest of the class starts to file in. Of course, I have to hurdle the legs of Jason, Kevin, and Token before – maybe ten feet from the finish – Cartman comes off the wall to shove me to the ground, sending me sprawling and the rest of the class into raucous laughter.
I can't help it. I get up, steaming mad, and storm over to Cartman.
"What the FUCK was that for, Fatass!"
"Ey! Shut up, poor-boy. You're the clumsy dumbfuck that fell down, not me," he scoffs.
"You shoved me, jackass!" I exclaim.
"Whatever, I so did not," he replies dismissively. My face is burning and I look like the pissed-off emote when he asks "Did any of you guys see me shove the poor kid?" When all of them reply with some variant of "No," I lose it. I snap and punch Cartman in the face, yanking him off the wall and to the ground, where I straddle his fat chest and continue to land blow after blow, flailing and kicking when a pair of strong arms restrain me and haul me off him.
"MARSH!" Coach screams in my ear. "DETENTION!"
"The Fatass shoved me!" I retort. "He started it, give HIM detention!"
"Cartman?" Coach asks.
"He's lying, Coach," Fatass replies. "Poor people can't tell the truth. They're genes don't allow it." He gets more laughs as Coach returns his attention to me.
"Detention, after school," he says, releasing me.
"Um, Coach?" a voice comes from the area where the girls are standing. "Cartman's lying. He shoved Stan while Stan was doing his laps."
"Miss Testaburger, do you have any reason why I should take your word over Mr. Cartman's?"
"We all saw it, sir," the girls say, and I feel a brief sense of … relief, I think is the best way to describe it.
"Cartman, you'll be joining Marsh in detention," Coach says flatly. "Now, all of you, except Marsh, three laps." I take a seat on the bleachers as the rest of the class does their laps. A few of the girls give me small smiles, while all of the guys give me glares like I'm going to get the beating of my life the first opportunity they get.
When they finish, I hop off the bleachers and go jog over to Coach, making sure I'm visible at all times so that none of them can pull anything.
"Dodgeball today, boys and girls," Coach says. "Boys versus girls. Marsh, you'll be playing with the girls." I glare at him as the rest of the boys start laughing. I HAVE to get this fucking hair cut. I fucking HAVE to.
Dodgeball's alright. We don't use hard-rubber balls because the school's worried about lawsuits and all that stuff, but a couple of the balls are old enough to hurt when hit with them. I manage to avoid those, for the most part.
I manage to avoid those, until it's down to me and Fatass for the title. He has both of them, and I only have one of the new foam balls. He winds up and hurls it, and it passes by my deflection attempt and smashes right into my face. I hear a crack of bone from my nose as I fall to the floor for the third time today with a cry, blood flowing down my face.
"CARTMAN GODDAMNIT!" Coach shouts. "You're disqualified. Girls win. Black, get Marsh to the nurse." Token hauls me up and shoves me towards the door. Deciding it's already ruined, I use my T-shirt to try and stop the bleeding until we get to the nurse's office. Once we arrive and the nurse sees the state I'm in, Token is shooed back to the Gym and I'm lain upon a bed while ice is fetched. And a spare T-shirt from the lost and found bin that's my size. Rolling my eyes, I accept both, pressing the ice to my face after I have shrugged into the T-shirt.
I'm not released to class until near the end of the day. The first place I go is my gym locker, to change back into my school clothes. The second is to my locker, to get changed for work. And after that, I make a small alteration to my hall pass and walk out of school ten minutes before last bell, heading downtown.
Greg lets me buy a cup of coffee and a muffin before starting my shift, to try and make up for the lunch I didn't get to eat. The day goes as most days go, with the last hour of my shift devoted to musical exploits, which help somewhat to relieve the stress of the day. This stress is the core result of making a slipup, which is not something I've done in years.
I don't know what the ramifications of this mistake will be. But as I pack up Delilah to take her home to practice some new songs, I know that they made today absolute fucking hell. And if they make the next few days hell…well, I'll just make an attempt to deal with them, just as I've dealt with all the hellish days I've had over the past few years.
I'm getting pretty fucking tired of this shit.
-.-
Notes: Well. Expect this to probably be the last update prior to Thanksgiving. From here on out, I plan to be swarmed with academic papers. The five-page analytic paper due the 8th has been moved back to the 15th; unfortunately … the 15th already HAD a paper due for it. So, now I have to double up on that day, with the rest of the month going to researching, writing, and editing my 10-page research paper due the 29th
Sigh.
Phoenix II