Okay. This is about three pages less than usual. However, you've only had to wait sixteen days or so. The reason the chapter is short is that the ending is one of those natural breaks in writing. I like those. I know I was planning on a really long chapter 7, but hey, I took less than a month to update. Chapter 8 will most likely include the rest of Speech Class, Ceramics, and probably Ed's home life. Actually, Chapter 8 will include Ed At Home. I've started work on another Eden fic that's been in my head for ages. It's one of the few that has an ending planned.
I don't own Anne Rice. Nor do I own Rapist Glasses ™, Serial Killer Vans ™, Pedophile Beards ™, Public Masturbator Trench Coats ™, or There's Got To Be Something Wrong With That Guy Hat ™. (If you're confused, then you should look up "Rapist glasses" and "Pedophile Beards" on YouTube)
Considering how little happens in this chapter, I swear I will update at quickly as possible. So, if Potions can type roughly two pages per day, how long will it take until she has 1O? Now add five days (beta delays) to that and that's what I'm aiming for. Now take that and multiply it by 1.2 for unproductive boredom and .9O684. Write an equation, graph the two lines, median-median style, average them together. Repeat three times to make sure you haven't screwed up, compare with at least seven other people, and by the time you have the correct answer I should be done.
…
History starts off surprisingly well. There's no quiz or large overhead images of Mr. Hughes's daughter projected on the board. A quick glance around the room reveals that there's no Hughes either. That's odd. Mr. Hughes rarely misses a day of teaching unless it's a family emergency.
I spot the sub first.
He's in the back corner of the room sitting at Mr. Hughes's desk, looking through a stack of papers. I examine him out of the corner of my eye, while Russell scans the grade sheet Hughes stapled to the wall last week. The sub is an average looking man with nondescript face. His mousy brown hair is beginning to recede and his odd, vaguely round, vaguely square jaw is covered in small tufts of hair. The light glints off his glasses as he looks up. I start and look away.
"Are you okay, Ed?" Russell asks, walking away from the grades.
"Hmm? Yeah, I'm okay," I say, before asking. "Why?"
"Oh nothing," Russell says. "It's just you would've normally made some comment about how checking your grades every day is right up there with checking the refrigerator every five minutes on the list of OCD signs."
"Right," I mutter sarcastically.
"Really, are you okay?" Russell asks again.
"I've never been better," I grind out. Even if I wasn't okay—which I'm not, because I'm actually okay—I'd still resent Russell repeating his question.
"Ss-ss-sso," I stutter without thinking. "What do you think of the sss-sub?"
"What sub?" Russell asks, dropping his backpack with a thud. I set mine down more carefully.
"That one," I say and jerk my head towards Mr. Hughes' desk. Russell falls silent as he stares at the sub. Minutes pass and people filter in. I'm unused to the empty classroom. Normally the room is pretty much full after I walk over from Physics.
"That's his hat, isn't it?" Russell murmurs, looking at the beat-up tope hat on the desk. It's not Hughes's. I've never seen him wear hats.
"Yes," I reply.
"It looks almost like the hats you see the neighborhood watch people wearing."
"Come again?" I ask. Last time I checked, soccer-moms gone vigilante had better taste in hats. Theirs were, at least, clean.
"You know, the type of hats you see on the neighborhood watch signs," Russell explains, or tries to. My face remains blank. I have seen those signs covered with graffiti, yard sale signs, and, on more than one occasion, watched as Al covered the sign in our neighborhood with a Found Kitten sign. I, however, have not seen one covered by a hat.
"Like the type of hat the suspicious character dude always wears?" Russell makes a stab at clarification. It fails.
"You know, the silhouette of that guy, with that one creepy hat, and thick glasses, and public masturbator trench coat?"
I raise my eyebrow. Russell is not deterred.
"But mainly, the creepy hat," Russell finishes. I glance over at the hat again, wondering if the man can hear us. I turn back to Russell to warn him not to speak so loudly. To my surprise, Russell has already fallen silent.
"I hope you don't mean my hat," a polite and faintly stilted voice says. I look up and see the sub looming over us. His outline is obscured by the overhead fluorescent lights. Perhaps it's because of my distrust in religion, but the haloing effect of the lights does nothing to make me trust this man.
"Uh," Russell says, not meeting the man's eyes. He glances at me, looking for help.
"'Course not," I say and grin broadly. Russell stares blankly, until I kick him discreetly.
"Right, we were totally talking about that other hat," Russell says in a voice reminiscent of a Southern Californian beach bum. "The one over there."
Russell waves his arm in the opposite direction of us. In doing so, he nearly smacks Winry's chest. She glares at him and says nothing. I sigh. This is going to be a long period.
Once the bell rings and the class quiets down, the sub introduces himself as Mr. Tucker. He takes roll slowly, lingering over the names of some students. All of which are girls.
He says my name normally.
"Here," I say, raising my hand halfway up.
"Ah," Mr. Tucker says in his breathy, brittle voice.
I duck my head down. His eyes are unnerving, even when the light reflected off of his glasses doesn't obscure them. I'd say that there was something undeniably creepy about him, but unfounded accusations are Russell's forte, not mine.
Mr. Tucker slowly works his way down the alphabet. F's, G's, H's goes past before he pauses on Lydia Jackson. His voice twists around her name in the smile of a shared private joke. I glance at Lydia. I'd like to say that she looked as creeped out as I feel, but she doesn't. Or if she is I can't tell. I don't really know Lydia all that well. She's just one of those girls who I see fourth period and in between classes. We've never talked. That and I can't say her name.
When Mr. Tucker reaches the P's, his eyes widen. He skims past Palacios, Parat, Parker, Passavant, and Payne—all boys.
"Sloth Peccato."
He practically molests the name.
Russell bristles. Of course, he bristles. He would bristle. He's convinced that Mr. Tucker is some weird publicly masturbating rapist sex-offender who has really bad taste in hats and has, in true Russell fashion, leaped to the conclusion that Mr. Tucker is somehow threatening Sloth by lingering on her name.
It doesn't help that Mr. Tucker is leering at Sloth.
God DAMMIT! I can handle liking Envy, just as long as I don't have the same thoughts as Russell.
Wait.
I don't—I just—it's not like that, he's just—I'm just—it's just not like that—I mean—that's not what I meant—I—
"Did you seem him leer at her?" Russell hisses at me, interrupting my scattered conscious.
"Uh?" Coherent thought is beyond me.
"I swear, he's a creepy old sex offender," Russell continues. "He probably drives a serial killer van."
I nod vaguely.
Bad enough that people think I'm related to Russell, now I'm starting to think like him. Nothing else happens until Tucker reaches the T's.
"Russell Tringham," Mr. Tucker calls out, looking around the room.
"Here," Russell says in a threatening voice and glares at Mr. Tucker. Mr. Tucker starts, but continues down the list. He is truly a nervous man.
"And you wonder why teachers seem to hate you," I mutter.
"What do you mean?" Russell demands. I roll my eyes.
"What were you thinking? Glaring at him? Do you want him t-tt-tto know that you're on tt-tt-to him?" I hiss back. "And would it kill you tt-ttt-tt-to be more discreet?"
"Teachers don't ha—what do mean 'on to him'?" Russell interrupts himself. I fight the urge to sigh. Trust him to miss the important part.
"Does this mean you suspect him too?"
"I meant nothing of the—"
I stop. Not because Russell's still talking about how my similar assessment of the situation leads to Tucker's guilt. No. I don't know what to say. I wanted to say 'I said nothing of the sort,' I thought I was alright after I censored said, but I forgot about 'sort.' I try to think of synonyms, but the only one that fits is type. I can't say type either.
"Be quiet," Winry hisses to Russell. "He's not deaf."
Russell and I look up. Mr. Tucker is putting away the roll sheet. I look away before Tucker looks back. Russell keeps staring.
"Alright, now your teacher said that you've started a group project, correct?" Mr. Tucker says. His voice is lightly accented, but I can't place it. It sounds faintly British or upper class. Only that doesn't fit with him. Why would someone from wealthy social circles become a high school sub? It just doesn't make sense.
I refuse to consider the possibility of vampire bites and other nonsense. I'm not that far gone.
"And you've already gotten into your groups?"
The class mutters an affirmative.
"Right then," Tucker says, glancing nervously at the sheet, presumably the notes that Hughes left him. "Well, the note says that you're to work quietly in your groups. But I don't need to tell you that. I'm sure you're all excellent little angels."
Was it just me, or did Mr. Tucker smile a tad too wide on the last bit.
…
Our group is in the dark corner opposite Mr. Hughes's desk. Russell arranged the superfluous desks around our circle in a none-too-subtle attempt at a barricade. Sloth has chosen the seat in the corner. Russell is, as expected, sitting next to her. He's positioned himself between her and any "threats", real or imagined. I wonder if he realizes this. I doubt it. I sit in the last seat available: between Winry and Russell.
There is a long pause. No one seems willing to break the silence.
"Did anyone do any research last night?" Winry asks finally.
"Not really."
"No."
"Vampires live there."
Everyone stares at Russell.
"Excuse me?" Winry says, as if she can't believe her ears.
"Russell, don't you mean—"
"I was just kidding, jeeze."
"Is everything going alright over here?" Mr. Tuckers asks. Everyone jumps.
"Yes," Russell growls and gives Mr. Tucker his best death glare. The man looks down at Russell with a look of mock surprise on his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but walks away instead.
"Ugh, that man is so creepy," Winry mutters with a shudder.
"Not nearly as bad as the one with shoe-polish dye job," Sloth remarks.
"But that guy didn't drive a Serial Killer Van," Russell interjects.
"You don't even know what car he drives!" I say. I cannot believe that Russell just said that. Not everyone kills time by exploring the vast reaches of YouTube.
"Is he always like this?" Sloth asks, eyeing Russell warily. I don't blame her. If you haven't seen the YouTube videos, Russell appears to be absolutely nuts. Not that there's much of a difference. It's just that most people come to this conclusion when Russell's going off about vampires.
"No," Winry says, surprising me and Russell. Why isn't she mad at Sloth? Why? "He's normally much, much worse."
"Hey at least I don't go around hitting people with wrenches!" Russell complains. I resist the urge to bang my head against the desk. Russell can be so dense. Not only is he baiting Winry when she's already pissed, but he's humiliating himself in front of Sloth. Does he realize any of this? NO! All those years of crushing on girls from a distance have really taken a toll on his social skills.
Like yours are any better?
I pointedly ignore the insidious little voice.
"You're all deranged," I mutter to myself.
"I agree," Sloth says. Unfortunately, this has the effect of reminding Russell of Sloth's presence. He stares at her, like a deer in the headlights, before saying:
"You look like you could be an extra in a Victorian Gothic vampire movie," Russell blurts out.
"Come again?" Sloth says, raising her eyebrows.
"You look like you walked out of an Anne Rice novel," Russell elaborates, a glazed expression on his face. Winry snickers. I stare on in shock. I can't believe it. He's so—it's not even—there aren't really words to describe his idiocy right now. Honestly, can't he just pretend to be normal?
"Are you mocking me because I'm pale?" Sloth asks. I wince. Her tones border on outraged. Russell stares at Sloth wide eyed. He obviously wasn't expecting her to react this way. I'm not sure what he thought her reaction was going to be, and I don't want to know.
"No," Russell says, confused. "Why would I do that?"
He wouldn't either. Russell would never mock a pale person, ever. Worship them in extremely creepy and disturbing ways, yes. Mock them, no. Unfortunately, most people don't know that.
"Just because I'm Italian doesn't mean I have to be tan or sexy!" Sloth retorts hotly.
"But you are se—OW!"
I interrupt Russell with a quick kick in the shins.
"Ed, what was that for?" Russell demands.
"You'll thank me fff-f-f-for it eventually," I respond in a lower tone.
"No, I won't," Russell mutters. "Sloth, you're a pale, sexy, Italian woman."
I cannot believe it.
I simply can't believe that Russell just did that.
I can't. It's impossible.
Russell Admires-But-Does-Not-Touch Tringham does not do such things.
It just doesn't happen.
Winry makes a choking sound. I can't quite tell if it's anger or laughter. Or both.
I glance at Sloth. Surely, that girl has an eloquent, insulting put down ready. Russell's stupidity deserves nothing less. She doesn't. Instead, she's blushing.
She, Sloth Peccato, is blushing. And not just a little blush either. Her whole face is a brilliant red.
"Um, thank you?" Sloth finally says. She's still staring at Russell as if she can't decide whether he's just a harmless awkward teenage male or a dangerous psychopath with an unhealthy interest in her. Considering the fact that it's Russell, there's not much of a difference.
"Err, well," Russell says, turning crimson as he begins to realize what he just said. "Any time."
An awkward silence follows.
"So," Winry says, once again breaking the silence. "When are we going to get together to work on this and where?"
I refuse to suggest my house. I do not want to facilitate the meeting of my mom and Sloth. Or have Dad meet Sloth.
"We could meet at my house on Saturday," Sloth suggests, not looking in Russell's direction. I don't blame her. After Russell's outburst, eye contact could be considered consent.
"Okay," I mutter.
"Sure!" Russell says, sound a little bit too happy.
"Sorry, I can't. I have other plans," Winry says with a smile.
"Winry, if it makes you un—Would you stop kicking me Ed?"
"Only if you t-t-take your ff-ff-fff-foot out of your mouth," I reply.
"Seriously, Winry, why can't you come?" Russell continues.
"I said I have other plans," Winry replies, angrily.
"But what does that mean?"
"Other plans means OTHER PLANS! As in I'm not going to be available that day!"
"Oh," Russell says, confused as ever. I stare at Winry. She wouldn't avoid Sloth's house just because she doesn't want to see Russell fawn over Sloth. It doesn't make sense. Winry's never changed her schedule just to accommodate high school drama. She's also driven off every single girl who ever showed interest in Russell.
So why the sudden change?
Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to phase Sloth, who mouths something at Winry. I can't read lips, but Winry blushes and nods. Sloth gives her a thumbs up and whispers, "Nice."
The rest of the period is surprisingly productive. We work out the basic design for the brochure and discuss the presentation part. Sloth continues to avoid eye contact with Russell. Winry doesn't glare at me. Russell doesn't blurt out his thoughts and Mr. Tucker does not stop by our group again.
…
Lunch is uneventful. Russell stands in line with me for hot lunch and proceeds to talk non-stop about Sloth. I give Al the seven dollars he requests and he, Fletcher, and their friends all disappear. Winry doesn't eat with us. Russell takes advantage of this fact and hypothesizes on what the incident in History really means along with the invitation to Sloth's house. I sigh and nod occasionally. I can't wait for lunch to be over.
When the bell finally rings, Russell and I walk to the art buildings. His next class, Ceramics, is right next to Izumi's new room.
"See you after class," Russell says as he veers off to the left.
"Yeah," I say and open the door.
…
There's already about five students in the room. They're all sitting at the two tables near the front of the class room. I take a seat at an empty table. Izumi hasn't arrived yet and the room is completely quiet. Though, what else would you expect from kids who can't talk?
Izumi drifts in from a door in the back of the class. I watch as she moves soundlessly to the desk in the front of the room. There, she sits down and begins to go through the file folders she was carrying. A few more people enter the classroom and take seats at the tables. A tall senior girl named Rose sits down at my table. She nervously tucks her pink bangs behind her ear and smiles at me. I smile back.
The door opens and I'm shocked to see Sloth. Why on earth would she be here?
Moments later I come to the correct conclusion. She must be an office aid this period and have a note for one of the students. But Izumi smiles at her and Sloth sits down quickly at the table next to mine.
Maybe Izumi's having Sloth wait to deliver the note. Maybe Sloth is an aide for this class. Maybe… but no. Sloth's set her backpack down and has her binder out on the desk.
She's obviously not delivering a note. And a student aiding for this class wouldn't make much sense. But Sloth can't be a stutterer or lisp or anything. Any disfluency would be obvious by now. Unless she's somehow managed to hide it, which raises the question of why she's here. She can function perfectly normally. She doesn't even say 'um' during presentations or hesitate or trip over words, ever. There's no reason for her to be here. Unless…
Unless she's only here to meet the fifteen-student class minimum the district has in place. I take a quick head count. There are seventeen students. This can't be right. But… Sloth was in the counseling office yesterday. She was changing her classes too.
I still can't quite wrap my mind around the idea of Sloth Peccato having any sort of speech disfluency. It's just too weird.
"So, I see that everyone is here today," Izumi says, distracting me from my thoughts. People nod and murmur vague affirmatives.
"I'd like to start off by having everyone introduce themselves and their disfluency," Izumi continues. "Would anyone like to go first?"
I wait for Sloth to raise her hand. She doesn't.
"I'm Row-th and I have a lithp," Rose quietly. She looks like Noah, almost exactly like Noah, and I wonder if they're related.
"What do you like to do, Rose?" Izumi asks encouragingly.
"I like to garden," she murmurs.
"Nn-Nick and I and I stutter and, andandand I play basketball," a young boy I've never seen before says. He's probably a freshman. He certainly looks nervous enough. After that people start introducing themselves fairly quickly. I recognize a few people from last year. There are a surprising number of freshmen this year. Six compared to the two last year.
Finally the only people who haven't introduced themselves are Sloth and me. I glance over at her. She has her head done, avoiding eye contact. I decide to do the gentlemanly thing and go first.
"I'm Ed," I say. I suddenly decide I don't want to say 'and I'm a stutterer.' That sounds like a line adapted from an AA meeting. Impulsively, I say "I'm a sss-ssst-st-stt-t-stuh-stutter." Breath. "Bug and I lll-llll-llike sss-ss-Ceramics."
I smile to myself. I'd forgotten how much I like Speech Class. It's the one class where I can stutter and not have to worry about people making fun of me or looking at me funny. It's normal here.
I really like English though. I just don't want to sound hypocritical. I stutter and, look; I enjoy the class in which we do the most presentations. I don't think that would go over well. Or I'd come off as a masochist.
I look at Sloth, waiting for her to go. She's staring at me in what looks to be shock. I don't know why. I haven't done anything particularly brilliant, just stuttered through another introduction. And it's not like she hasn't heard me stutter before. Sloth swallows then looks up.
"I'm Sloth. Don't ask," she drawls. "I stutter and I'm in drama."
…
Mechanical Aspects (1-10, 10 being the highest):
Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:
Areas that need work:
Chapter Question: What'd you think of the Mystery Stutterer? Oh yeah, and would you prefer longer chapters with fewer updates or short chapter with more updates? OR do you not care as long as it's good writing and I don't disappear for five months again?