Clinch: Chapter Eight
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Well, reality had busted down his door, bashed him upside the head, and pounded him until it felt like he couldn't breathe.
Much like Vico had done.
School tomorrow was gonna sting like a bitch.
He just couldn't wait to bust through those double doors with two black eyes, a face covered in stitches, and his hand in a ridiculously bulky and uber-noticeable sling and cast. And trudging through those hallways, knowing that every single person he passed would be laughing at him? Super.
And to top the cake, he had the oh-so-honorable privilege of being able to see his ol' friend Vico. He was ecstatic for that.
Jeez, did self-hatred turn you into a sarcastic smart-ass, or what?
"B?" His mom asked softly, entering his room with a soft knock. "You okay in here?"
Peachy.
He looked up from the pounds of homework he had to complete—or at least bullshit through—from his absence, and gave her a forlorn twitch of a smile.
She looked at him sympathetically, and both she and Lena walked in and sat on either side of him.
"How's the homework comin'?" Stef asked, warily eyeing the stacks of textbooks littering the bed.
Brandon shrugged; his eyes downcast.
"Yeah, I hated this stuff, too." Stef sighed, in a futile attempt to lighten the mood.
It had no effect, and Lena cleared her throat. "So, we found a whiteboard for you to write on while you're at home, so you don't have to keep communicating with those huge puppy-dog eyes of yours."
Handing him the whiteboard, Brandon immediately took the marker and scribbled; 'Thanks'.
Stef and Lena both smiled, but their grins washed away when Brandon's face fell back into its hopeless, disconsolate expression—an expression that was becoming frighteningly frequent, and was shredding Stef and Lena's heart into a million pieces.
"Brandon, can we talk for a little bit?" Stef asked, gently.
He nodded, wincing at the pain the movement caused. I love concussions.
"Listen," Lena began, softly. "We know things have been hard lately, and we just want you to know some things."
"You made your mistakes, Brandon, you did." Stef began, looking at her son intently. "Many of the choices you made weren't the right thing to do. But sometimes, we do the wrong thing, because we don't know where else to turn. We know you had others in mind when you made some of those decisions. We know you were trying to help your father by selling those fake IDs. You did all the wrong things for all the right reasons. And now, the storm of all the more regrettable choices has passed, and we have to face the damages. We can start picking up the pieces, and clean up the messes those choices have made. And your hand...Brandon, we know that's devastating, honey, we know. It's devastating for us, too. It kills us when we look into your eyes, and see nothing but pain and hopelessness—which we know wasn't just from your injury. It's the worst feeling when you realize that nothing is the same anymore. But sweetheart," She took his left hand, searching for his eyes with her own. "Things can be okay again, but that all comes down to you. You have to want it. You have to find the drive to want to get your life back together. You can see a therapist, a psychologist—Hell, you can go to the priest at my dad's church. When you go to rehabilitation for that hand, you have to believe that it's going to work. You have to think; 'This is going to work. I am going to play piano again.' And don't just think it to think it; truly and unconditionally believe that you are going to be sitting in front of that piano in front of hundreds of people again. Your mistakes don't define you, Brandon, and your past doesn't define you, either. Love, you've gotta keep your chin high. Things can get better, and they will get better. But again, that all comes down to you. You can overcome this, Brandon. Life goes on, and so will you."
Before he could stop it, an enormous tear slid out of his eye, and trailed down his cheek. Both of his mothers kissed him on either temple, and they held him in a warm embrace. More annoying tears slipped down his cheeks.
Life goes on, and so will you.
"What do you mean he won't be expelled?"
Stef and Lena sat opposite of Principal Sanchez, their faces filled with awe and rage.
"The fight did not occur on school grounds, and therefore by law, is not the school's issue." Sanchez informed.
"For one; it wasn't a fight, it was an ambush." Lena admonished. "And two; Brandon was critically injured to the point where he may never be the same again. That definitely calls for consequences both legally and in school."
"And there will be a consequence." Sanchez continued, unfazed. "Due to the charges you've pressed, his family is being fined—what is it, fifteen hundred dollars? Yes, this will go on his record, but legally, expulsion is not necessary."
"Actually, expulsion is necessary. Any form of violence allocated from the school's front doors to the student's front door is the school's responsibility." Stef versed, her patience wearing thin.
"I beg to differ." Sanchez replied, in a clipped tone.
"Are you really going to question a police officer?" Lena asked, incredulously.
"You're protecting him because his mommy signs your paychecks." Stef crossed her arms.
"Watch it." Sanchez hissed.
"So you're not going to budge on this." Lena pursed her lips.
"No, I am not."
"The police station will be informed about this, because again, I work there. And I hope you enjoy having Vico amongst your school, he's such a lovely young man."
"Brandon's no better than him."
"Watch yourself." Lena said; her lips in a tight line.
"Don't act like your kids are such innocent angels, Lena." Sanchez began, eerily calm. "I've got a bone to pick with every single one of them."
Three things;
-I had to rewrite this chapter like 5 times.
-This story WILL be done before or early on June 16th.
-8 MORE DAYS UNTIL THE PREMIERE!