I watch him exhale the silver vortexes, waiting until the exact moment they have expanded to their correct size until his hands brusquely clap over them like an unforeseen thunderclap. At first, I smirk. He is so bewildering, like this intellectual riddle I can never fathom. I don't understand him, but it's more like I can't because he has a overbearing demeanour emitted from him that doesn't allow me to carry out what I wish. What is it about him? That smirk contorts into a solid horizontal line along with creases in my skin as I frown. Why can't I evaluate Bender with a commonsensical conclusion to accompany it? It frustrates me. I have never before handled such an endeavour to analyse components of another's personality. Actually, to rectify that statement, I never even mused over analysing someone before. I have always come to a swift judgment of the person. It's called social identity, an identity crafted through a notion of our roles in society. It relies on our actions. Gestures, words, eloquence, others perceptions of us depend on exactly that. Is this what Bender's mission is, to educate about how we critic others without seeking beneath the mannerisms and attitude? In my head I develop a portfolio of all of Bender's quotes from the duration of our hour and a half spent together.
"It's great! Bender the Criminal, Bender the Thief, Bender the fucking kid of a poor son of a bitch whose daily routine involves getting himself thrown in prison! You know, Vernon even said in an assembly once, 'Don't trust John Bender, stay away from him' all because I was selling cigarettes to kids in the grade below us, seventeen year olds and above only. I'd rather be called that than Simmone, the girl who might as well not have a father, the girl who argued with her mother the hour before she died"
Stereotypes, we have both been labelled with stereotypes engraved into how others witness us.
He greeted the horrid names that have propelled onto him unwillingly with such animosity, such resentment before suddenly calming and bringing the names directed at me that remain nothing but whispers in the hallways and an association to life.
Bender the Criminal, the Thief: He is not a criminal. I can testify for that one myself. That iniquitous nickname is something originating from Principal Vernon's mind. Why does he have to be so cruel to us teenagers? I do what Bender is subconsciously telling me to do and look at what could be behind the depiction of his hatred for us. He constantly informs us of his position in authority, incessantly demanding respect, which is, of course, expected. However, why should we when he deems us to be nothing more than negative people of society. One day, when he is elderly and grey, we will have a so-called custody of him, a forethought to be concerned of his health and wellbeing. Does he fear this future? It will manifest, and he knows it. Is he afraid? Does this fear emerge in abhorrence?
Bender, the fucking kid of a poor son of a bitch whose daily routine involves getting himself thrown into prison: Bingo.
From words of another, Bender is perceived as a person who people should avoid. An upcoming nobody. A criminal. When he reveals the truth, I know why. People are judging him in accordance to his father's reputation. He has never been given a chance and the only way he can branch from these expectations is through his attitude. It doesn't make sense, but then again, neither do his hasty alterations in mood. Could it be that the kindness is the real Bender?
Simmone, the girl who might as well not have a father. Now I have to tell him.
"I wouldn't frown too much, Nightingale. We wouldn't want to ruin that pristine complexion now, would we?" he comments, angling his lips so they smirk at me, and if it wasn't for the fact that I have just discovered the source to his presumed affectation, I would believe he was mocking me. Until the roots to his mysterious ways are confirmed from those smirking lips, I am still bewildered by his presence.
"I get a few zits every now and then, Bender, so it's not so pristine as you favour to think" I snap back, situating the same amount of emphasis on the word 'pristine' as Bender did.
"Well then, I guess I can retract that one comment …" he brings his word to another hiatus, something to create dramatic effect. I tense a little as Bender leans over the designated wooden desk where names of various people are carved into the golden wood. What is he going to do? I can never be too certain with Bender. From the moment he walked into this room to the current time, I am wary of him. "… Simmone"
He called me by my name. Simmone, my given name, and he verbally entitled me it. Somehow, it's like a gift as I am usually shunned to the name of Nightingale, my surname. Jesus, why can't I figure out this contrast of compassion and malice?
"You want to know why they call me those names?" I blurt out, my fundamental plan suddenly revealing itself through the blatant question. Bender seems intrigued by this and modifies his posture so it is straight, yet lingers being so proximate to me.
"Amuse me" Bender says.
I have authorization to divulge every detail of the non-fiction story behind those names. Only minute and straightforward facts will be told though. After all, I have come to the deduction that I can trust him, but not too much in case he notifies his parent's of this short anecdote belonging to my past. I say it belongs to my past, but in reality, it is anchored to my present and future.
"My dad, Maxwell, he works as an accountant. He doesn't get paid as much as the others at his firm and so, works constant nights checking bank accounts of his clients and determining what's rights and what's wrong. He's totally engrossed in it, always has been. Before my mom died, he used to spend more time with us. Now she's gone, it's like he can't cope. Half the money he earns goes towards the mortgage, the other towards necessities like food. He isn't a deadbeat dad, but he does nothing. Some days we don't even speak and the only words exchanged are 'Hey, Dad, want to go out Saturday for the three-dollar dinners at the cafe next to McDonald's?' and 'Can't, busy'. My sister, Heather, is the one who takes me where I need to be. My dad's idea of parenting is buying me stuff he thinks will make him a father" Every word I say is sincere. My father works night and day, from sunrise to sunset, just to get his promotion. Sometimes, I wonder whether it's to dispose of his everlasting sadness over my mother's death.
"And your mom?"
My mother, she is a subject never mentioned in my household, a name never uttered. It's like she's forgotten, glued to the past. I don't want her to stay there. I don't want her to be abandoned like a piece of news.
"An hour before she died, we had an argument. It was a stupid, stupid argument that left both of us fuming. Basically, I wanted to go out with my friends and she said no. It was debated for a few moments until she exploded. 'It's a family function and your father needs to loosen off' she told me, and so that originated a comeback, and another one, and another one until she decided to leave so she could get my dad some migraine tablets. Within half an hour," My throat closes and strained sobs from inside it, clawing to get out, are heard clearly "she was involved in a car accident down Chang Street. Some car speeding went straight into the back of our car and despite the breaks, the car went spinning into a tree" Tears sprints down my cheeks, traces of a wet trail being obvious to the very person I have chosen to confide in. "She died from injuries later in hospital whilst in a coma. I didn't get a chance to tell her how sorry I was for being such a bitch, for arguing and not just going along with the plan she'd set up"
Bender observes the crystalline beads of water running down my cheeks and descending to my lap after pausing at my jaw line before deciding to move forward, an unidentified emotion lurking around in his molten chocolate eyes.
"It isn't your fault" My eyes widen with bemusement, is he really being empathetic? "Your mom had to go out anyway, it would have happened. That guy would have killed someone from what I read, and unfortunately, it was your mom"
I allow a meek smile to crawl up on my lips, a silent expression of my gratitude. He didn't have to console me, nor did he have speak up. He produces a plaid rag that was previously encircled around his black boot and gestures that I take it to blow my nose, causing me to giggle a little. I don't want to offend him, so I gingerly remove it from his keeping, feeling the silken touch of his skin as he skims his thumb across the side of my finger.
"Thank you" I whisper, giving him a momentary grin as he winks at me, leaning back in his seat as he waits for me to blow my nose. "Are you sure? I don't want to ruin your attire" I giggle, offering it back to him.
"Nah, I got another one. After all," he eradicates a path of tears from my face, smudging the watery trail with his thumb "we wouldn't want to ruin that pristine complexion, now, would we, Simmone?" I smirk at him in delight, thankful I have located his kindness.
"Is that why I should trust you?" I ask, referring to his rhetorical question from beforehand.
"Because I wear cloth tissues on my foot?" he snickers, tearing off another piece of plaid fabric from his shirt so he can bind it around his shoe. "No, you should trust me because that's a thing we have in common. Our stereotypes come from our parents and we don't have great relationships with them. I know others who are the same" For a moment, Bender lowers his eyesight and breathes in, the inhale holding some of his deep thoughts, solemn and deep. After a moments contemplation, he heightens his vision onto me again. "But that don't fucking matter. What matters is you need to stop blaming yourself. Fuck everyone else, they don't know shit about you. Why do you let it affect you so much if you know it's not true?" he snaps. Something has angered him. A lost love, an erstwhile friend?
"Having a constant reminder that you had an argument with your mother before she died and the aftermath is something nobody would wish to be repeated in your mind. Having the fact that your father is never there anymore is enough when you can see it with your own eyes. Knowing the truth doesn't mean shit. Anyway, who were the people?" I finish my justification with an enquiry. I've disclosed too much of my history, and know it's his turn. Bender snorts, reluctant to answer for some peculiar reason. "Ever heard of 'Quid Pro Quo'? It's – "
"Latin for 'this for that'. Yeah, I know" Bender hisses. Soon enough, his facial features contort into something I have already been a spectator to, the lurid illustration that insinuated something I have never done before. "Technically, I allowed you to use my makeshift tissue, therefore you owe me some of that cupboard time I was talking about"
Rapidly, I begin to sense the livid blood gorging throughout my veins, feeling it dash into my face, causing the visual colour of anger – crimson, an irate shade – to smear itself everywhere. How dare he even propose that mortifying plan again? All he can do his smirk, slanting his back in the chair and resting his feet on the table in front of us.
"Go to hell, Bender!" I shout, listening to the chair's legs scrape along the floor. "Why the hell should I trust you?"
"Already got a space reserved, Simmone" There is some respect in his tone and exhibited in him using my first name, ridiculing yet deferential, what is with him? "As for the trust, I specified that earlier, did I not?"
"Why do you do that? What made you become so angry?" I sigh, composing myself without any assistance. "You stated patently that you knew others, who was it? Was it a friend, an ex-girlfrien –"
"That doesn't matter, Simmone. I've had some girls before, and I've broken up with some of them before. Hell, I've had girls just so I could have sex with them before. So why the hell would I care enough for them to affect me?" he shouts, grabbing a compass and carving something into the already damaged table. I peer over his hands shielding the piece of graffiti, attempting to get a peek of what he is writing. Bender glares at me, narrowing his eyes in displeasure in order to convey that whatever he is doing is secret. "My work, not yours" I roll my eyes and tut, slouching back into my chair, exasperated by this cyclical transformation of his. I glance upwards as he stuffs the anonymous object into his jean pocket. "Let's get breakfast"
I furrow my brow as I can't grasp how we will escape the invisible clutches of this confinement. Plus, already have a banana with me for lunch.
"We can't share a banana. As much as I'm into potassium and health, " he embarks on his next sentence with sarcasm, prompting me to snicker a little "I prefer hamburgers and fries. Let's pull"
How on earth are we going to get away with Vernon's prying eyes stalking each motion we create? What plan has he got in store for us?
"Vernon's gone. I heard the car go earlier. I've been here three Saturday's now, and Vernon always goes to at this time, dropping off some blonde across the street before heading off again. Takes him precisely two hours until he comes back. So, let's pull. I know a good place" Bender gestures that I arise, therefore, I do, like I must obey and head towards the door cautiously. What if he arrives back early? What if the Janitor from earlier comes by to clean? "Getting that rush yet?"
"Rush?" I ask, perplexed at the intentional definition.
"A high? Being bad does wonders for the blood flow system, did you know?" At that final ironic assertion, he hauls me into the desolate hall. Now I have been forced out, I know there is no turning back.
Wow, I can't believe all the positive feedback to this story! Thank you all so much, it means a lot and I hope you enjoy reading :)