Author's Note: Sorry for being a few days late with this update. I was in Boston over the weekend and a little too dazed to finish the chapter on time, but now it's finally here! Please enjoy it and leave a review! I appreciate the support.
"Mr. Køhler, I'm sure whatever you're whispering in Ms. Arlovskaya's ear is of extreme importance, but could it wait until after class? I apologize for the inconvenience."
The class guffawed and whistled at the remark, but it was clearly all in good fun. Antsy teens with rampant hormones needed to get the pins and needles out of their systems every once in a while, and Arthur was happy to oblige. Each of his students fell victim to his teasing at one point or another. No one was safe.
"Fortunately, you're all stuck here on another Monday morning with your most beloved substitute teacher. We have forty-five minutes to kill, and if we're lucky, you might learn a thing or two by the time I'm through tormenting you. That being said, who wants to read an Updike story?"
He could hear the crickets on the lawn of the school. Well, that just wouldn't do.
"I said," Arthur repeated himself while snatching up the gradebook off of his desk for everyone to see. He waved it from side to side like a flag. "Who wants to read Updike?"
A few groans of concession began to fill the room.
"What was that? These participation marks need some updating. Let me ask you all one more time… Who wants to read Updike?"
The rowdy boys in the back of the class broke into whooping cheers.
"That's more like it. Mr. Łukasiewicz, why do we want to read Updike?"
"So we can pass this class?"
Arthur steepled his fingers with a frown. "Oh, troubled youth. Are numbers on a piece of paper the only reason you're here? I guess I expected too much of you all. I was under the impression you were here to expand your minds—to understand literature and how it functions as a reflection of our society. And Updike, my darlings, is considered one of the greats. He wrote about the faults of American life, and the struggles of everyday people in a genuine and human tone. By a show of hands, how many of you aspire to be writers?"
Three hands out of thirty-two shot into the air.
"Do you know how one becomes a good writer? By learning from those who came before. You have to read the stories that have lived in the hearts of man for decades. They're the best teachers you'll ever have. However, that doesn't mean the rest of you shouldn't read the classics. You ruffians have to develop your own style and voice as well, whether you like it or not. How are you going to write a resume, email your boss, or share your ideas with the world if you can't find your voice? Therefore, we're going to read Updike's 'My Father's Tears'. You can thank me later. The first lesson is free."
He got a round of chuckles out of the disgruntled crowd.
"Feliks, why don't you start us off since you were so eager to make it through this class?"
The teen took his elbow off his desk and glowered at the collection of handouts in front of him.
"Come to think of it, I saw my father cry only once. It was at the Alton train station, back when the trains still ran."
The period was nearly over by the time they finished reading the story, but there was just enough time remaining to allow Arthur to announce the homework assignment.
"I want everyone to start thinking about their final essay for our short-story section. It'll count as a test grade, so take it seriously. You'll have to form an argument based on the themes of at least two stories and provide textual evidence to support your view. I'll have a rubric by Wednesday. Enjoy the rest of your day, Western children."
As the bell rang and everyone dispersed, the Assistant Principal of the English department, Elizabeta Hedervary snuck into the classroom with a friendly smile.
"Mr. Kirkland? How have the students been?"
Arthur took a sip of the tea on his desk and let out a short laugh. "They're an interesting bunch."
"Every substitute I've tried to find has complained about them. I don't know what it is about the junior class, but they're a menace," Elizabeta revealed with a sigh. "They seem pretty tame when they're with you. I don't know how you managed it."
"Me neither," Arthur admitted with a smirk. "They've struck a soft spot in me. I really want them to get something out of this course, even if this is just another mandatory English class."
"I was hoping you would say that. What do you think about taking the position full-time?"
"As in, teach them for the rest of the term?"
"Exactly."
Arthur rearranged a stack of documents and considered the offer. "I'll need a day to think it over."
"Of course. Sleep on it, and let me know your decision. We'd be happy to have you teaching here, Mr. Kirkland. It's obvious how much you care for these students."
That was precisely his problem.
Though he had been hoping to sweep recent events under the rug, school couldn't be cast aside with the rest of the muck, and it reared its ugly head as a constant reminder of all the things he could no longer appreciate. The daily routine that once fit Alfred perfectly now impeded him at every given moment, and it made him feel sick—dizzy and sick and so, so, so tired.
If his shoe came untied, he couldn't bend down to fix it without hot pain swimming up his leg like molten magma in his veins. Everything about moving made him feel sore, and by the time his first class was over, he wanted to go home. He didn't need school anymore. He knew how to read and write—he'd make it through life just fine without earth science. Time to raise the white flag and head home.
Going to gym didn't help matters. He sat in a folding chair by the teacher while everyone else carried on with running relay races and playing basketball. It sucked to observe the fun without partaking it in, but that wasn't the worst part. The thing that made him want to storm out of his chair and roar into the void of the gymnasium was the staring. Someone was always gawking—always dazzled by his existence. There was their track star—their golden boy—who had been reduced to crawling. Oh, how the tables had turned.
Even sitting down hurt if he didn't extend his leg enough, and each time one of his teachers asked him if he was okay, something would snap inside of him. Poof. There was his patience.
To answer their question, no, he wasn't okay.
Yet somehow, he sat through gym and survived, despite the odds. When the bell rang, he rose to his feet with the help of his crutches and made his way for lunch, ignoring the many pairs of eyes burning holes into his back. He could ignore them. He just had to turn his head away and get lost in a daydream.
At least, he had been ignoring them until a classmate came up to him during recess.
"Hey, Al! Not so fast anymore, huh? You can't beat me in a race now! Hehe!"
Don't respond. Don't respond.
"My mom saw your dad on the street yesterday. Your dads, actually. She said you were hurt because God doesn't like kids who have fags in their family."
No one was supposed to know. How did he know?
It was the last push he needed.
"SHUT UP!"
He spun around with his healthy leg and immediately felt the urge to tackle the boy to the ground. He would've pummeled him. He would've made him take it all back. He didn't care if Daddy said that violence didn't solve anything. It made him feel better, and that was enough. He couldn't stand back and take it, especially not with all of the anger sleeping inside him.
The rest of the students from the other classes were eavesdropping now and inched forward to have a better view. They hadn't been at the center of such excitement for a while, and they were hungry for blood.
He even spotted Matthew in the crowd of pre-pubescent children.
Some of his anger dissipated. He still had an ally.
"Mattie, aren't you going to say anything?"
His brother flinched and scuffed his shoes, hands behind his back.
"Mattie?"
He chose not to fight the war, even if the war was being fought for him.
Alfred tightened his grip around his crutches and swung one of them at his bully's stomach, knocking him to the ground and beating the air out of his lungs.
"Ooooooh!" the students gasped, alerting the adults in the yard.
"Alfred!"
All of the teachers knew his name—they'd stored it for safe-keeping when the rumors began to spread about the 'poor, little boy who suffered a terrible accident'. He was famous—infamous.
His math teacher had been the one to intervene in the fight, stern-faced and squinty eyed. He snagged onto Alfred's shoulder and led him back toward the school building as the other boy was rushed to the nurse's office.
"What was that about, Alfred? It wasn't like you."
He wouldn't cry. He had to be tough and brave to defend himself. Hopefully, he'd be suspended and given a reason to stay home. Then again, his luck hadn't served him well lately.
"He deserved it."
"Hitting another student is prohibited. The principal is going to expect an apology."
"I won't apologize. He deserved it, and I'm not sorry."
"We're going to have to call your parents."
"Okay."
And call they did, even though both Francis and Arthur were at work and couldn't leave early to attend the 'disciplinary conference'. Much to Alfred's dismay, this problem was solved by keeping him after school until one of his guardians became available.
He spent a good hour on the pleather couch in the principal's office, complaining every once in a while about the pain in his knee. However, his pouts and efforts to gain sympathy failed, and he counted the number of books lined up against the walls during the wait instead.
Daddy was the one to drop by, of course, since he was let out of work earlier than Papa. He stepped into the office and introduced himself to the principal, huffing and puffing a bit from the journey. Then, he seated himself next to Alfred, pretending not to notice him.
"I apologize for all of the trouble. As you may know, Alfred's had a difficult week, and I think it's had some negative effects on his behavior," Daddy rushed to explain, and Alfred could smell the fresh scent of smoke on his jacket. "I will be having a lengthy discussion with him tonight regarding this matter."
The principal nodded his head and expressed his understanding of the situation. There was an exchange of chit-chat between the two adults, which Alfred zoned out until he was free to go.
Seemingly an eternity later, Daddy rose from the lumpy couch and helped him up.
"Am I suspended?"
The principal smiled and cocked his head. "As long as you promise to behave in the future, no."
Alfred frowned. He'd misbehave more often, if necessary.
Daddy thanked the man for his time and escorted Alfred out of the room. They didn't say anything to each other, and Alfred hoped his father wasn't too upset with him. He hated when Daddy gave him the silent treatment.
"Dad?" he asked once they were outside.
"Yes?"
"I had to do it."
Daddy clicked his lighter and lit a cigarette, sticking it between his teeth with a sigh. Snow started to fall again—a dusty flurry that put the afternoon to sleep. They were dancing in white. "I know, love. I believe you."
Alfred dropped one of his crutches. Who was this man and what happened to his father?
"What?"
"I said I believe you. Now that it's out of your system, don't do it again, all right? This was your one get-out-of-jail-free card. Next time, you'll be grounded, and I'll have you scrubbing the bathroom, regardless of whether your leg hurts or not," Daddy cautioned, handing him his crutch and unlocking the car. "Let's go home."
Alfred sniffled against the cold air and hesitated as his heart soared with fear. He'd missed the last school bus, and Matthew was probably at home already. "I want to take the bus."
He searched for his courage, he really did, but it had already escaped him for the day.
"Not you too," Daddy groaned, bringing a hand to his head. "First the frog won't get within five feet of the car, and now you."
"I'm sorry."
Just another example of how he'd let someone down.
Daddy embraced him in a half-hug and shook his head. "Don't be sorry, love. I'm being insensitive. We'll take it slow, and if you really don't want to ride in the car, you don't have to. You do have to try though, okay? Let's just get out of this snow."
Daddy convinced him to get into the backseat as he shuffled into the driver's seat. Then, they sat in silence with the doors closed, completely still and immobile. Daddy wasn't in a hurry to start the car. He adjusted his mirrors, finished his cigarette, and then took to buckling his seatbelt.
"Everything okay back there, poppet?"
Alfred clamped his teeth down on his bottom lip and nodded.
His father turned his key and the engine flared with life, humming and thrumming. The radio sang the week's popular hits, but the car stayed in place.
Nervous, Alfred undid his seatbelt and begged his tears to stay in his eyes. "D-Dad? I don't… I don't…"
Daddy sighed again and cut the engine before circling around to the other end of the backseats. He climbed inside and sat beside Alfred, rubbing his shoulders with croons of reassurance. The child was as rigid as stone, petrified. "It's okay, Alfred. It's okay to be afraid."
"No, it's not! It's stupid!"
"Shh, now. It's perfectly normal. We can take the public bus, if you'd like. I'll come back for the car later."
Alfred swiped away a few stray tears and leaned into Daddy's touch. "No, I want to ride in the car."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
Daddy kissed his forehead and nodded. He carefully put Alfred's seatbelt on for him again, checking to make sure it was snug. "Okay, my boy. If you change your mind, we can stop at any time."
Fingers raked through his hair once more before Daddy got out of the car to return to the driver's seat. "Close your eyes and relax. Try not to think about anything. Take some deep breaths.
He followed the advice, eyes wilting to a close as he realized just how exhausted he was. All of the emotions he'd been ruminating over caught up with him, and before he could stop himself, his head lolled against his chest. Fast asleep.
He dreamt he was chasing the stars.
Construction of the Kirkland-Bonnefoy residence's snow fortress had begun. They had a shaky start, especially since playing together in the yard was the last thing either boy wanted to do. Papa whisked Matthew into the kitchen, whispered something in French to him, and then proceeded to herd them outside against their will.
The man thought the impromptu playdate would help sort out whatever differences the twins had been harboring against one another. He knew the two had gotten into an argument as soon as they had planted themselves on opposite sides of the dinner table. Naturally, he had to do something to help.
And thus, the boys were now out in the winter breeze, ignoring each other in full fervor. Arthur set Alfred up in a lawn-chair that was semi-buried in the snow, and supervised the construction site through the window in the kitchen every so often.
Matthew did most of the hard labor, since Alfred was restricted by his chair. Alfred did, however, aid the building effort by scooping up snow and carving snowballs with little faces on them to be their peasants. They continued working like this for about an hour until they risked speaking to one another.
"Why didn't you say anything at school?" Alfred mumbled, catching snowflakes with his tongue.
"What was I supposed to say?"
"Anything! It's like you don't even care! Doesn't the stuff people say bother you?"
Matthew turned away from him and narrowed his eyes. "I care."
"Then why did you let that guy say the things he did? Why didn't you back me up?"
"Because it wouldn't change anything. We can't change anything, Al."
"Well, I did change something. Now everyone knows not to mess with me."
"He was my friend, Al, and you hit him."
"What're you doing with dumb friends like that anyway? You say we can't change anything, but you've changed, Mattie. The real Mattie would've stuck up for me. I would've stuck up for you too—that's what brothers are for."
They didn't fight often, but when they did, it was brutal.
"I don't want to be the strange kid again," Matthew muttered, sidling his way to the other end of their fortress. "I have friends now."
Alfred snorted with disgust as he leaned his head back on the lawn-chair. "Yeah, friends that use you to help them with their homework and cheat on tests."
"You're jealous!"
"No, I'm not. It's better not to have any friends at all than to be around people who pretend to care about you."
"Why should I listen to you? You don't even know them."
"Because I'm your real friend," Alfred said, fiddling with the Velcro on his knee brace. Though he couldn't explain it if he tried, seeing that look of doubt on Mattie's face made him sad and groggy all over again like he was lost in fog and couldn't get out.
"You want to take my friends away from me like you took Papa and Dad!"
"What are you talking about?"
Before he could get a reply, Matthew dropped the snow he'd been carrying and trudged into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Alfred kicked beads of snow into the air with his healthy foot and groaned. "Dad? Papa? Can somebody help me up?"
He groped for his crutches on the ground below, making noises of distress as his search failed him. Maybe he'd be stuck in the cold forever, and the snow would cover him until he was discovered by explorers in the forty-eighth century. They'd recover his remains and wonder what had happened—what his life had been like. Would they be able to imagine the short span of time he'd roamed the planet for? Would they have snow too? Would they realize how beautiful and frighteningly frail their lives were?
A quiet grunt sounded above him before he was able to stand on his feet once more. His crutches found his hands.
"Let's get you some hot chocolate and talk about what's going on."
"Dad," Alfred sighed, cuddling close to his father for an extra crutch of support. He didn't know why he felt the need to pine for affection, but the hunger was there. "Nothing's going on."
"We both know that isn't true."
"It's all Matthew's fault."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Why do you always think it's my fault?"
Daddy shrugged his shoulders at him and made sure he made it inside without slipping. "History has shown you to be the culprit all too many times, but I promise to listen to your side of the story without pointing any fingers."
Alfred hobbled his way to the kitchen table and grabbed himself an extra chair to elevate his leg.
"I think Mattie's scared."
"Scared of what?"
"No one loving him."
"Welcome back to the show, Midnight Dolphin."
Francis stared at the patrol car and threw daggers with his eyes, wishing he could bash the windows and rip out the steering wheel.
"Hey… I heard what happened. Word travels fast around here," Raivis went on, one elbow on the hood of their Crown Victoria. "Are you okay?"
"Fine."
"You sure? That sounded gruff."
"I'm fine."
"Okey-dokes. Well, let's get going then. If we have time, we should grab some grub at this new café they just built on Linden."
Raivis hopped into the driver's seat and raised a brow at Francis when he was slow to react. "You coming or what?"
"I…I think I need to speak to Carriedo."
"Ooh, cool! A chat with the boss, huh? All right, we can head to the administrative quarters right now. It's a quick drive."
Francis swallowed painfully and shook his head. "I need to go there by myself."
"I'll wait outside then. I totally understand the need for privacy and stuff."
"No, I mean, I'm not going to drive with you there," Francis clarified, sweating underneath his uniform despite the frigid temperatures. When had his jacket become so stuffy?
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
Something twinkled in Raivis's eyes, and he was out of the car before Francis could blink.
"I see… Can I at least walk you there? Y'know, it's not safe to walk in this neighborhood alone, even for a crazy tough cop like yourself."
Francis cleared his throat as his heart sporadically skipped in his chest. Was that compassion he was feeling? He needed a doctor. He needed someone to slice him open and find what was causing all of the madness of emotions in the underbelly of his rational mind.
"Whatever you like," he finally told Raivis, hoping he sounded more indifferent than he felt.
The rookie cop beamed a glowing smile at him with dimply cheeks and led the way. "I can tell you about this new girl I met on the way there. Man, you'd have to see her to believe it, but she's absolutely amazing!"
They talked about nothing and everything as they walked. Raivis heaved the weight of most of the conversation and took his time in elaborating on his social life as well as the woman he was interested in. He wanted commitment. He wanted to get married and have a family of three kids—two boys and one girl. They'd have a giant dog named Kylie and a grumpy, fat cat named Boris. They'd take arduous road trips, go camping, and Raivis would be part of the school PTA.
And although Francis wanted to roll his eyes and say that life often took its own course and refused to follow a plan, he still found himself listening to Raivis's ramble with interest. It was endearing. It reminded him of himself and how he'd once dreamed of his potential family antics with dripping tenderness and excitement for the future.
He got sucked into the topic of the conversation, and soon he was sharing things about his own family. He discussed Arthur and the boys at great length. He was married but didn't wear a wedding band because he wasn't always welcome to speak about the life he led. When he didn't have a ring, people didn't ask, meaning he didn't have to lie to them or risk hearing slurs.
"It must feel horrible," Raivis supplied, "to not be able to talk about your family with anyone."
"It's not as bad as it seems. It's like my secret gem that only I get to know and love."
He couldn't decide why, but he trusted Raivis. He trusted him not to treat him with contempt or repulsion. Besides, he wanted to be able to tell someone. He learned very quickly that he liked boasting about his family and all of the troubles they got themselves into.
"When Arthur and I were still dating, we decided to drive to Florida because we'd never been to the Gulf before. It was a sixteen hour ride, and we pulled an all-nighter to make it there faster. I remember driving at four in the morning, somewhere in the woods of South Carolina when we finally allowed ourselves a rest stop. We took the next exit and found a bar, at which point we both decided to get roaring drunk and spend the night at an inn, since we were in no condition to continue driving. You can picture how wonderful it was to continue driving in the morning, the harsh sun burning our eyes through the windows as we whined about our hangovers."
Francis chuckled at the memory and rubbed a sore spot in his shoulder. "Nowadays we would've done the practical thing that people with children do—take a flight to spare ourselves from the chaos of getting there."
Raivis grinned and sped up the pace at which they were still walking. "Why didn't you guys just crash at a hotel when you were halfway there?"
"Because we were young and stupid. I'm surprised we didn't get ourselves in an accident. We were really reckless, but that's the good part about being young—you can be stupid and get away with it. Life forgives you for those types of mistakes. When you're old enough to know better, it's not as merciful."
When they reached the administrative building, both men were disappointed that their conversation came to a halt. They were at work. There were things to be done.
And so, Francis shared one last parting look with Raivis and ambled away into the night, still telling himself the stories of the past.