final part of Chapter 4

17: Away From The Desk

1

June 4th 2020.

Half an hour after I was destined to head for the broad landscapes and ranging governmental functions of geography class, I was stuck to a plastic-bottomed chair. There might have been a fight. Okay, there was a fight. I also sure as hell finished that fight. Not willingly, though. At the time, like most of what happened during this . . . discovery interlude, I didn't understand.

Listening to Arnold and his squad as they got tongue-lashed was all worth it though. Oh boy, did some of their tough-boy facades drop when they faced the administration.

First I listened to Xavier, and with his goofy appearance, I could only imagined how dumb he looked. His voice, hoarse and grating, spiked up and down with croaks, each word trailing off in a squeal. I had to squeeze my lips together to keep myself from giving their trip to the woodshed a personalized message with my signature. Considering his light blonde hair, which was messily combed, and that big honker in the middle of his face, he was bound to look like a squatter who had gotten caught stealing from the school's community garden. Next, I got some cuts of Nathaniel's talk with them, and he basically gave the game away. Most of the things, however, were lies. He said that I initiated the fight by 'screwing around with his crush,' which was by no means true. What was her name even? Arya, I think? I wouldn't even be surprised if he glossed some water down his face too, adding that dramatic effect.

Something was off though, because when Arnold took his turn, he stayed quiet. Not a word. He was the one who put the torch to the wood, so I would imagine him trying to switch that verdict back on me . . . but no. It was deathly silent when he had to respond. I was just thinking, just talk, it's not like you're going to need a lawyer.

Afterwards, when I was faced with the administration, I did the same. At the time, it was very unlike me to do so. But something about that gesture struck me. I had an idea — maybe it would level out the playing field. Throwing him to the snakes would only make his hackles rise. So maybe if I stowed the details away, he would back off for a while. That was at least my thought process. I mean, I did kick his ass once, but I didn't want to have to do it again, and again, and again.

It was a bit tense sitting in that chair, feeling their stares on me. Chills wrenched up my back when I initially entered the office. They had the AC blasting. Bunch of idiots.

At the end, they had little to no 'real' information. They could've called up Lincoln's friends or some other guys who had been near the fight, but they decided against it. They all told similar stories and me and Arnold did little to deny them.

After around an hour of back-and-forth interviewing, we all got off with a suspension for the rest of the week. I almost crapped myself at that prospect, only because my parents would lose it even more than before. An equation in which you add a destroyed bathroom and a first-time suspension from school wasn't all that great.

I had different things to look forward to however, even though I was completely oblivious at the time.

2

Lincoln pads down the hallway with slow deliberation, the weight of the suspension keeping his legs heavy. He passes by a few windows which stare out into the wan aura of this April day, his wet eyes caressing the big trees and the flutter of their fresh leaves. Freshly grown, hit with a gust of wind; thrown in the deep end. He looks back ahead, barely registering the few students in the hall. Some turn their eyes up at him, but he chooses to pay no mind. Certain of them shape some gestures with their hands, sliding in some ground between them and him, but ultimately he chooses to stick to his own knitting.

Blinking away any of the tears trying to escape, he finds his locker and opens it, pushing through the odd stares trying to hold him. Homework-wise, the future is not bright, but not dark either. Dim would be a good way to put it. The only thing he really needs to do is get his entomology paper done. The other subjects would be out of his way because of the suspension. Maybe there would be a bit of catching up to do, but that would do. It is what it is.

He squeezes his science binder into his backpack with a rugged shove, fits his accordion right at its back, and maneuvers the bag's zipper closed. Thinking of everything he's going to miss, what he might miss out on, he shrugs into his pocket-bomber, readying himself for the blustery April cold. The moment he steps out that door, he'll be leaving so much behind . . . one could say it's just as simple as a new friend group he has knit together, but everything goes much more deep-seated than that. He has just discovered that the foundations for a problem that has bugged him on end for years have just been laid. With him gone for the rest of the week, how can those be built upon? Will they do it without him? Will they . . . abandon it?

No, that's absurd. He shoos the pointless, miserable, thunderous clouds away form his head. They'd understand, they saw everything with their own two eyes, he thinks. It's only like, three days. Stop it Lincoln. Plus, you have the movie on Saturday right? Oh shit, I don't think Mom and Dad will let me go after this. He heaved a sigh. Just got to hope. He hooks the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder, shuts the locker door, and turns to get out of there.

"Hey," one of the passing students whisper. "I wanna talk to you."

Lincoln halts his step. "Uh, sure." Here is some boy, short to the point where Lincoln has to bring his head down a little, jet-black hair falling over his forehead, coiling up at their tails. Thick, silver-wired glasses trace his eyes, light blinking off its lenses. His mouth turns up in a tight-lipped smile. Without delay, Lincoln immediately knows who it is.

The kid he saved from that alleyway in March.

He smiles. "I saw what you did back there, Lincoln. It was pretty cool. And, this is long overdue but . . . thank you. For helping me out last month. In the alleyway. I don't know what came out of it, or if you got away from them, but you really saved me millions. I should've been talking to you, but I never did."

What?

"I-it was really nothing," Lincoln says. "Sorry, I just never knew you . . . went to this school."

A dark shadow crosses the kid's face, and he rubs his arms together. "Oh, you don't recognize me? I'm Richie, from your elementary."

Lincoln hesitates. Richie? The kid who used to run around with Chandler and Trent? He never really spoke to him after elementary. They had their moments then, but ultimately Richie settled to hang with the 'cool kids,' and gravitated away from Lincoln. He seemed to disappear before the end of grade 6, and must've come back around late-grade 8...? Lincoln doesn't know. He has a great deal to learn. "Oh, wow. You look different."

Richie blinks. "Puberty? Change in style?"

"Yeah, that'll do it," Lincoln chuckles. "I mean, I sort of thought you . . . moved? Like, never saw you after grade 6. We had no classes together, never saw you in the halls, and I never really asked about you . . . thought you were more of one of the cool kids? You drifted away, I remember."

"Yeah, something happened. I left but I came back. I got betrayed a few times," Richie drones. "I kind of grew distant at my return, people didn't recognize me, didn't even remember my name. Started getting bullied for being short, and got some few nitpicks about my glasses too." He takes them off and studies them. "They don't look all that silly, right?"

Lincoln shakes his head. "Not at all, my friend Zach wears a much sillier-looking one."

"Oh, Zach, I remember him. He was the one who was all keen on the alien business, right?" Richie asks. "I still feel kind of bad for poking fun at that. Might've hurt his feelings."

"No need to feel guilty. That was years ago," Lincoln says hurriedly. "Anyways, I got to head out, that fight got me suspended and these old buffers probably don't want me around these halls."

Richie laughs. "Oh man, I can see that happening. Hey, good luck with stuff back home, and maybe you want to exchange numbers? Would be nice to get talking."

Not shrinking from this offer, Lincoln slips his phone out of pocket and they exchange numbers, saving them as contacts.

"Thanks Richie, it's good to have you back," Lincoln says.

Richie laughs again. "Yeah. See you around."

Turning around, Lincoln makes his way for the exit, hands curved around the shoulder straps, their hug slightly drawing them back. About twenty minutes of period 3 have passed, and running classes flicker out the sound of rambling teachers and chattering students. Some of their doors are open and have this output going even stronger. He steals multiple surreptitious glances while walking by, looking into the class and checking out the seated students as well as the teacher too. There is a lot to see in a second or two. There was not one person Lincoln knew in these classes (they all looked older too), and when one of them caught a glimpse of his passing face, they pulled their lips in as if to suppress an oncoming laugh. With his heart making a desperate lurch, Lincoln hurried away.

That fight . . . many must've seen it. He doesn't know if there are shots of the action going around, and if so, he is bound for a bumpy ride. With what he has done back there, he is bound to be either seen as an absolute badass, or an absolute freak. He thinks of the student in the hall who had staggered away from him, likely in fear, and a tear nearly glosses the soft jelly of his eyes.

Humiliation. His school life is over. Nothing will be the same after this. Everyone will see this fight; his family, his neighbors, his classmates . . . even the admission officer who was sure to view his future application to college.

Part of what he did back there, in the cafeteria, was and still is beyond his own understanding. Every move, every hit, was an impulse. Almost as if something had been . . . warning him.

Just like when he caught that insect; just like when had caught that paper airplane.

Finally at the exit, he puts a hand up against the glass door, taking in the sight from the glass. His stomach rolls around, threatening to burst and pull him into the technicolor yawn: Arnold, hands stuffed into his pockets, standing at the foot of the tall concrete steps to the parking lot, looking over parked cars. He gathers himself in a ropy swallow, now creeping his palm up against the push bar. The door opens with a mechanical squeal, and the breeze drives into his face with an eye-squinting puff of cool air.

How to approach . . . Lincoln doesn't know. He settles on walking up to Arnold and stops at his side. Maybe Arnold would clam up and leave, or maybe he would utter a few words, or maybe he would even reach out and try to choke him. Whatever happens, is what happens.

Ten seconds pass . . . nothing.

Thirty seconds pass . . . nothing.

A minute passes . . . nothing.

For a second, Lincoln considers leaving.

"They're right," Arnold says. "I could stand to be a bit more understanding."

Lincoln perks up. He never really expected to get some actual words out of him. "Well," Lincoln says, choosing his words carefully, "it's never too late to get started. You have a lot of life to look forward to."

Arnold looks down at his shoes. "You're a smart kid, got that tone in your voice. You think things through. But I'm not smart. I'm governed by anger, revenge, all these terrible things. All these movies I've been seeing, they got a bully in them. The bully always has something horrible going on at home. I guess I'm the same, someone who takes everything out on others. Before stepping into that room with the admins, I had already been thinking about that, but I took a good look at myself in the mirror, and saw who I really was. I wanted to rip you apart for something you were right in doing. I became the very person I didn't want to become. The very person that has set me on fire all these years."

"That's a strong way to look at it," Lincoln says. "I've always been scared of that person you say you have become, especially after that day in March. Getting rid of that person for a new you would be a breath of fresh air."

Arnold pauses for a moment, and swallows densely. "Why didn't you tell them the truth? If you told them everything . . . I'd probably be in jail."

Lincoln breathes out, his nostrils flaring. For the first time in months, he has the capacity to look Arnold in the eyes and not come apart at the seams. For the first time in months, he can bring himself to listen to Arnold and feel genuine empathy for the guy. He may not know much, but he knows enough to understand that Arnold isn't bad himself . . . he's just stuck in a bad place. Is Lincoln much different? No, he is not. The whole clusterfuck where Lincoln couldn't bring himself to make friends mostly happened because he had drifted away from the ones he valued closely.

For the first time ever, Lincoln and Arnold are having a real talk, sharing their thoughts and learning from each other.

He finally looks at Arnold, watching him as the wind rustles his voluminous brown hair, his fair skin a contrast to the pale sky at its rear, his mouth stuck in a troubled frown, his eyes more serene than he has ever seen them before. "Everyone deserves a second chance. I've already had plenty. Why shouldn't you have one more?"

Arnold opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates, deciding to keep quiet. He gives a half-nod and something similar to a smirk crosses his face. That's all he does; giving Lincoln Loud his very own 'thank-you' before heading down those steps to go home:

Two boys once troubled now on mutual paths of respect.