11th Grade, High School

Age: 16-17

January 2009

…

The auditorium doors shut, leaving Randall alone at the scene of the crime. He lets out a breath and walks toward the back, trying to find something he can use to clean up the mess. Not that anyone would link him to it. He just needs something to do and scrubbing the floor clean of paint is the only thing he can fathom. It doesn't absolve him of the guilt swirling in his gut, but it gives his mind something to focus on.

In a closet off stage, he finds some cleaning supplies and brings it back to center stage. It looks like splatter art on the floor, spraying out around a clean circle where Spinelli had been standing. As he stares at the spot, he can hear her scream in his head, high-pitched and terrified as the paint landed on her head.

He kneels on the ground and starts to scrub at the wet paint, trying to keep focus on that rather than the image of her face when he ran in. He had been standing at the far door, just as he has been since he realized she quit ballet. When she started coming back to school, but wasn't passing by Kelso's at her normal time after ballet, he figured she was taking a break. Then one day he had seen her grab her pointe shoes from her locker and followed behind her to the auditorium.

Every day after classes, she went to the auditorium to dance in the empty hall. The theater kids didn't show up until later and she had the run of the stage all to herself until they arrived. At first, he followed because he was curious. Then he followed because he enjoyed watching her dance. It really was a shame that she had felt the need to quit her ballet classes. Even Randall, who couldn't name a single ballet move if he tried, could tell she had talent. She usually wore headphones so he couldn't hear the song she danced to, but he didn't need to hear. She moved so effortlessly she didn't need any music to convey the scene or emotion to him.

He glances up to where the paint came from – a skinny passover for special effects. Maybe, if she hadn't worn headphones, she would have heard the Megans on the upper ledge, ready to dump the paint.

He rings out his rag in the bucket and continues his cleaning, swallowing thickly as the paint thins with the water and begins to look less like paint and more like blood.

All he can see in his head is her face, even as he tries to focus on the scrubbing. At first he had no idea what had happened. She shrieked and he watched as the paint splattered around her. Once the shock had worn off, he had run down the center aisle of the auditorium toward her, saying her name to no reply. She just stared at him, eyes wide, breathing heavily, clearly spooked as the paint dripped down her face.

He couldn't get her to move. He couldn't get her to do anything. And he knew that feeling. He knew it well. The same feeling had come over him during his first day at Spiro Agnew, when a group of eighth graders who remembered him from Third Street saw him and tossed him in the dumpster out back. As he sat amongst the garbage, he could hear the boys laughing and taunting him about taking the trash out. Trash meaning him. Spiro Agnew was supposed to be a new start for him, but instead it had been a nightmare and he had sat in the dumpster, scared and alone.

That's what he saw on Spinelli's face and he knew that as much as he wanted to help her, he wasn't the person who could do anything about it. He was not her friend. He was not someone she trusted. He was not going to make her feel less scared and alone. So, he had run to find the only person still at school who he knew fit the bill.

He scrubs at the last bit of paint and sighs. He pulled himself out of the dumpster that day. He walked home alone, smelling of garbage, and took a shower before either of his parents came home from work. When they asked how school went over dinner, he said it was fine. And he went to school the next day, knowing there would be no one to protect him.

Spinelli is different. She has a great group of friends and even if Vince seemed clueless about the Megans, he would pass what Randall had said along to the rest and their crew would protect her. Because that's what her group of friends did.

He stands and checks to see if he missed any large splotches. Satisfied with his work, he brings the cleaning supplies back to the closet and leaves school. He never really goes home after school. It's too boring to sit and do his homework alone in his room, so instead he still goes to Kelso's. He sits at the stools by the window and people watches as he does his work.

When he arrives, it's still relatively empty. Just a few random students and Gus Griswald behind the register. The Third Streeters still haven't quite gotten out of school yet, so he has his pick of the stools. He grabs his usual soda from the fountain and heads toward the counter to pay when he hears the bell above the door. Ashley Tomassian skips in, wearing a pair of green Soffe shorts and an Abercrombie zip up over her white t-shirt. He rolls his eyes. She must be coming from cheer practice, but it's still January. It's not warm enough.

He wonders if Captain Oblivious behind the register has caught on to her strategy yet.

Ashley T takes up one of the counter seats and starts laying out her books while seemingly talking a mile a minute to Gus, who leans against the counter with a stupid smile on his face. Randall swallows a gag. He can see where this is going. Gus Griswald would fit in well on the Hallmark Channel. He's as innocent and naive as he is sweet and wholesome. And while Ashley T holds some fire, absorbed from her similarly named friends, she has just enough shyness to match his energy.

He can't imagine it will be much longer before these two start strutting down the hallway, hands latched together in a vice grip and completely oblivious to everyone around them. It'll be TJ and Spinelli 2.0.

He glances down at his shoelaces as Spinelli's ear-piercing scream fills his head again. Should he tell Gus? Vince had tried to call Gus earlier, but clearly Gus was here working. He shakes his head. There's nothing Gus can do now while he's on shift and Vince is handling it. Randall told Vince the truth and it will disseminate among the band of do-gooders. She'll be fine.

She's not like him.

He tops off his soda and walks to the register. Gus is at least a dutiful worker, turning away from Ashley T as soon as he arrives at the counter. He gives Randall his best customer service smile.

"Hey, Randall," he says as he keys into the register. "Good first day back to school?"

Spinelli's face, covered in paint, flashes across his vision and he has to mask his sharp intake of breath with a grunt, like he's clearing his throat. He thinks of sitting at the dinner table, his hair still damp from his post-school shower, worried he still smells of garbage. He can see his mother turn to look at him and in her stern voice say, "Randy, how was the first day of middle school?"

"It was fine," he says, just as he did then.

"Glad to hear it," Gus replies as Randall hands over his money. The tone of his voice is so eager and genuine.

Randall takes his drink and goes to his typical seat, alone, by the window, his back to Gus and Ashley T. He used to pretend he hated them, especially Gus. It was so much easier back then to hate him, to hate the whole group of them, than to deal with the jealousy he felt burning in his gut. The whole group wrapped Gus up in their arms. Gus, the new kid. Gus, the kid who had been all but guaranteed to leave them behind when his father got restationed. But all of that hadn't mattered to them. They couldn't allow Gus to walk around the playground with no friends. Randall had stayed up in bed at night, wondering what had made Gus so irresistible to them when there were other kids at school who wandered the playground with no friends.

Kids like him.

He takes a swig of his drink and leans back in his chair. He doesn't take out any of his things and instead keeps his eyes on the outside world. He may not have friends, but sometimes it feels like he does. He knows so much about everyone through observation that sometimes it's easy to pretend. He can insert himself into his dream world, with friends who care and ask how his break was or the first day back.

He watches a few college-aged kids clearly home from break walking down the sidewalk, laughing at something. He frowns and slurps his drink. He hopes that when he gets to college, his imaginary scenarios help him be a good friend. He just needs to go to a school where no one from here goes. Where the snitch title can't follow him.

He knows when Third Street gets out because two boys sprint down the sidewalk, hands outstretched to tag the door. A slower trickle of other kids start to follow, all in groups, all excited to see each other again now that break is over. He sucks down the rest of his soda and debates going for a refill, but there's a hoard of third or fourth graders mixing different sodas together in cups to create their own disgusting concoctions.

He did that once. He had seen TJ, Spinelli, and Vince do it, Gretchen, Gus, and Mikey all wincing as the three tried to out-gross each other. His had been tamer in flavoring when he tried it, once they left the fountain and huddled in their typical booth, leaving him a chance to copy them.

Instead of going for the refill, he turns back to the window for more people watching, but something catches his eye and he sits up straight. Spinelli walks by slowly, her head bowed as if she doesn't want anyone to notice her. She has her coat zipped to her chin, her hair tucked under an old beanie, with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She doesn't stop or even look up, as many do as they walk by Kelso's to see who's there. Instead, she just keeps walking.

He looks over his shoulder to see if Gus has seen her, but he is so focused on Ashley T that his back is facing the doorway. Randall rolls his eyes and when he turns back to the window, Spinelli is gone.

He knows that he doesn't need to go check on her. In fact, he probably shouldn't. Finding common ground with Ashley Spinelli is dangerous territory for him. She exists in an entirely different sphere of town than he does. Pretty, fierce, and well-liked. And taken, very very taken. He is just setting himself up for heartbreak by even contemplating that she may even give him the time of day.

But he can't shake the look of terror on her face earlier and he knows that, when it was him, the one thing he wanted was for someone to show they cared.

He's out of his seat before he can remember how bad of an idea it is.

He races out of Kelso's, jogging to catch up. She is nearly at the corner when he does and he says her name loudly enough that she can hear it. Ahead of him, she freezes. He approaches her slowly.

"Hey, sorry to yell at you," he stutters as he walks to stand beside her. She keeps her head down, turning just slightly away from him. "I just wanted to check and see how you were doing."

"I'm okay," she says, but he can hear the thickness of tears and post-nasal drip in her voice. "I just need to get home."

"Do you want me to walk you home?" he asks.

He expects her to say no. A hard firm no. But instead, all she does is shake her head, as if she's too afraid to speak. He sees her bring one of her hands up to her face to rub at her nose and when she pulls it away, he can see a small patch of dry cracked red paint on the back of her hand.

His heart pounding, he knowingly takes a half step forward, getting a better angle so he can see her face. He can only imagine how comically wide his eyes become.

"Why are you still covered in paint?" he screeches.

It's an unflattering tone of voice, but he can't help it. She looks up at him through glassy bloodshot eyes. Vince had mentioned bringing her to the shower. She was supposed to get cleaned up. That's how he had left her.

What had happened now?

"I didn't want anyone to see," she says quietly. "I can't handle more rumors."

He sighs and nods in understanding, but he can't let her walk home like this. He looks over his shoulder, seeing Third Street in the distance, and wonders if she would follow him there. There won't be a shower like at the school gym, but he knows that the art classroom should be open and it has a basin sink. They can at least scrub her face.

"Can I help?"

She gives him a tired look. "Why?"

He shrugs. "I've walked home alone before."

Her response isn't one of gratitude. Instead, she shrugs in defeat. But she follows behind him nonetheless. He leads her through the back entrance, which he knows Hank always leaves unlocked after school is out for the day so he can get in and out with ease. The art room, as expected, is unlocked and empty. He starts running water to heat up and grabs some of the old shirts the art teacher keeps instead of smocks. She always found it better to have the kids wear extra-large t-shirts that covered their entire outfit than smocks – less chance to ruin their clothes with their mess. The shirts are covered in old paint stains, but he flips two inside out so they can be used as a cloth and towel.

Once the water is warm enough, he stands back while she starts to splash her face. She takes one of the shirts and begins to scrub. He sits on one of the small tables and frowns. It is all caked in her hair, dried and stiff.

After a while, she stands straight and grabs the other shirt, pressing the fabric into her face. She turns around and glances down at her feet awkwardly. There are a couple of spots on her neck that she missed, but other than the ruddy hue from her scrubbing, her face is unremarkable.

"Did you want to try to wash your hair?" he asks.

She shakes her head, tapping her fingers against her jeans. "I think it'll be easier in a real shower."

Her statement is juxtaposed by the running water that she has yet to turn off, as if she hasn't truly made a decision. He doesn't know what to do next. Should he offer to help her? Should he let her make the next statement? All she's doing is standing in front of him, looking lost.

His indecision is met with a loud stomping in the hallway and he turns, recognizing the familiar heavy click of heels on the linoleum floors. Within seconds, Ms. Finster stands in the doorway, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, muttering as she approaches.

"Rotten scoundrels probably making a mess," she's saying as she enters the room.

Ms. Finster stops mid-step, eyes widened. "Randall? Spinelli?"

He swallows and gives a sheepish wave. "Uh, hi, Ms. Finster. Long time no see."

No sooner than he gives an embarrassed chuckle at being caught back at Third Street, Spinelli bursts into tears.

He is immediately forgotten as Ms. Finster's disciplinarian stance switches on a dime. She strides across the room and gathers Spinelli in her arms. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, not typically accustomed to seeing Ms. Finster's maternal side, but here she is. He watches as the older woman leans back just slightly to take in the top of Spinelli's head, making a face as she does so.

She shakes it off quickly and as Spinelli starts to calm down, Ms. Finster gives her more than platitudes.

"Did your grandmother ever tell you the story about this one time in Guam, when…"

The rest of the story fades out as Randall realizes why Ms. Finster was able to jump into action so quickly. He had completely forgotten that Ms. Finster and Spinelli's grandmother were friends. Best friends, actually. Randall had found that out during bridge night once when he used to frequent Ms. Finster's house before homework and school activities began to get more and more in the way. He had spent most of middle school attending the infamous bridge night. Aggie Funicello was always there, asking him all the questions a doting grandmother would ask. Then one night, she brought up her granddaughter and he had been shocked that sweet, friendly Aggie could have been in any way related to rough and tumble Spinelli.

It makes so much more sense now.

He hops off the table, seeing that Spinelli is in good hands. When he gets to the door, he turns around to take another look behind him and satisfied that Ms. Finster will handle things better than he could, he continues on his way out the door.

…

Sorry about the Randall interlude. As I was writing the next chapter, I felt like I needed to see where Spinelli was while the events of the next chapter were occurring. Spinelli is also not in the right frame of mind to narrate cohesively at the moment, so we have Randall.

I think the only episode I referenced in this chapter is Weekend at Muriel's.

Vince is back next and I have a bunch of it written so fingers crossed I can get it out in a reasonable timeline this time.

See you in January 2009, part 3.