Stumbling Ch. 02

"I can't believe the queen still bothers coming here. If I were him, I'd just stay home, milk this whole situation as much as possible."

I put my face in my hands as I leaned on the lunch table. Arthur could be a real shit. Then again, when you're the quarterback you tend to get away with a little more than most people. It's not like anyone at the table thought any different though. Part of me really wanted to ask if he would feel the same if his dad had been shot. Mr. Kirk had always been a prick to Arthur. It was a well-known fact around the football team. The older man had sometimes sat just down the road from the school to catch teenagers speeding home like someone had lit after them with a gun when in reality they just wanted to see how fast their piece of shit, chunks of metal on wheels, could go. Some way, somehow, Mr. Kirk had managed to pull Arthur Campbell over more than most. Maybe Arthur speeds too much. Maybe Mr. Kirk didn't appreciate how Arthur treated his son. Most likely, it was a little of column A, little of column B. Either way, Arthur hadn't gotten a ticket since Mr. Kirk's passing.

I got up from the table without finishing my food. Hadn't touched it really. Some voices called after me. I just pretended I didn't hear them. Someone would either grab my tray and put it up or the cafeteria staff would. Wouldn't hurt to leave it just once. It's not like I do that all the time. Normally, if a student just walked out the cafeteria there'd be hell to pay if a faculty member noticed. Students were only allowed to leave if they told someone where they were going and it was approved. Lucky me, the only teachers at the faculty table were Mr. Howard and Mrs. Hynoski, both of whom could stand to give a shit. Mr. Howard taught music. He once told a student to play with himself if he didn't want to play the triangle, though he denied it to the administration. Mrs. Hynoski was famous for giving assignments in geography, then taking a nap at her desk. The only reason they were still around was tenure. Schools don't fire people four years away from retirement unless absolutely necessary. Nothing like a lawsuit to make one cautious.

The second I opened the library doors, Mrs. Turner looked up from the computer behind her desk to glare at me.

"Mr. Doyle, to what do we owe the honor? Perhaps a fire in the gym?"

"No ma'am. Just figured I'd read to kill some time."

She eyed me curiously. A nod then, "Very well. First disruption from you and I'll send you to the principal's office, understood?"

"Yes ma'am."

Mrs. Turner was always lenient if you were honest and didn't push her buttons.

A table in the back corner of the long room was free. I grabbed a picture encyclopedia on cats as I passed by a shelf I knew fairly well. All the others had long words without pictures. This was the only shelf with long words AND pictures, so it worked for me. Last time I was here I looked at dogs. Cats seemed a fair change up.

The window was cold against my shoulder. I reclined in my seat with my ankle over my knee, the book propped up on my thigh. I didn't even bother reading species names as I turned, unlike with dogs. I can't tell one cat from another unless is something obvious like a Siamese or the bald one. Voices started to reach my ears from the table to my left. I glanced over.

Richey sat next to some junior, books spread out in front of them. Currently, they sat back in their chairs, laughing like old friends. Richey looked happy. I'm not sure I'd ever seen him smile unless it was in a school photo. Chess club photos aside, this looked different. The smile actually reached his eyes for a change. That expression always seemed like bullshit. The difference was evident here. The thought trampled across my mind though, wondering if they were lovers. The junior didn't look fruity or anything. In fact, I recognized him from the basketball squad. Larsen, I think his name was.

This interested me. Yes, a senior has more pull than a junior usually, but Richey ain't the normal senior and Larsen or whoever the fuck was a jock. The phrase, "Never the twain shall meet," comes to mind. Richey held up a flash card in Larsen's face. Larsen's face contorted in thought before I heard him say, "The War of 1812."

"Correct, way to go." Said Richey.

"Yes!" Larsen threw his hands up in an exaggerated manner.

"Mr. Nichols!" Came from the front. Suppose Larsen was really Nichols.

"Sorry Mrs. Turner!" he called back.

"Calm down Lars." Richey said through giggles. Guess I was right. What kind of first name is Larsen? "It's just one question. You do that in class and people are going to cross the street to get away from you."

"Sorry Richey, it's just this is the first time this kind of stuff has ever stuck."

"I didn't do anything special, you're just paying attention for a change. That, and I'm sure Ms. Barton has probably lit a fire under your ass."

Larsen ducked his head, blushing a little. "I had a D the first six weeks. She and coach both are liable to kill me if it happens again."

The bell rung, breaking up their tutoring session and my people watching. I looked down to say goodbye to the cats. A strange pattern in the fur of a tabby caught my eye just before I closed it.

"I never took you for a kitten kind of guy."

I closed my book, setting it down on the table with a thud as I stood up.

"What's sexier than a man with a kitten?"

He chuckled, "Quite." His eyes ran up and down my frame. I stared a whole through the back of his head as he walked away, somewhat shocked. I'd never been flirted with by a guy before. But that wasn't flirting, was it? No. Couldn't be. He was just pulling my chain. Ok, that was a bad analogy. Still, all guys fuck around like that, it's nothing to get hung up on. He just-

"Mr. Doyle, another two minutes and you'll be late to whoever is unfortunate enough to have what's left of your attention next."

"Thanks Mrs. Turner!" I started a light jog.

"The book goes on the shelf Mr. Doyle." I hadn't made it two steps.

"Yes ma'am!" I spun around to retrieve the book, placing it on the shelf as I ran by it.

"Try to stay out of trouble Mr. Doyle."

I don't know why she doesn't like me. I swear.

I half ran, half walked, down the hall to get to Mr. Sumner's U.S. History class. If I ran, some faculty member was sure to write me up for it, yet if I was late so I would've gotten sent up for that too. That's what we call a catch twenty two. Because of this, I look like I'm trying to run with a rock in my boot. Or maybe a bullet hole. Shit Ethan, not now. Now is not a good time.

There was only one seat open when I arrived. Next to Richey friggin Kirk. If there was ever a person mixed with a time with whom I didn't want to have a break down in front of, it was him mixed with now shaken up like the worlds shittiest martini. Sweat started to break out of my forehead, my hands were clammy. I remembered all the breathing techniques I'd learned in weightlifting to knock my heart rate down during the cool down exercises. They didn't work. Not this time. I hadn't been in the class for more than five minutes. If I asked to go to the bathroom, Mr. Sumner would've just told me I should've gone before class started.

Everyone knows that feeling when they know they're being watched. I could feel it, coming from the left. A quick glance showed Richey looking at me quite peculiarly. He looked like he wanted to ask a question. Fuck it.

"Mr. Sumner, I'll be back." I said as I stood up.

"And just where are you going?" He stood with his hand on his hip, the other holding the chalk against the board.

"Sick." Was all I said as I walked by. He must've bought it as he didn't try to stop me.

I ran the fifty or so feet from Sumner's room to the nearest restroom. Now that I was in here, I genuinely felt like I was going to actually be sick. My stomach tightened around my half eaten lunch, my hands gripped tight on the sink. "Breath, just breathe. It's not that fucking hard Doyle..." I mumbled to myself. The sink came on with the same squeal as it had weeks ago when Richey had been in my position. Cold water washed over my face as I splashed it over my face every time my hands filled up.

Bit by bit, my heart slowed itself back to something resembling normal. The mirror almost seemed to mock me with what it showed. My hazel eyes were rimmed with nothing but red with the white barely showing. The fauxhawk was no more, the gel sweated out of it, nothing more than a darker brown with the sweat hanging limply on my head. The light blue of my t-shirt was a lot darker all over. I pulled it off, feeling the weight of it. Soaked. God, I just wanted to go home.

Figuring I had enough evidence to get the nurse to send me home, I walked to the nurse's office. Mrs. Hale took one look at me before jumping out her chair to run around her desk and lead me over to the government issue cot in the corner. She called my mother to tell her I was sick, unfit to stay at school. She asked if I was okay to drive, which I obviously answered yes, before relaying that to my mother.

"You just sit tight young man. I'll have someone collect your books. Do you need anything from your locker? Never mind, I just have whoever they send go with you."

She didn't even give me a chance to speak as she walked out the door. My shirt sat in my lap, while I sat in nothing more than my tank top from the waist up. A bit of warm air blew across me from a vent somewhere in the room. Looking for it amused me for a minute. The door opening brought me out of my search.

Mrs. Hale dragged Richey by the shoulder.

"Well Ethan, Richey has been nice enough to help you gather your stuff up and get you out of here." Mrs. Hale is one of the people too cheery for her own good. She pulled me up from my cot even though I was already in the process of standing up. Lord knows if I started to go, she wasn't going to be able to catch me. "You go have a nice rest young man, lots of fluids."

Richey lead me out the door, Mrs. Hale closed it behind us. She got paid to take temperatures and call home, that's it.

"She's a little high strung." He said.

"It's not polite to state the obvious."

He chuckled quietly. I noticed him glance at me from time to time. I guess I was a sight. Not many can get away with walking down the hall with nothing but a tank top. The books I had with me in Sumner's class were tucked under his arm. When we got to my locker, I reached out for them after it opened. Our fingers touched slightly. He jerked back, the books going straight to the floor.

"Sorry!"

"I'll get them." I said, kneeling down. I grabbed each book with my left hand, using the right to place them in the bottom of the locker. Richey's crotch was in the corner of my vision. I checked his package like I do any other guy. My eyes stuttered, if that's even possible, at the sight of a semi clearly growing in the front of Richey's tight, not quite skinny, jeans. Immedieatly, my head turned towards my locker. I pretended for a few seconds to look for something, shuffling a few papers around. When I stood up, Richey was trying to look anywhere but my direction. Whether he'd seen me see... well HIM was unclear. I packed my backpack quietly. The scene was so awkward I almost expected him to ask about the weather.

My backpack shouldered, I placed a hand on his shoulder. It just struck me that he's taller than me. Being short is a real pisser.

"Thanks for collecting my shit Richey."

He looked surprised slightly. "It's not like any of your friends were jumping up to help."

"They're not really friends as much as assholes on the same team as me. To be honest I feel like the black sheep most days." Why am I telling him this?

"Welcome to my world muscle boy." He smirked.

"Muscle boy?" I was a little indignant.

He slowly stuck a hand out to poke-push me in my left pec, just left of the tank top strap.

"I'm more than just a pretty face you know."

"You're assuming your pretty."

"Hey, I've got brains too. I don't even need half these looks."

"You're still assuming." He still had that dumb smirk on his face, his eyes were half closed. There was no reason to be sleepy.

"You act like I'm an asshole, know nothing jock."

"Lay down with dogs, you'll come up with flees."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I stood up straighter, a little angrier than before.

"Calm down super boy. You just said they're not really your friends. You should be able to admit they're a bunch of assholes. In fact... you're the first football player to talk to me in something other than insults." He seemed to be thinking about what he'd just said.

"Well-"

"Listen Eeth," He said it like someone had started to say teeth but left the 't' off. "If you're having mercy on the fag out of pity for his dead dad than save it. I don't need it."

"What!?" I couldn't believe he would think that. "Listen here. Now you're being an asshole."

He started to interrupt.

"Quiet. You've accused me of some serious shit here. You tell me one time I ever picked on you and I'll gladly own up to it. Come on! Give me one, just one."

He stared impassively back.

"That's right, you cant. Wanna know why? I've never joined in on that shit, that's why."

His face was inches away from mine, separated more by height than the distance between our feet. My finger poked him a couple times in his chest, same as he'd done to me, throughout my tirade.

The stare down continued for a moment longer.

"I apologize your highness. It does strike me funny though that someone as selfless as you claim to be would just stand back and do nothing while your supposed friends do their best to shit on every moment of semi happiness which passes me by."

I stomped my foot down, doing my best to throw smoke in the air on my way to the parking lot. He let out a sigh.

"Ethan, wait-"

"Save it."

God damn him all to hell. I didn't even do anything. According to him that's my biggest problem. Fuck him. What does he know? A hand grabbed my shoulder, turning, pushing me up against the lockers.

"I'm trying to say sorry jackass."

"Who said I wanted to hear it?"

He looked to the side, his hand remained. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. When his head turned, his eyes sought out mine.

"Look... I saw you in class. Are you okay?"

"What are you talking about? I'm under the weather a bit, that's all."

"You ain't at t'all convincing. That was a panic attack if I ever saw one."

"And just what qualifies you Dr. Kirk?"

"I get them from time to time." He said quietly

"I'm fine Kirk." He stared at me still. "I promise."

His hand fell to his side. He shook his head as he turned back towards the classroom we'd long since forgotten.

"Take care Doyle. Get well soon and all the other generic shit..."

I chuckled at that.

"Thanks Kirk." Once last look over his shoulder and he didn't look back again, least not in the time it took for me to turn the opposite way.

When I got home, my body felt sore all over. No, weak is a better word. Sort of like when I hadn't eaten enough. I thought about a sandwich, decided against it. Wasn't really hungry. My head hurt. I popped three fifteen hundred milligram knock off Tylenols, then left a note for my mom. Told her I was resting and to let me sleep. She didn't get home till late anyway. It was tax season. I could do what I wanted till then.

I watched TV until eight. It'd been a while since I'd last had a long soak in the tub, so I did that next. The water was too hot when I got in. To hell with it. I sucked it up, figuring it would cool down soon. Steam. Lots of steam, rising, drifting, carrying away all my troubles for the moment. Here I could relax. Put out everything I don't need. I stayed for an hour. When my skin looked like a raisin and the water was lukewarm at best.

I stood in my room facing the bed. No matter how I tried, the only way I'd gotten more than a couple hours sleep was with the help of Mr. Nyquil. On the plus side, I'd never breathed better. Tonight was no different. Two big swallows while I was in the kitchen. It tasted like the nuclear waste it was colored after. Still, it did the trick. Nothing else mattered.