He was not very studious or obedient as a child. He thought he was horrid, wrong, alienated, from a different planet, all that shit. Also, he loathed and despised pretentious people with viral passion. What does that mean? I thought you knew! How can you be against them if you don’t even know what the word means? You have a good idea, hm? Don’t you? This is a perfect time to tell me. Little idiot! Shithead!
Anyway, he almost died, once.
***“Are you serious?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“What a dum idea.”
“Not to me.”
His eyes glittered dimly in the fluorescent haze of the cafeteria. They were the furtively darting eyes of a man whose very tears bled action and thinking and cunning. He knotted his straw aimlessly, twisting and warping the plastic from lucidity to mangled milkiness. He wrapt its skin around his finger as though he were about to marry. Come on, now! Give it up! Stop grandstanding, you dope! What a transparent trick. We want our money back!
“What are you, an Indian?”
“No, I mean how’re you goingt do it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“You don’t? Ga, you’re dum!”
“Got a better idea? Any idea?”
“No. I’m na doing it.”
“Then just shut up.”
Chewing the straw, he noticed a small spider skittering across the tabletop to. It fluttered schiz-o-phrenically down its edgeshot drawline, landing atop his outstretched palm. He goaded it across his small, bent knucklets in an interminable chevroleted dodge for survival.
“Gh. Kill it, smash it.”
“Why? Why can’t I love things, like he does?”
“Bawww, people that like spiders r funny. Kill it, hit it.”
Five aisles down and two across the choolhouse, surrounded by adored, adoring, adorable girls and friends, hinged he, he – Michael Cimarron. He wore a chiseled gaptoothed bullyjaw and wide eyes that fit to get her like nails in wood. He was already three or four hands taller than any of the other classmates. Blonding beset his temples like disciples sweeping up from shoulders swathed in a Nehru jacket dyed engine-red – king crimson in all his frippery. Come on! You must be joking! People don’t act like this! Unbelievable! What are you, nuts? You’re out of your mind! He smiled patiently and folded his hands, wincing in inscrutable acerbity at the chaterr of his lower peers spinning past and around. A lanky, dusky redhead cradled his right arm with nothing to say, merely mesmerised, as well she should. Be? The question at hand.
The spider, on the other, explored the newly-narrowed confines of X’s left fist as he approached our gang. The redhead snapped from her nearplunge into Nap.
“What’s going on?” tousling her hair.
He felt the spider’s fangs. It scurried around his surely bloodsweating fist, tearing – burgeoning away. It bit again, pleading like a heart.
“Why do you hang around this burgeois, Mircalla? He’s got you in the palm of his hand.”
“What’s that mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“What the hell does that mean? Michael’s my boyfriend. He doesn’t control me.”
He smiled and gazed down as she spoke reclining on his sleeve. Pulling a pair of scissors from a duffelbag at his side, he gently sliced away the cloth mothering her arm. She yawned. Biting pain in his palm mounted biting pain in his palm, and of course he would have been dead by now but he thought of his allergies and maybe he was really in
“Look at him, he’s nothing – a hundred percent of nothing.”
“Are you unwell?”
“Well, just because he has long flaxen hair doesn’t have you read his poetry? He’s got soul!”
“I’ll bet he’s super-bad, too. Can’t you see? You’re being taken for a ride. He’s just a big phony!”
“What are you talking about?” he calmed.
“I’m talking about you.”
“Fascist? I don’t get it.”
X threw the struggling eightlegger at the ox. It landed sprawled on his chest and looked blackly angered atop the muscled boy. Girls shreeked and trampolined away; boys recoiled in respectably grimaced shock. The Squirming Terror whirled across Michael’s cooled tunic three of 4 times, crawling off up och aye! then promptly stopped and died. x’s elbow locked painfully – his arm, paralysed. His face forgot every color as he dropped to one knee, like Henry V, or X. The principal stepped to his side, backpattingly curious as the klaxons blared and Mircalla walked onrushingly off with
“What happened? Let’s go to the nurse’s office straight away!”
A few steps and
“Say, you weren’t bothering Michael? We’ll have none of that, now. He’s a fine young man, all the kids look up to him.”
“Build a bridge and get over it. He couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel.”
The principal boxed him soundly on both ears – the bad ones – dragging him down into a bleeding brotherhood with the bell, drubbing him so punctiliously that.