Anyways, please and thank you!
Chapter 3
When I woke the next morning, I was really starting to feel the strain on my body from the fight. I remember thinking that if I had a red crayon, I could scribble in the parts where the pain was in exact terms. There would be some little dots where my shoulders meet my chest muscles. There would an asterisk on my hip where my sciatic nerve was being pinched. My face would get several blossoms from where he’d hit me, and my entire back would be shaded in dark, along with the back of my head- a result of his throwing me onto the cement.
I hate my alarm clocks most mornings, but this time was more than just hate. When it screamed at me to get up nearing 5:30 in the morning, I ripped it from the wall and threw it across the room. But that just sharpened all the pain until I let out an involuntary cry and, from then on, could not fall asleep.
I think I fell asleep in the shower, and I know I sure wasn’t paying attention putting make-up on because I had to do it a couple of times. My muscles all trembled as I limped my way down the stairs, my back shrieked its’ protest when I collapsed in the kitchen. I closed my eyes against the pain, slumping into a chair and reaching automatically out for cereal.
“You deserve it, you know.”
That was Brent, my ten-year-old nerd of a brother. He thinks he’s always right, and he usually is. He’s kind of a strange looking kid, now I think about it, always wearing designer-esque striped shirt and with longish hair that curls around. His face is round and long and just looks aristocratic. It doesn’t help he’s sort of a condescending kid, but I love him and his eccentric quirks.
At that moment though, if I’d had any energy, I would have beat him to a pulp in a moment. “Brent, just because I have the guts to stand up for myself and you don’t, doesn’t mean I’m automatically a terrible person. But I suggest you shut it or I’ll kill you when I get my energy back.” I said all this very quietly, my eyes still closed.
It was quiet except for the sound of him chewing, until I heard Ronica come stomping down the stairs. You can always hear her because she likes to be heard. My eyes opened, slowly. She rounded the corner, her straight black hair flying out behind her, and jumped the last few steps to land solidly on the kitchen stairs.
My sister was wearing a neon green shirt with ‘foxy’ across it and several necklaces, along with a pair of skinny jeans. She’s real into fashion at twelve. She was wearing blaring makeup as well, because as she told me she doesn’t really have natural beauty. Sometimes I think it’s funny we get along so well because we’re quite different.
While she wore this eye-popping, look-at-me outfit, I was wearing a black t-shirt layered over a long white one and a pair of regular jeans, not so tight I couldn’t move but form fitting. My clothes tend to match my mood very well. See, the black shirt across my back told of the intense pain there, and the white along my arms testified to how weak and limp they felt. The jeans were plain, solid, numb like my legs. I didn’t plan it, but I always see it. Today I said, ‘touch me and I’ll kill you- eventually’.
And while Ronica’s hair was straightened so much it looked like it might stay flat as a board forever, mine was falling in loose natural curls around my face, with a minimal bit of styling help.
It represents us pretty good, I guess, but that’s not really the point right now. At the time I was thinking something more along the lines of, Ronica, you look like a clown wannabe and I’m embarrassed to know you. Go away.
“Ronica, I’m embarrassed to know you. Go away,” I growled. Notice how sensitive I was about this- I didn’t even mention the clown wannabe part! So maybe she’d just think I was embarrassed to know her because of the way she came flying downstairs.
“What’s eating you? Is that a black eye?”
Obviously she hadn’t heard. I didn’t bother answering, I was sure Brent would have that under control.
“Yes,” Brent answered snippily, as expected, “She was in a fight at school yesterday. Mom said she’s not suspended, though.”
Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Things smoothed over pretty well, and my school’s eccentric principal came through with his “Second Chance” ways. It probably helped that neither me or Jamie would admit to how much pain we were in.
“We- ell!” she drew it out into two syllables, leaning on the table, “I suppose it was with Gunner.”- the way she rolled Gunner off her tongue reminded me of her biased opinion. I’d forgotten she used to have a crush on him, or maybe still did. Crap- “How’d it happen?”
“Mom told me,” that was Brent of course, “she had a fistfight and then they used a Martial arts takedown and wrestled on the cement. She said it was all on security cameras- and YouTube.”
“You know what else Mom said?” I snarled, really pissed off now. Seriously, why did these two idiots think they could suddenly taunt me? Just because I was tired from the fight? I was getting the urge to beat them both up, especially when Ronica began talking at the same time I did.
“Oh my gosh, when my friends find out that-“
“She said I’ve been convicted of murder and have a knife-“
“-you wrestled with Jamie Gunner, the hottest guy on the face of-“
“-under my pillow. And I’m starting to think that in the middle of the night I will-“
“-the Earth, they’ll be so jealous! What was it like to be so- so close? Is he really as strong as he-“
“-use it to cut your throat and bleed you to death.” A little graphic, yes, sorry.
“-he looks? I can’t believe this, Casper, you’re so incredibly lucky! Mmm, I don’t know how you can hate him.” Ronica finished, a silly tween grin on her clown face.
I turned my attention to her, “Ronica, if you don’t shut up right now I’m going to give you Gunner’s lovely little germs by kicking you in the head same way I did him.”
She grinned, unconvinced, “Of all the guys to hate, you had to pick Gunner. Though if this was a ploy to get so close to him, you have my admiration.”
I didn’t respond verbally, simply seized the rolled-up newspaper from in front of me and flung it backwards. Ronica’s squeal of protest told me I’d hit my mark. I heard her characteristic snort of indignation, then, “Moooom, Casper hit me!”
Brent added, “And threatened to kill me!”
My mom was down the stairs before I managed to turn around and confront Ronica. She was wearing a baby-doll shirt with a floral pattern, skinny jeans, and flats. As she walked, she fastened hoop earrings into her ear.
“Casper! You’re in enough trouble without tormenting your brother and sister. I’m taking your phone.”
I can’t impress upon you how much anger I felt then, and confusion. And it wasn’t so much the phone and all that as it was what my mom was wearing. Did she really think she could lapse back into teenage years? I knew, instantly, that she was going on a date. And so I attacked.
“Fine, take my phone. That way you can look completely high school again as you text your new date. Who’s it going to be today, mom? The mailman? Perhaps the store bagger? Maybe one of your customers who’s about ten years younger than you?”
Her mouth made an ‘o’, “Casper Adrenna-“
“There’s the bus, mom, wouldn’t want to ruin my perfect school record by being tardy.” I smirked at Ronica and Brent, snatched up my backpack, and shoved in my mp3 player. The door slammed behind me. I could hear arguing, but I didn’t look back.
It’s not that I don’t respect my mom, it’s just that it’s hard to do when she acts so immature. She’s like a 43-year-old prep. But walking down the sidewalk, I lost all thoughts of her.
The song I was listening to was Indestructible by Disturbed. I always listen to it before getting on the bus, because Jamie Gunner sits on the bus.
Time for war.
I’m indestructible, determination that is incorruptible…
My fingers tapped a rhythm, the hot fury rising in my throat.
From the other side a terror to behold…
I had the all-too-familiar sensation of my heart plunging into my stomach, my eyes burning with anger.
Annihilation will be unavoidable.
And my eyes snapped up. The bus was right down the street. Jamie Gunner’s stop was just before mine. My friends at the bus stop had congratulated me, but now were silent. They knew I was no longer paying attention.
My brain reviewed facts again- Jamie always sat in the middle of the bus, by the emergency exit. I think it’s because his legs are so long- whatever, he’s always sat there. I sit in the back, where I can watch him. I like my enemies in plain sight, I guess.
Sometimes this feud of ours seems so childish, but while in the moment it gives such a sense of purpose that I never care. I live to win the never-ending war.
The great bus screeched to a stop, and I immediately felt Gunner’s eyes through the window. I took in the spoils of my pounding- his scraped cheekbone, split lip. My impassive face turned to a vicious leer, eyes locked on his. The stormy eyes staring back at me narrowed, but his lips lifted in that smirk- the one he always has.
I heard the air-pressure lock hiss open as the bus driver, a crumbly man of nearly eighty, opened the door. My legs screamed at me, violently protesting, as I ascended the steps. Already I felt my body adjust to Jamie’s presence, it shifted to a very quick, on my guard, powerful, prowling, possessive motion. I stalked down the aisle, and had I been a tiger my tail would have flicked with anticipation, and my ears would have laid flat.
Time slowed as I neared him, as if I were walking deeper and deeper into a river, the current against me. Our eyes locked like opposing magnets, repelling each other instinctively. I did a floor sweep to see if he was going to trip me, he hadn’t since 7th grade, but that was no excuse.
Then my eyes returned. His held mine, gripped tight, showing how very much he’d like to hurt me. I read it in his tight muscles, the hands that held tight to the seat.
“Gunner,” I growled, a warning. Like wild dogs passing each other on the same turf- ‘stay back’. I had perfected that remark, and it came out acidic, burnt black and charcoaled, tossed casually aside like a dead body on a battlefield.
“Wolfe,” his low, raspy voice intoned and I felt the anger scorch me. As if I were responsible for all his problems.
And I walked past. This was traditional posturing; the battle would begin at school. I took my seat, turned up my music, and prepared to burn holes into the back of his head the rest of the drive.
I knew he hated that.
.
