Young Writers Society

Eleven

The song that we ended up choosing was “Archangel” by Two Steps from Hell. At least Talia didn’t have anything negative to say about that song. We arrived at the school with twenty minutes to spare before the tardy bell rang at seven-thirty. Most of our classes basically covered little more than introductions of ourselves and of what we were going to be doing this year. Out of all of my classes, there are only four of them that I share with any one of my friends. I share AP English with Talia and Jimmy, Economics with Pasha, Calculus with Pasha, Talia, and Jimmy, and finally American History with Talia which I won’t even be covering until second semester.

I have English and Calculus before lunch and both had plenty of bore and excitement to offer. In English, the teacher I guess made a good first impression when she came in the room telling the class that she was going to make this class a living hell for us. Despite that declaration, she tended make us laugh a little. When she caught some idiot with his cellphone out, she pranced over him and held her hand out. Frightened, he gave it to her and she read the messages. They were not very repeatable. 

To everyone’s surprise, she responded to the text saying, “This is his English teacher, letting you know that he now has detention and he is going to come out of it looking like Lady Gaga.” Everyone began to laugh, but we abruptly stopped when she looked up. She then said, “What’s the matter, you can laugh…or you will all have detention Breakfast Club style.” That just made us laugh harder. The rest of the class was a collage of silliness, although she might have been a little too silly—at least for Jimmy and I. We were asked to stop giggling at least thrice.

Calculus, a class with one of my better teachers so far, who seems to make an outstanding effort to give everyone a chance to keep up—at least, according to Halli when she had him—while also very strict. He told us that the seats we chose would be the seats that we would have for the rest of the year. At least the four of us managed to find seats all find seats near each other with Talia to my right, Pasha to my left, and Jimmy behind Talia. While it looks like we might be able to sneak in a few quiet conversations, the teacher did not seem to be trifled with when he gave someone near us a detention for speaking during his introductory lecture. All we could do was exchange nervous looks and shut up.

Besides English and Calculus, I also have AP French and a first period study hall.

Study hall I find enjoyable, as usually it is very quiet and, if students wish, they can ask permission to report to the library to study. There are sure to be more than a few who will abuse that privilege. I went to the library and I almost regretted it. The entire time, there were at least one or two girls staring at me at any given time. I guess my heroism has reached the ears of just about everyone in the school and beyond—at least the ones who use social media. Several times, I wanted to say to them in a hushed shout to either actually walk up to me or look away. There was one who did walk up to me.

Veronica Lewis, of all people, and probably the shallowest girl on the cheer squad next to Lisa Layton…why her? She tried with little success to make small talk. She is cute, no doubt about that, but two things: one, she talks too much, leaving me little to no room to speak, and two, I think my speech impediment gives her something to laugh at. I wonder if she thought that it was because I didn’t know how to speak to girls. It’s not that I don’t know how to speak to girls—which I seem to do very well most of the time—I just don’t seem to let my mind gather its thoughts before I open my mouth.

I have no regrets towards what I did for Pauline, but I do wish I could have a lower profile. Veronica Lewis is just one of many girls to give me uncomfortably lusty looks. She was just the first to walk up to me.

Out of all of my pre-lunch classes, AP French I enjoyed the most. The teacher, a somewhat tall Rwandan-American lady and mirthless as ever, she introduced herself in French as Madame Renee and subsequently launched into a French monologue. When she finished she said, in English, that she had just introduced herself and she hopes that we enjoy ourselves as we learn the language of France. She lied and I impulsively told her as much.

I could feel ice crystals slithering along the lengths of my arms as she slowly locked eyes with me.

“That is not what I spoke in French?” she asked coldy.

I gulped. I began to speak but I started to stammer. Catching myself, I took a deep breath and went on to explain that she did not make introductions. In fact, she was quoting an excerpt from Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal. I told her that my French is a little rusty, but I did my best to offer her an English translation of what she quoted,

“fair as a dream in stone I loom afar

—mortals!—with dazzling breast where, bruised in turn

all poets fall in silence, doomed to burn

with love eternal as atoms are.”

Madame Renee gave me a long hard look before eventually breaking into broad grin.

“Roy Campbell translation?” she asked. This was a test.

“No, ma’am,” I replied. “It’s Lewis Piaget Shanks.”

“Very impressive, Mister…?”

“Swann.”

“Well, Mr. Swann, you get to sit back and wait for my next assignment while the rest of the class cures their ignorance with an essay of Les Fleurs du mal with a biography of Charles Baudelaire’s life attached to it.”

While I let out a sigh of relief, the rest of the class did little to stifle their disappointment. The rest of the class, like all the others, was mainly introductions and what we will be covering during the grading period. The entire time, Madame Renee spoke French; well simplified French and I think it pleased her that I wasn’t the only one who knew what she was saying. At the end of the class, Madame Renee held me back for a minute and offered me extra credit in exchange for tutoring students, as I seem to easily grasp languages. I have no illusions; I do grasp languages with ease. I accepted.

Finally, lunch came and I arrived before everyone else did. I selected a round table near the window that also happened to be right underneath an overhead air conditioning vent. Nigel Payson comes in before I saw any of my friends and we lock eyes.

He’s bigger than me in every way and I don’t have my baton. The guy has every reason to want to seek retribution. He should be aware by now that I can best him in a one-on-one match, but by now, he would have his brute squad to back him up. I think quickly. I know what will scare him off. I pull out my favorite paintbrush and twirl it in my fingers. I then throw it like a dart and Talia catches it just as it flies barely inches away from his face. I could have hit him if I wanted to, but giving a good scare is way more fun than just hurting someone.

If I thought my paintbrush trick would scare him, I underestimated the effect. I think he was closer to wetting himself. He looks at Talia for a moment and she shrugs. She walks away from him, leaving him lost for words. A smile spreads across her face as she takes a seat next to me.

“Buddy, you have a death wish,” she says as she hands me my paintbrush.

“Not the first time I ever heard that,” I say dismissively as I see Jimmy and Pasha. As they sit down, we launch into talking about our classes both the ones we share and the ones that we do not.

Normally I get a little antsy when I want to speak, but it has always felt tremendously easier to manage when I am around friends and family. I keep quietly and listen intently as each of them talks about their classes and each of them, for the most part, did not have overwhelmingly positive things to say about their teacher. While everyone has interesting stories to offer about their classes, Talia takes the lion’s share when she tells us about her Astronomy teacher’s homophobia is not a well-kept secret and she never has anything good to say about homophobes.

He’s probably as devout a Catholic as Talia is a Mormon; however she is an LGBT rights supporter, putting her at odds with some of her peers, both Mormon and beyond. Once or twice he had to stop himself from getting into a rant about the Supreme Court ruling earlier this year, granting gay marriage to all citizens. She just hopes that he turns out to be a better teacher than he is a person.

“So, Kieran, do you have anything interesting to share?” asks Pasha as she takes a bite of her sandwich.

“I have no French homework this week,” I reply, relieved.

“Did you make a display of your linguistic powers?” asks Jimmy, smiling.

“Oui, ma belle,” Jimmy’s not a pro at French, but she knows enough to recognize a compliment when she hears one.

“Is there anybody that you don’t impress with your multilingual wizardry?”

I raise an eyebrow in Talia’s direction. “I am sure there are plenty, but don’t pretend like you don’t.”

“I do not,” she says curtly.

“You do.”

“I do not.”

“Do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do!”

“Don’t!”

“DO!”

“ALRIGHT, FINE I DO!”

We laugh. While they continue to laugh, my laughter abruptly ceases as my eyes land on Jake, Pasha’s ex-boyfriend, sitting not far from us. “Shush,” I gesture with my hands and everyone falls quiet. The three of them follow my gaze and the reaction is twofold. Jimmy and Talia inhale and exhale in what would put the big bad wolf to shame; Pasha averts her eyes and scooches a little closer to me, surreptitiously clutching my forearm for dear life. It is while I lovingly return the gesture with my hand on top of hers that Jake bursts into a guffaw with his friends.

That is the final straw. I gently sever myself from Pasha and get up. Jimmy and Talia make to get up as well, but I calmly motion them not to. “Pasha can’t be alone right now,” I state. They both nod and Pasha smiles up at me, grasping my hand quickly before I walk away from the table.

I walk in what I have been told to be an overly formal fashion—I don’t know; it’s the way I usually walk—as I draw closer to Jake. I stop about four paces away from his chair and wait for him to notice me.

One of his friends notices me before he does. “Uh-oh, Jake, better look behind you.”

Jake does so and we lock eyes. All sound disappears as the two of us stare each other down. Visually, Pasha made a likable choice. Average height, lean build, dreamy eyes slightly obscured by a puppy-dog haircut, full lips, biker jacket. Not varsity. Might as well be your typical bad boy with a soft side to hide. Too bad the latter turned out to be a hoax.

I break into a smile. “So you’re Jake.” I extend my hand. “Kieran Swann, Pasha’s best friend, we meet at last.” I caught him off-guard. I think I might have caught my friends off-guard as well, but they should know that I tend to go for an easy approach.

Jake just stares at me in disbelief for a moment before speaking. “Kieran Swann,” he repeats. “The artist?” I incline my head. He breaks into a chuckle. “I was wondering when I was going to meet you.” He offers me a seat next to him and I take it. I sneak a glance at my table and look from one to the next.

If I were to guess what each of them were thinking, judging by their looks, they might each be shouting, “What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you doing!” over and over again. I wink and I think they get the message. I am starting small.

“Pasha has told me a lot about you,” continues Jake.

“Likewise,” I reply as conversationally at I can.

“Painter, speak a bunch of languages, a bit of a charmer, shy…” he sums up.

“The way she talked about you, I thought you must be a walking Prince Charming—are you Prince Charming?”

Jake laughs. I think I’m getting through. “I wish, she’s like something out of a Disney princess movie.”

I’m trying to decipher whether there is an insult somewhere in there. “Yes, she is like a princess in more ways than one. I’m really proud of her.”

Jake laughs again, harder and his friends join him. “She told me that you’re like a big brother to her.”

“I try my best,” I really do. “And it is because of that factor that I also go out of my way to treat her well and protect her from dicks.”

Everyone falls silent for a minute before Jake chuckles. “I’m guessing Pasha told you about our breakup?”

I purse my lips. “Well, showed me more than she told me.”

“She broke up with me,” he states matter-of-factly. “So, why don’t you go run off and paint something.”

“Listen you—you-you,” oh, crap perfect time to stammer.

“Oh-oh-oh-oh-ee-uh-oh-uh…what?” Jake mimics. Okay, now he shows his colors. I pull out my paintbrush so quickly, Jake has little time to react before I jab it into his testicles. He starts to scream, but I cover his mouth. “No, shh, shh, shh, we don’t want to create a scene now, do we?” His friends start to get up and come to his aid, but I give them my deadliest look.

“That goes for you guys as well; if I were each of you, I would sit…down,” I command, though as calmly and conversationally as ever. I return to Jake. “I may have a speech impediment, but as you can see, my reflexes are quicker than your wits.”

“Oh, I get it, you’re Dracula and one of your wives is complaining because of a little misunderstand—” Jake tries to speak from under my hand, but I press harder.

“Well, if that’s the case, you really don’t want to find out just how hard I can bite,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Call me what you want, but if you hurt Pasha, or anyone I care about ever again, you will be sex toys for intercourse.” Jake’s eyes become so wide, I worry they’ll pop out of his skull. “Capisce?” he doesn’t answer. I jab harder. “Understand?” he nods quickly, tears of pain running down his cheeks.

“Good, then my work here is done, carry on.” I remove my paintbrush and I return to my table to see three of the women I love most in this world beaming at me.

“Okay, so what were we talking about?” I ask, looking from one to the other.

It takes them a minute, but they each snap back into focus as I sit back down.

“Oh, nothing,” replies Jimmy, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Just talking about how much we all love you,” adds Pasha. My eyebrows come together happily as I put an arm around her.

“Who says we all love you?”

We look at Talia. “Tals, don’t make me come over there and plant a kiss on top of your head,” I warn.

“I’d love to see you try,” she challenges.

“You know I’ll succeed.” I smile brightly.

“Yep, and that is why you and I are so close.” Ha! I got a smile out of her. As we laugh, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and our time together—at least until the end of the school day.