Across the States

Hi. My name is London. London. What a name, eh? London Douglass Lee Williams. That's right. Two last names. Why? Because my parents aren't my real parents. My dad- my biological dad- left me- I mean, me and my mom- when I was really young. My mom wasn't so slow to follow- in other words, she left me too. And I ended up with the Williams- two thirty year old parents, with no biological kids of their own, that hate me.
Anyway, there's some things you should know about me. First of all, I'm transsexual. FTM, to be exact. That's right, I used to be a girl. Then I begged and begged till they agreed to get me bottom surgery and hormonal transfer.
Second of all is that I have Chulson's Syndrome. They say it's sort of like autism- not exactly, though. Constant breakdowns at the most random things. I can't have soda because it makes me spasm. I have brain damage because my brain has spontaneous life threatening seizures. And I have this vice, for soft things. Like, I'm obsessed with soft things. From hair to silk to stuffed animals to pillows to covers and everything in between. Once, this girl got a restraining order against me because I was always touching her hair. Because it was so soft.
I have this teacher, Mr. Anderson. He's the art teacher, but he's the teacher that gets stuck with me whenever I'm having a Breakdown Day. All this school year, he's been trying to make me suitable enough for "normal classes". In other words, he's been trying to make me go a full day with my regular classes instead of just spending all day in his room drinking hot chocolate.
Am I doing a good enough job explaining myself? No? Yeah, I get that a lot.That's the thing with Chulson's. It's like- like I can't get the right words out, when I wanna say something.
Anyway, I guess this is supposed to be some story, so here we go...

Chapter One

I hated school. I mean, every kid hated school, but I really hated school. Leaner Middle was the oldest school in the county, dating back to when Larry Leaner had built it over fifty years ago. The bricks were rust colored. The carpool area was littered with broken stone benches, that had been weathered away or busted by some vandalizing bitches.
I was always late. Ms. Noll, the bitter bastard that wore too tight shirt, too short skirts, and caked her face with make up. And she wondered why she couldn't get a guy? Pfft, had she looked in a mirror? Anyway, whenever she saw me coming up, she automatically unlocked the door with a roll of her eyes.
And today is one of those days. I sported a bloody bruise on my cheek as I shuffled up to the door, slapping the button with two fingers. She rolled her eyes and unlocked it with a slap to a button of her own, and I swung open the door before making my way across the red and black tiles to my locker. I spun in the combination- 56, 28, 34. I waited for the click, then lifted up the handle and swung my bright pink locker open. Sure, I had gotten in trouble for defacing school property by spray painting it that color, but I was not gonna have a red locker. No, I was simply not.
The inside of my locker was covered in felt- yes, soft felt. The most amazing thing in the world. Shrunken heads hung from the ceiling- yes, I know that's sick and twisted, but I really don't give a shit. The ceiling was covered in purple felt, the shrunken heads stared at me with their wide eyes. Ignoring them, I grabbed a couple books and shoved them inside my canvas bag, then slammed my locker shut and shuffled towards Mr. West's math classroom.
The walls were a sickly yellow, like the color of mustard. The carpet was green like mucus, and was occasionally spotted with dried wads of gum. A balding man with a greasy handlebar mustache, in a tweed suit and a lame fish covered tie, sat at his mahagony desk at the front of the desk arranged in three rows of two. He ignored me as I shuffled in and took my seat in the back, right behind Meredith Stones. Mr. West began his lecture again.
I stared at her hair. It was so shimmery, so red, so....soft. My hand reached out, carefully stroking it, grabbing a single lock, feeling it smoothly slid against my skin...
"Get this retard off me!"
I immediately shrank back in my seat and let go of her hair as the entire class turned to us. My lip quivered as my hand shook. Everybody was staring. I pulled my knees to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, trying not to let it get to me...
"Excuse me?" Mr. West said.
"This retard-" I flinched as she made sure to put emphasis on the word "retard". "-Touched my hair. Like, yanked it. Isn't that against the rules?"
"It was soft!" I protested, my voice cracking into a whine. The rest of the class sniggered.
"London. You know that isn't an excuse."
My lip quivered, and I bit it to make it still. Mr. West sighed.
"London. Maybe you should go to Mr. Anderson's room." Mr. West said gently, taking me by my shaking arm and leading me out of the classroom, down the hall, pushing me into Mr. Anderson's art room. The bright colored paintings that covered every inch of the walls and the hot pink tiles calmed me immediately.
"One of those days," was all Mr. West said to Mr. Anderson, before leaving and shutting the door behind him. I took a seat on one of the tables, as Mr. Anderson began making hot chocolate.
"What happened this time?"
"I touched Meredith's hair." I muttered. "Again."
Mr. Anderson sighed. "London-"
"It was soft!" I said indignantly. "You know how I am with soft things."
He handed me my hot chocolate with a look. I sighed.
"You act like I have a choice."
"London, I know you don't have a choice. But maybe we need to consider that- maybe you can't handle normal classes, Klaus."
"Are you suggesting special ed?"
"London, I'm saying that maybe it needs to be considered an option. This seems to be happening more and more. These Breakdown Days, I mean."
"I touched her hair. I in no way had any breakdown of any kind."
Mr. Anderson sighed in defeat. "Alright, I'll give you that one. I guess you're staying in here for the day?"
"You really think Meredith would let me back in class?"
He sighed. "Good point."
I took a sip of my hot chocolate. "Besides, I like your room. The colors make me calm."
His hand suddenly stroked the bruise on my cheek, fairly hard. I winced. He wiped the blood that had rubbed onto his finger off on his pants.
"You really should clean that thing up."
I shook my head.
"What happened?"
I bit my split lip and looked at my feet, which dangled off the desk.
"It was your dad, wasn't it?"
My eyes snapped up with a quick shake of my head. "Hell to the no."
Okay, I'm going to pause here to tell you something: I lie, a lot. Especially about my dad. The truth is, both my parents- my adoptive parents- are both heartless bastards. Both hit me, dad a little more than mom. Yeah, that's where I got the bruise on my cheek and my split lip, and all the bruises on my torso underneath my clothes. Dad was wear I got the bruises on my groin- not like I would ever admit to that.
"London. You can tell me. I can help."
"There's nothing to help with." I insisted. "Everything's fine at home."
"Klaus-"
I sipped my chocolate without replying, knowing that if I avoided talking long enough he would change the subject.
He sighed, took a sip from his own mug- he had coffee, in comparison to my hot chocolate, since I wasn't allowed to have caffeine- and turned on some music. I nodded my head to the beat, then slipped on some painting clothes, grabbed a paintbrush and an easel, and began painting with him, rocking my hips with the music.
Mr. Anderson opened the door and made for the bathroom. I glanced at the class and realized that we were on lunch break, so teachers had a planning period. I shrugged and turned back to my easel.
He returned, shut the door and turned the music up, fixing us our refills, before returning to his own easel. I grinned. Mr. Anderson got me. Sure, I was a kid with Chulson's Disease and mildly challenged, but I loved to paint, listen to music and drank hot chocolate, and Mr. Anderson let me do that. I knew that sooner or later Mr. West would come by and drop off my day's classwork to do, but until then I could paint my beaten heart out and drink as much hot chocolate as my bladder could hold.
Finally, the final bell rang. My paintings were hung in a corner to dry. It was time to go home. I slung my canvas bag over my shoulder and waved goodbye to Mr. Anderson, before making my way out of the room, across the red and black tiles, out of the school, past the busted carpool area, into the neighborhood, away, up into the hills. I shoved my key into the lock, jiggled a little till it opened, and stepped inside.