Young Writers Society

Chapter 4

Woodruff High School runs in a block schedule, which means we have eight classes but only four a day. One day I have Periods 1-4, the next 5-8. It was a 5-8 day. And the crumbly old bus driver I mentioned earlier made us late. At the time this really annoyed me, I mean the guy’s had his job about twenty years he should know the route by now, but looking back I’m thinking there was something else going on in his life. And I feel bad for the old guy, because we all complained the whole way.

But you know what the funny thing was? Everyone I saw at least rolled their eyes or, more often, made their dissatisfaction verbally known. Everyone including me. Everyone, that is, except for Gunner.

I can’t figure it out.

The biggest jerk I’ve ever known in my entire life was the only one with enough decency to give the guy a break. Now I as well as you would love to think that he’d seen the error of his ways and was now a new man but we all know that’s impossible. The best I can come up with to explain this odd behavior is that he was hoping to snag one of the girls on the bus. Good strategy, really, what typical high school girl wouldn’t want a gorgeous, sensitive guy?

I, of course, knew he was faking. Up to something. I was instantly on alert. Jumped from analyzing his face to his feet. Watched his hands, listened to conversations around him. Nothing to give it away. No hot girls in sight.

Instant suspicion trigger. Gunner was switching up his game today, trying to catch me by surprise. I wondered if maybe he was as concentrated on this war of ours as I was. A little pathetic, put that way, me totally obsessed with beating Gunner. But I needed it, needed it bad.

When I arrived in first period American Government, late, Mr. Parker gave me a dismissive scowl and pointed to an open seat. Mr. Parker is old and in love with the idea that America’s Government is somehow trying to screw us all over.

Let me interrupt myself with a bit of an explanation- this all happened a long, long time ago- this chapter. I’m only touching on the things I remember specifically, and you’ll see why soon. So I apologize for it being a bit vague. The things that stuck out to me made it into this. I remembered specifically that Mr. Parker was annoying me that day, that I was idly toying with my pencil, looking at the ceiling, and thinking of ways I could ambush Gunner when I next had a class with him.

Our similar schedule gave us the opportunity for much ambushing, and I thoroughly looked forward to it. Nothing like a victory to make your day seem conquered. (Said Napoleon, haha)

“Ms. Wolfe!”

I was shaken from this satisfying mental image to see Mr. Parker glaring down at me- which was a less-than-satisfying image and the only thing mental about it was the way his eyes were bugging out of his head.

In my hurry to answer, I got my words mixed up,” Ms. Par- Mr. Parker?” The class laughed, still happy with me because I’d been in a fight. The remnants of that status-hyper still clung to me. It felt good, I remember, very good.

He chose to ignore that last one, “What was the last thing I said?”

We both knew I had no idea. Taking a chance, I answered, “Ms. Wolfe.”

Why is it teachers do that when everyone knows you haven’t been paying attention? Simply to get that cruel joy from seeing us humiliated? Or are they really just trying to put us in our place, prepare us for life. Sometimes it seems much more the former, especially with an irritable teacher like Mr. Parker.

I remember the class laughed again.

And then I earned the detention I never went to.

The next moment I remember is PE and the instant I saw Gunner. Sometimes I think it’s no wonder certain races dislike each other when it’s ingrained in them since birth, because when I see Jamie Gunner, I don’t see the good-natured athlete who’s handsome and sensitive to boot, I see an enemy. And I think I know, somewhere, the reason is simply just because that day in kindergarten, I stamped JERK across his forehead and have been treating him accordingly ever since.

But, then, if I’m wrong- why is this good-natured, hot, sensitive athlete getting in a fistfight with a girl he’s known since kindergarten? Why is he as engaged in our vendetta as I am? Gunner, to me, represents a big lie. He is the dark spot behind every person- the one they hide away from the world.

Underneath his flawless façade lurks a coldhearted boy who is so desperate to feel something real that he resorts to anger and violence. At least, that’s my theory.

But I digress-- Gunner is an odd sight in PE, let me tell you, because he’s out of his signature look. He tends to wear black or white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, along with dark jeans. It’s very classy but casual, with his hair sticking up like he just rolled out of bed- something my… friend Melissa (yes, from kindergarten) likes to gush on and on about. But in PE, he wears long basketball shorts and sleeveless shirts.

Melissa and I were walking into the gym, and as soon as I located Gunner, I locked him with my angry eyes. I know it doesn’t sound intimidating, but I’ve inherited my laser ice eyes from my mom. It’s a glare you have to practice. I saw the familiar flame flicker in his expression before he rose to the occasion with a magnificent snarl of his own.

“Who are you trying to kill with your eyes? Oh,” Melissa interrupted our visual battle, and I turned reluctantly.

Today, Melissa’s gym clothes involved an eye-popping pink t shirt which showed off her figure eight body and short cheerleading shorts with the word Delicious across the butt. It’s an embarrassment to know her sometimes. She’s followed me around since kindergarten, trying to get some of my personality to rub off on her- or something.

See- even though I chose to wear a black t-shirt and red soccer shorts to PE with my hair in a practical ponytail, I’d be the one a guy might stop to talk to. I know it, I can’t say I’m too crazy about it, but there it is. I’m not going to feign ignorance under the pretense of being modest.

But anyways, I think my answer to Melissa went something like this, “Why on Earth would you even ask?”

She seemed surprised, I was usually a little less sarcastic with her but I was in a bad mood, “Excuse me for hoping you made up with Jamie.”

“There’s a difference between hope and stupidity.” But not a big one, was what I was thinking.

“I’d ask what’s eating you, but I assume it’s Jamie,” Melissa went on, shifting her weight to the other foot as we waited for class to begin.

I was about to make a sharp remark, wanting her to butt out, but the hopeful look on her face stopped me, “Yeah- it’s harder now that I’ve beat him up.”

“I don’t know- he might have beat you.”

“Like you would know.”

“Hey, I saw-“

“Hello.”

I turned swiftly as the familiar voice entered the conversation. Gunner had always been the one to provoke, and I usually overreacted and started something. I knew as soon as I turned the expression on his face would be smooth and unreadable.

“Gunner, did you need something?” I turned, keeping my voice carefully calm. At this point, Melissa was gasping and staring like an oversized fish. I, however, had my game face on.

Jamie’s handsome face contorted into an angry squint as he answered, “Not from you. I was talking to your friend.”

I think Melissa may have had a heart attack at that moment, she seemed to have blanked completely. Sensing I would have to wait this one out, I turned impassive and leaned back. Finally, after a bit of stuttering, Melissa managed to squeak, “Y-yes?”

He answered in his smooth, deceptive voice with just the right amount of pleasant rasping and an underlying baritone, “Will you hand me that?” He gestured to the last basketball lying in a bag behind us.

With utmost clumsiness, Melissa bent, retrieved the ball, and held it out for him. Just as he reached for it, she fumbled the ball. In her attempt to catch it, and his reflexes, their hands ended up together under said basketball. Melissa’s eyes turned huge.

To my complete confusion, it was Gunner who blushed first. Though my head was still utterly fascinated by this oddly pleasing sight, my first instinct was to act on this moment of weakness, so I shot out my hand and snatched up the basketball. One handedly, I drew back and sent it flying straight at Gunner’s chest. I had been aiming for his head but that worked too.

The sound the ball made as it connected with his solid form was like the cracking of a rock and it echoed throughout the gym. My smile may have been a bit crazed.

I wasn’t prepared for Gunner’s reaction. Usually he tries to be cool, calm, and collected. Today, he came striding forward immediately, his head down in a very aggressive position. I thought he was going to run right through me, but stood my ground. He stopped just inches from my face, his fists clenched and held backwards as if he were restraining himself. His voice was low and scathing when he spoke, “You think that’s funny, Wolfe? You think you’re tough now? You’re not. You’ve just proved to everyone here how immature and pathetic you really are. Don’t-“

I cut him off, going for a very quiet, mocking tone, “How does it feel being so violent you nearly gave someone a concussion? I must say I feel sorry for your dad- he can’t have done anything to deserve such an abusive delinquent for a son.”

His breathing was heavy now, and very feral. So close, I saw his eyes widen with rage and… pain? He moved forward suddenly, arm raised to hit me, face contorted in an effort to stop himself. The muscles in his neck and shoulders stood out threateningly. I leaned forward so that our noses nearly touched, “My, my, Gunner. Such a temper.”

We were at a standoff, our hackles raised and a snarl on our faces. I smiled, injecting as much venom as I could into that expression. His voice was quieter, hoarser than I’d ever heard before, “I hate you, Casper Wolfe.”

I’ll admit I was stunned. In all my life I’ve never heard such profound anger in those three words. He was telling the truth. I stared right back into his clear blue eyes, watching him convulse with anger- his whole frame literally shaking. I was thinking descriptions, words to sum up what Jamie was like right then: torture, agony, satanic, inferno. At that moment, reflecting on what he’d said, I whispered back with just as much hatred infused in my voice, “Do you really, Jamie Gunner? But what would you be without me?”

The PE teacher came and forced us apart. I locked eyes with Gunner until Melissa spoke. I didn’t hear a word of what she said.

PE that day ended up being free time, because I soon found it was a Minimum Day. And that’s all I remember of my school day. But I’ll never forget what happened afterward. Mom picked me up from school- she said I could drive the car. I do that a lot since I don’t have my own.

The car door wouldn’t open. I seized the handle and wrenched it outward again and again. I pounded the door with frustration. Mom was looking at me strangely. She gestured to the lock. I unlocked the car and tried opening the door again. It worked.

Her car smelled of leather and mango, the steering wheel was cool to the touch. I put the key in the ignition, turned it. The car yowled angrily to life. Through the windshield the school was blue-tinted. I looked over my shoulder.

Mom began talking, apologizing and lecturing and probing. I was in a bad mood. I can’t remember why. We drove. The ride was smooth and humming, charged with emotion. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. I kept looking at my watch.

And then everything happened in a series of seconds.

One. Gunner cut us off at intersection. I blinked into a mask of rage.

Two. My foot jammed the gas and swerved to follow him.

Three. I heard a horn honk. The long, deep kind like a…

Truck.

Four. I looked out my left window and into the headlights.

Five. Pain lanced through my head. Blood rose up against my lips and came spewing out my mouth and nose.

Six. There was pain and darkness. I knew no more.