Carter's Shadow - 8. Chapter 8

West tucked the Bronco into the lot, jumping down from the truck and slamming the door, hefting his book bag to his shoulder as he reluctantly stared over at the school. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day; the last of the snow was gone, the sun warming everything in a valiant effort to give them a taste of the summer that was so close.

His brother was gone, dashing and leaping the guard rail as he met up with a couple of his buddies smoking just outside the gym doors, tantalizingly close to Thorburn's office and the inevitable detention that would come when the coach caught them.

West rolled his eyes and set off to meet his friends, pushing through the gym doors and walking up the long corridor that ran the outside length of the gym. It was still relatively early, but a lot of the usual students were already there, bouncing basketballs and taking their shots on the net.

West noted that Brad wasn't there yet; his customary 'throne' over by the scorekeeper's table was empty. And West wondered if he'd get a chance to find out what had his bud so rattled. He contemplated hanging around; there were a couple of kids watching him, hoping he'd join them in one of their games. And he thought about it, he enjoyed basketball, but he had too much to do that morning, too much to think about.

He set out again, rounding the main body of the school, smiling at familiar faces as he stuck his head into the student council office across from the guidance centre, again finding no sign of either Brad or Jenny-Lynn. She was the student council president, not that the position meant much more than she was the most popular of the people who actually decided to run. He frowned; normally she hung out there, which meant she was probably off with Brad.

West sighed and wandered on through the school, passing a couple of the Storm, who stopped him for quick 'hey, how's it goings'. He chatted to them briefly standing in the lee of the auditorium doors, looking out across the lobby, keeping his eyes peeled. There was a lot of activity going on around the school offices; the principal came out of his office, talking to Coach Thorburn. Thorburn looked pissed, never a good sign.

West excused himself as his teammates made themselves scarce. When coach was in a foul mood it was always a good idea to steer clear of him until he had a chance to cool down.

West wasn't sure where he could get to quickly, but he rounded the lobby in the opposite direction to the simmering coach and clambered up the flight of stairs to the junior high section of the school.

He got a couple of funny looks from sixth and seventh graders as the senior walked past them through the upper floor. There was a gallery corridor that overlooked the lobby connecting the junior high to the upper floor of the high school, normally home to the grade nine classes. West knew he wasn't supposed to cut through there, but sometimes the rules were overlooked because of the jacket.

He came through the far doors, stopping a moment to reseat his book bag on his shoulder as he smiled; successfully detouring around a potentially bad situation was always good. The only problem was...

Peter was looking at him in surprise, the young artist was leaning on the bank of lockers outside the art room talking to one of his friends, and looked genuinely surprised to see West standing there. His brow darkened suspiciously as the girl he was talking to excused herself and darted off.

Out of the frying pan...

"Are you stalking me?" Peter accused, walking into the art room that shared some of the connecting gallery's view over the lobby.

West blinked turning to stare at him in the room, not crossing the threshold. "No, I was trying to..." he realized how lame he was sounding, "No, I wasn't expecting to see you there."

"Right," Peter said sitting down at his desk, keeping his back to West.

"All right, you know what," West stated, finally losing his patience, "I've had enough."

He walked into the room and closed the door. When they were finally alone he turned to Peter, who was actually staring at him now with mildly contained panic, 'I want to know exactly what I did to piss you off so badly."

"Mrs. McGorlick will be back any moment," Peter warned.

"I don't care," West replied coming across sitting down on the edge of the desk across from Peter. "Obviously I've done wrong by you, and I can't figure out what I've done, so maybe you can spell it out for me."

Peter stared at him, "Look, why don't you go back to the gym, shoot some hoops, or whatever it is you do, and leave me the fuck alone."

"But why?" West pressed, leaning down a bit to look at those incredibly sad eyes that refused to look at him.

Peter looked up accusingly, "Because I want you to leave me alone." His eyes were hard, despite the fact they were beginning to water, "You don't have to fake it, just go, do what you're supposed to do and... leave me alone."

West folded his arms. "Do what I'm supposed to do... you still don't believe me," he said after a moment, realization setting in. "I'm not trying to trick you, I'm not setting you up for anything, I just wanted to make you feel better so I told you the truth about me."

Peter shook his head. "You...you can't." he said quietly, "you're supposed to kick the shit out of me or something... not be so... fucking nice!"

West looked down at the jacket he was wearing, and over at Peter before he took it off and tossed it down on the table between them. "Put it on," he said firmly.

"What?" Peter looked at him in confusion.

"Put it on," West demanded angrily.

Peter flinched at the harshness of West's words, picking up the jacket and slipping it on one arm at a time. He swam in it, the heavy jacket easily making him look very small and fragile. A little kid playing dress up or something. He heaved a long sigh and huffed, blowing some of the blond hair that nearly completely shrouded his eyes up and away from one of them that sparkled at West questioningly.

"So," West said folding his arms, "do you feel that?"

Peter looked confused, "Feel what?"

"You telling me that you don't feel any different wearing the jacket?" West asked. "Like you are no longer a person but you automatically become a stereotype wearing it?"

Peter looked up at him, his eyes still red, "W-what?"

"Does wearing it make you any less gay?" West demanded angrily.

"I-," he shook his head, "n-no..."

"So what the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in China?" West snapped.

"I-it..." Peter began, as the door opened to admit the broad-shouldered art teacher, who took one look at her favourite student near to tears, and the angry hockey jock facing him.

"What the hell is going on here?" she demanded.

West turned in surprise. "I..." he shook his head, "was just leaving," he said, turning and marching from the room, still seething. Mrs McGorlick watched him a moment as he passed her before she glanced back at Peter to make sure he was all right.

West was annoyed; typically Peter had found a way to turn a normally good day upside down, and it bothered him mildly. Why was Peter's opinion of him so important? He was a well-liked guy, popular, skilled at hockey, which was all it took some days to be top dog. And yet there was this scrawny, shy artist, with big blue eyes and bad taste in clothes, who could make West doubt himself so utterly.

It wasn't right, and he reached his locker, flipping it open and stuffing his book bag into it roughly.

"Hey," Matt said coming to rest on the locker beside him, "you hear?"

"Hear what?" West snapped, dragging out his chemistry book and the report he had written the night before.

"Whoa, what's gotten into you, dude?" Matt asked, backing up a step from the normally so sedate centre.

"Nothing," West replied, tucking his book under his arm and closing his locker, taking a steadying breath. "Sorry, you didn't deserve that--what's up?"

"Your blood pressure, from the sounds of it," Matt replied. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah, just didn't sleep well last night," West replied honestly. It was the truth; he just decided to omit the small, blond agitator who had been the actual reason for his mood.

"Sucks, man," Matt replied. "Anyway, they kicked Brad off the team this morning."

"What?" West replied in shock turning to face Matt. "Why?"

"He flunked the drug test or something," Matt replied. "He didn't stay, he just left. I heard this from Sally, she was in the office this morning to photocopy the school newspaper and she overheard them talking."

"Wow," West responded automatically, realizing what Brad had wanted to talk to him about. It meant a bunch of changes around the school, for the team and their standing in the playoffs. They were two weeks into the playoffs and they'd lost the team captain. He rubbed his jaw, shaking his head. "Shit," he murmured, thinking of Brad having to go home and explain to his parents, not to mention having to face all the other students around the school with that kind of shadow hanging over his head.

"Come on, we should get to class," Matt said jerking his thumb towards the stairs.

"Yeah," West replied, following his best friend on automatic.

* * *

It was sometime just before lunch when the call from the office saved him from a rather boring math class. Something to do with quadratic equations that sent West cross-eyed, especially when he simply couldn't focus on the work in front of him.

Matt gave him a sympathetic look as West heaved a sigh and nodded to Mister Taylor as he set off down to the office wondering what they wanted with him. Probably to ask him about Brad, if he knew anything, or it may have had something to do with his outburst to Peter that morning.

He pushed through the glass doors and smiled at Mrs Harris, the school secretary, who gestured for him to go on through. He swallowed as he walked into the principal's office, feeling a pull of apprehension as he saw Coaches Thorburn and Highmore standing at one end of the room, and Principal McLennan seated behind his broad dictator-style desk. The former US Marine Colonel, with his wise eyes and regal posture regarded the young man, and despite his advanced years, he had lost nothing of his commanding presence.

"Mister Harding, " he said robustly, his accent shining through, "have a seat."

West bobbed his head as he took a seat, glancing a moment at Highmore, then at Thorburn for some sign that he was in trouble.

"I wanted to ask you about Brad Lapointe," McLennan stated, direct and to the point, the man seldom dallied around an issue. "Did you know about his drug use?"

West blinked, not quite sure if that was supposed to be discussed so openly; he shifted uncomfortably. "I never saw him taking anything, sir," he admitted truthfully.

"Not even off of school property?" McLennan pressed.

"Sir," Highmore cut in, "we can't question him like this; it's inappropriate, not to mention against..."

"Oh shut up," Thorburn grumbled. "You become more of a lawyer every day. Just answer the question, West."

Highmore shook his head, "You don't have to answer anything you don't want to." He stared down both the principal and the senior coach, his arms crossed, "He has rights."

"It's ok," West replied glancing back at Highmore, before meeting McLennan's stare. "No, I never saw him taking any drugs. I've seen him drink, but never drugs, not in front of me. But then, I guess most of my friends know that..." he winced, "excuse the expression, sir, but I'd kick their ass, sir."

Thorburn chuckled, impressed at West showing the testicular fortitude to swear in front of the principal. Highmore smiled and nodded. But McLennan held his gaze firm for a few seconds longer.

"Have you ever used drugs?" he asked, his eyes searching West's face.

"No sir," West replied, meeting that level stare. "Not now, not ever. It would hurt my chances for a scholarship."

"The Legion scholarship," McLennan said glancing down at West's file in front of him and reading from it. "You plan to join the army."

"I do, sir," West replied.

"Good," McLennan said, "makes this a bit easier." He gestured to Thorburn.

Thorburn nodded and dug into his pocket, tossing the golden 'C' down onto the desk before West. West stared at it, and then up at Thorburn in shock, turning to look at the others around him. Highmore just nodded in satisfaction, as McLennan remained impassive.

"But..." West said, looking back down at the C.

"But nothing," Thorburn replied. "I just lost my team captain, and I have two assistants, you and Jensen, and Jensen's a junior, and doesn't have the experience to lead the team through to the conference finals."

"Plus," McLennan said, making notes in the file on his desk and glancing up, "it will look good on your scholarship application when you have your interview with Major Carter and the other Legion representatives."

West caught Highmore's start at the mention of the head of the review board. He looked down at the C again and nodded. "Thank you," he said, reaching out to take it.

"Be sure you earn it," McLennan warned. "This school can ill afford another... problem."

"Sir, yes sir," West snapped off, standing up and walking from the office just as the lunchtime bell began to sound. He was in a state of shock, just holding the golden C in his hands as he walked through the rushing students. A few of them glanced and recognized what he was holding in his hands. Word of Brad's demise had travelled fast around the school, and the news of the new captain would be around the school before the end of the lunch hour.

He found his locker; turning the combination he reached in for his jacket, and realized he didn't have it. In his rush to leave Mrs. McGorlick's classroom, he'd left it with Peter. Which meant round two with the short artist, who packed a mean left hook...

Matt caught up to him, his blue eyes locked onto the C, as he ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair. "It's true!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Yeah," West replied with a nod, "yeah, they made me captain."

"This means I get to call you skipper..." Matt bounced.

"Only if I get to call you Gilligan," West replied.

"You can call me anything you like," Matt beamed, "just don't call me late for dinner."

West shook his head and tussled Matt's dark hair. "Goof," he accused.

"We gotta celebrate, man!" Matt insisted.

West shook his head, "No... it's not right. Not after Brad..."

A couple of the other Storm passed his locker and clapped him congratulations on the shoulder, and he nodded his thanks to them for the sentiment.

Matt shook his head, "Come on, we never get to just hang out, you and me." He grinned, "My place, tonight; I'll call my mom, tell her you're coming and that we're celebrating."

"Ok," West replied. "I'll have to let the folks know, but it should be good. Right now though, I have to speak to somebody. I'll catch you in the cafeteria?"

"Sure thing," Matt said with a grin, as he ducked off.

West watched him go; they'd been friends for years, so he could understand why Matt was so excited for him. They'd celebrated when they'd both passed their driving test on the same day, West had thrown Matt's last birthday party. It kind of went hand in hand with being a best friend he guessed.

He found Peter, typically, in the art room again. Mrs. McGorlick was nowhere to be seen, and West hesitated in the doorway, blinking. Peter was sitting in the same seat staring up at the window, still wearing the jacket. His blue visor framed a pair of sad blue eyes, a sketchbook open before him, the pencil tapping the spine of it rhythmically.

"So," West said, hands in his pockets, the white dress shirtsleeves rolled up to the same height as the grey polo shirt he wore like a sweater over it, "walking a mile in my shoes, huh?"

Peter glanced up, red tingeing his cheeks in embarrassment, "I..."

West shrugged as he came in, walking around, hands in his pockets to glance down at the notebook, and looked surprised--it was a picture of him. He shook his head and looked at Peter. "That's phenomenal," he said, truly surprised.

"I was thinking about what you were saying this morning," Peter said looking up, "and, I had to draw it..."

It must have taken all morning; the detail in it was astounding--his face, his eyes, a quietly thoughtful look, sitting down gripping the hockey jacket in his hands, but not wearing it. Greenwood would have been proud at the depth of West's interpretation of the picture, there was so much in such a simple drawing.

"Why am I so sad?" he asked looking at Peter curiously.

"I don't know," Peter admitted quietly, "it's just, when you think no one is looking, and you're all by yourself, that's how you look. Sad and contemplative..."

"And how do you know?" West replied, sitting down on the edge of the desk, studying those soulful blue eyes that looked at him so timidly one minute, then so filled with anger the next. Right now they were just scared...

"I watched you one day," Peter admitted. "I thought it might be cool to draw you and so just... you know, checked you out and stuff..."

West nodded. "It's a cool drawing," he said firmly, "but I need my jacket back."

"Oh," Peter said, as if remembering for the first time he had been wearing it, and he slipped it off handing it back. "Sorry, I just..." he blushed bright red.

West grinned. "No problem. Least maybe now you won't think of me as such a jerk," he replied getting up and pulling out the golden C from his pocket and laying it against the jacket's breast, over top of where the A currently sat.

"Wow, they made you captain?" Peter said sounding awed.

"Yeah, pretty cool eh?" West replied as he put the C away and donned the jacket.

"It's great," Peter replied, standing up and grinning at him. "You have to be all psyched."

West realized how close they were standing at that moment. Peter's black and white shirt was brushing West's hand, another inch closer and it would be brushing his abdomen. West swallowed, fighting the urge to just brush that hand a little closer.

Peter was staring at him, those eyes wide again, though not scared; now they were curious. Was this a test? West swallowed again, and felt his fingers brush the line where Peter's tee shirt met his khaki pants, pressing till they touched Peter's side.

"I found the charcoal," McGorlick declared rounding the doorframe, as West took a quick step back, staring at her in sheer fright. McGorlick paused, a quizzical look coming over her severe face. "You're back again, Mister Harding?"

"I...errr..." West stumbled.

"He was taking a look at the picture," Peter said, not missing a beat as he turned the pad around and presented it to the teacher. She looked at it through her half-moon glasses.

"You really capture your subject," she said studying it. "You should be grateful, Mister Harding, to be drawn by such a talented artist."

"I am," West replied nervously.

"Well then," she said, "run along then, let him finish up."

"Yes, Mrs. McGorlick," West stated, dashing from the room as fast as he could.