Shades of Adrian Gray - 5. Chapter 5

NOW

“Here, faggy, faggy, faggot.”

I grit my teeth and do my best to ignore Kyle Brewer and his moron friends’ usual post PE ‘tormenting of the smaller kids’ locker room ritual. The object of today’s session is some scrawny little freshman, Scott something, I think. Same shit, different day. I shake my head and pull on my jeans on the opposite of the room from them. Brewer’s an idiot. Always been an idiot, always will be an idiot. Usually its no big sweat to ignore his entire existence, but today it’s proving especially difficult. Course, most things are annoying me today, and yesterday and the day before. Have been for the past couple of weeks now. Partly because of all the detentions I’ve been racking up for skipping classes. Partly from all the grounding at home because of the detentions and skipping classes. And partly from all the grief I’ve been getting from Neil and Vanessa because of all the groundings and detentions and skipping classes. Seriously. How hard is it to figure out when someone just wants to be left the fuck alone?

“Hey, who wants to give a fag a bone?” Kyle jeers behind me, and I toss a glance over my shoulder and see the poor freshman shit practically cowering against the lockers. Case in point, I figure, grabbing my towel and rubbing the last remnants of sweat and shower from my chest. What the hell is it about some people that they’re just physically incapable of minding their own business and staying out of peoples’ way? Not my problem though. I’m wound tighter than a top as it is, and me opening my mouth isn’t going to end well for anybody. I doubt Scott would thank me for my help anyways. Just stupid ass high school locker room shit, and there’s not much anyone can do to change that. Sticking up for his scrawny ass now would just make people think he actually needed protecting, and make it worse for him further down the line. He could deal with it himself. See that, right there? Trusting someone to handle their own fucking problem. Wow, what a concept. I should send Neil and Vanessa a memo on it. Although if Kyle says faggot one more time -

I sit down on one of the wooden benches running between the locker rows and lace up my sneakers. Thing is, I’m not pissed at Neil and Vanessa or even my parents for being on my case. I mean, its nice to know they care, its just….what the fuck do they expect me to say? Oh hey, sorry for acting like a freak this past month, its cause I’m kinda a basket case over my secret boyfriend being dead - right. That’s gonna happen. Even so much as hinting along those lines would just open the door to an onslaught of questions about me being gay and me being with Adrian and Adrian in general…and fuck. I just don’t even want to think about any of that stuff, let alone talk about it and I don’t know how to explain that to anybody without actually saying the things that’ll spark those questions. That’s what’s pissing me off and the fact that nobody can seem to pick up on this…. which is stupid, I know, because hey, they’re not mind readers but damn. I think it’s the awareness of my own total irrationality that’s got me more mad than anything else. But that’s okay. Hey, as long as I’m pissed, at least I’m not brooding about Adrian and being a fucking girl about it, which let’s face it, is a very real possibility.

I toss on a T-shirt, grab my backpack and head for the door. Which, unfortunately takes me right past Kyle and his merry men, most of whom are all still half naked and clothed in just their towels, slipping and sliding through the puddles dotting the concrete floor as they rough house, wrestle, and make the freshman’s life a fun little hell. Other nice thing about my moods of late? Being pissed all the time makes it easy to keep from getting a hard on at the idiots’ wet naked torsos. Three cheers for aversion through depression.

“Come on, faggot,” Kyle starts to say, but that’s all he has time for as I suddenly explode, shoving him straight back into the lockers. His bare feet catch one of the puddles and he crashes to the floor and I’m all over him, fist cocked and connecting with his jaw before I even realize what’s going on. I’m not even aware of ever actually making the decision to attack him, I’m just suddenly there, kneeling over his prone body on the floor, hammering away at his face and chest until there’s three classmates pulling me off him and then the PE coach, dragging me by the arm out of the locker room and through the halls to the principal’s office. He’s yelling something in my ear the whole way there, but I can’t make out a single word for the life of me, just sullenly following along like a good little doggie while he drags me by the arm. I think we pass Vanessa in the halls and she gapes at me, and I might have even waved, but then I’m sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs in the outer room of the principal’s office, fan washing over my face and secretary giving me a stern glare while the coach and Mr. Bradshaw talk in loud voices in Bradshaw’s office. The clock ticks steadily in the near silence, its only competition the dull whir of the fan, and I pull a pencil out of my pocket and tap it absent mindedly against the arm of the chair. I’m lost in my total lack of rhythm for awhile and finally look up to a thirty or so year old woman I’ve never seen before gazing down on me with an inscrutable expression.

“Come with me,” she says finally and my mind goes to the Terminator as I get up and follow her out of the office and into the halls. ’Come with me if you want to live’, my fucked up subconscious close captions it, and I snicker. The secretary stares after me like I’ve lost my mind. It occurs to me that too is a possibility.

My mysterious benefactor leads me into a small office near the English building, with Miss Davis lettered on the nameplate on the door. I enter to small, cramped quarters with too many bookcases, a desk who’s surface is invisible under the mounds of paperwork, and two rickety, wooden backed chairs. She plants herself in one of them and directs me to the other. I fidget restlessly, trying to get comfortable.

“You do know you’re like, forty years too late to be a hippy, right?” I ask. It’s a valid question. She’s got a freaking sunflower in her long brown hair, beads hanging down past her shoulders, and a flowing blue green sundress that screams Age of Aquarius so blatantly, that even I, born in the nineties, get the reference. She peers at me over horn-rimmed glasses and suddenly breaks out in a smile so big and genuine, I sit back in surprise.

“Hey, a girl can dream,” she says cheerfully. She leans over and pats me on the leg. “But let’s not worry about me. We’re here to talk about you, Evan.”

“What’s to talk about?” I shrug warily. I have a sinking suspicion I know what kind of staff member I’m talking to now. Her outfit’s screaming kook, and her manner’s screaming ‘I want to be your friend.’ That combination has only ever added up to school counselor. Lovely. I’ve officially been designated nuts. “I’m boring.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” Miss Davis trills with a giggle. “I’ve only just met you and I already find you terribly fascinating.”

I eye her in suspicion. “Are you high?”

She flutters a hand carelessly. “Just on life, dear. Just on life. Now, tell me. Why were you fighting with Kyle Brewer?”

“I’m allergic to extreme stupidity. It was a preemptive thing, keep him from being even stupider.”

“Oh my, that sounds serious,” she blinks owlishly, and actually sounds concerned. “Why isn’t that listed in your medical records?”

I snort. Cute, lady.

“He’s just an asshole, alright? He’s always saying some stupid shit or another and he was just getting on my nerves, so I did something about it. What do you want me to say?”

Miss Davis nods and pulls a notebook and pen off the public health menace that is her desk. Christ. She‘s going to take notes? “You make it sound like you’ve been barely tolerating him for quite some time now. Has he always got on your nerves?”

“Only since third grade,” I roll my eyes. I should get a medal for not having killed him by now, but no, he bullies some freshman in the showers and I take exception and I get sent to the high school nuthouse for it. Karma’s not only a bitch, it’s a deaf, dumb and illiterate one apparently.

“And yet you’ve never had a physical altercation with him before,” she muses, oblivious to the obvious unfairness of the situation. “What was so different about this time?”

“Fuck if I know. Must be something in the water.” I shift uncomfortably in the chair. Something on the seat is digging into my ass. Wonderful. I probably look like I’m having a seizure.

“Hmm, yes,” she taps her pen against her lips thoughtfully. “With all the other random outbreaks of violence on campus, I was about to propose that very same theory to the principal myself.”

I cross my arms and say nothing further. Name, rank and serial number only. I have the right not to incriminate myself. Etc etc. She takes off her glasses and wipes the lenses with her sleeve, sighing.

“This is going to be like pulling teeth, isn’t it?” She asks rhetorically. “I see you’re the strong, silent type who’s not going to give any of his deep, dark secrets up without making me work for it. You know, no one likes a cliché, Evan.”

This last part is said lightly and earns her a smirk. No more and no less. She replaces her glasses and watches me carefully.

“People don’t just spontaneously erupt into violence without a reason, Evan. I’ve no doubt your….irritation with Mr. Brewer has been building for years, but something had to set you off. Some trigger that made you finally act on that irritation. So what was so different about this time? Was it the boy he was picking on? Do you know him?”

“Never even spoken to the kid.”

“Well, then perhaps something Kyle said. What was he saying right before you punched him?”

I stare at the wall. “Can’t remember.”

“Well that’s not good,” she raises an eyebrow. “Blacking out or partially blacking out during a fight could be a sign of serious psychological trauma. It’ll take us a number of sessions to really get to the bottom of something like that. I’ll have to have Mr. Bradshaw set up a regular schedule for us to meet.”

Unbelievable. Was blackmail actually a sanctioned counseling technique? I shove my temper back down before I wind up with suspension on top of whatever trouble I‘m already in. “He was calling Scott a fag, okay? Jeez.”

“I see. And that bothered you?”

“I guess.” I sigh and slouch in the chair, letting some of the frustration from years of hearing Kyle and like minded idiots run their mouths leak through. “I mean, I just think its stupid. The only reason he thinks Scott’s a fag is because he’s smaller and weaker than most kids and he doesn’t have a girlfriend. It’s like, he’s just using it as an excuse to pick on him whether its true or not, and its probably not even, and - I dunno. It’s just stupid.”

She eyes me appraisingly. “That’s a surprisingly enlightened attitude from a teenager your age. I have to admit I’m a little surprised.”

“No one likes a cliché,” I snark. Her eyebrows elevate again and then she throws her head back, peals of silvery laughter erupting like bells, surprising coming from such a small woman. I’m startled back into an upright position in the chair. Seriously. And I’m the one they think is crazy?

“Oh I like you,” she wheezes, taking her glasses off again and rubbing her hand across her eyes. “Tell me, Evan, do you know why I’m here?”

I roll my eyes, done with this shit. Just hand me my fucking detention slip already. “I’m guessing your parents didn’t use a condom.”

“Oh no, of course not, they don’t believe in contraception. I have seven brothers and sisters.” Shocking. “But no, I meant here. At this school.”

I try again. “You lost a bet?”

“Brat,” she chastises with a smile to take away the sting. I‘m a little discomfited that all my attempts at attitude seem to only endear me to her more. “I’m not your school’s regular counselor. I’m a grief counselor. Your school brought me in on a temporary basis after the death of your classmate, Adrian Gray earlier this month. So that students could have someone to talk to about how his death made them feel.”

I stiffen, suddenly seeing the trap that’s been laid out for me and school my face into a neutral expression. Danger, danger. “Have many students talked to you about it?” I ask casually.

“A few,” she shrugs. She’s fidgeting with her pen again all of a sudden, and I know she didn’t miss how her change of subject affects me. My heart starts pounding a little faster. “Some I’ve asked to have come talk with me. When I heard you were in a fight, I actually intercepted the message to Mr. Bradshaw and asked if I could speak to you instead of him. You’ve been near the top of my list to speak with for about a week now, and unfortunately I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Why?” I manage. She can’t possibly know. She’d never even been here before Adrian died, she can’t possibly know.

“Part of what I’ve been doing these past couple weeks is taking note of which students spend the most time at the memorials your school has set up for Adrian around campus. I couldn’t help but notice that you stop by them pretty frequently, at least once a day from what I can tell,” she says carefully. Once a day? Really? I didn‘t realize I‘d been so obvious about it. “Were you and Adrian close?”

“Barely knew the guy,” I say hoarsely, and hate myself for it. She only nods, as though she expected as much.

“Most of the students I’ve talked to so far have said much the same thing. But regardless of how well you all knew him, you’re only in high school. For many of you, I’m sure this is the first time you’ve had to deal with the death of someone you knew personally, no matter how loose that connection actually was. It’s a hell of a thing, the first time you actually have to face death and its aftermath. When you’re young, its easy to forget that you won’t live forever, that everyone dies someday. The reality of mortality can be a very bitter pill to swallow.”

A hollow laugh escapes me. Oh lady, if only you knew. I’ve downed a couple bottles worth of bitter pills so far. It’s a wonder I haven’t OD’d on them yet. Unless maybe I already have. “Yeah well, I’ve had to reevaluate my plan to grow up to be a superhero, but other than that I’m cool.”

“Pity,” Miss Davis smirks. “So few men can actually pull off the cape and tights look. I suspect you’d have worn it well. Ah well.”

I glower at the floor. It was just a joke. I’ve never felt further from hero material. “Look, so do I have detention or what?”

“Fraid not, my young rebel without a cause. Your principal has agreed to accede to my discretion in this particular instance and I don’t believe in detention,” she tosses her hair airily. Big surprise there. “Useless invention, that. Force troubled teenagers to sit in a room and do nothing but affirm their own self-image of being hooligans and delinquents. No, instead of detention, you’re going to replace one of your free periods with an art elective.”

My mouth swings open and shut, fish-like in its disbelief. “Art class?”

“Art class,” she nods firmly.

“You want me to take an art class, instead of detention,” I shake my head. “What the hell for?”

“I want you to paint me a picture,” Miss Davis says, unperturbed. “I want you to paint how Adrian Gray’s death makes you feel.”

She can’t be serious. Who the hell is this woman? What the fuck does she think she’s doing? I’d rather have a hundred detentions. Fuck this shit. “I can’t paint,” I manage at last.

She frowns. “Have you ever tried?”

“Well no, but -”

“Then you’re really not qualified to make that claim, now are you?”

“I’m not five,” I grind my teeth, fed up with her whimsical inanity. She only tilts her head curiously.

“What a ridiculously obvious assertion. Of course you’re not five. Why would I ever imagine you were?”

I swallow a growl and shove to my feet. “Can I go now?”

“Until next time,” she says sunnily. She stands as well, and grabs a large plastic jar full of brightly colored lollipops from the corner of her desk. “Sucker?”

I’m not sure if she’s offering or labeling.