This sucks.
Seriously, it does. A lot.
Not only am I stuck in a high school senior English class that has absolutely no bearing on what skills one needs to live in the real world, but I have to do an extremely stupid group project. And not only that, but I have to be partnered with the absolute last person in the class I would pick if it were my choice.
You know that really stupid guy in every class that almost never talks, never turns in anything, drools on his desk and smells really weird? My partner makes that guy look like a potential best friend.
Yeah, I am just that fucking unlucky.
What could possibly be worse than that, you ask? Well let me tell you. The bastard’s name (as I found out just ten seconds ago when my stupid bitch of a teacher partnered me with him), is Ethan Richter, and he’s fucking crazy. Much like the second-worse candidate, with a few exceptions, he is generally silent in class and when our teacher asks him questions, (if he responds at all), it’s with a snarled curse or threat. Poor Ms. Ash (although she’s still a stupid bitch for partnering us), is so afraid of him she doesn’t even call on him anymore and if she has to speak with him, she does so with a violent tremor in her hands and a stutter so pointed it usually just causes him to get fed up and walk away or tell her to ‘fucking speak up’.
Sure, he’s as pale as a ghost, has three eyebrow rings on his left brow, snake-bite lip piercings, straight black hair in one of those disheveled cuts with half bangs and the most eerie pale grey eyes I’ve ever seen that weren’t on a vampire, (I guess that’s maybe a little creepy), but the guy is seventeen and only about five foot four. Half of the girls in the class are as-tall or taller-than him. I have about a half foot on the guy. That just isn’t very intimidating.
He’s usually skulking in the back of the classroom sitting cross-legged in his desk chair (I have no idea how he does it either), wearing a black hoodie displaying the logo of a band I’ve never heard of with the hood pulled down low over his face, skinny-legged black jeans studded with safety pins and Converse that are a different color and state of disintegration every day, usually scribbled on with black sharpie.
Just your stereotypical emo-kid, right? Wrong.
Most kids in any given school who follow a particular ‘style’ are just that: regular kids, who happen to dress funky. You can talk to them and they are nice (or as nice as anyone), they are interested in the same things as you, have goals and aspirations and have a normal life. The same cannot be said about Ethan.
No one talks to him for the same reason Ms. Ash doesn’t talk to him. It’s detrimental to one’s mental health. Even if you did talk to him he definitely wouldn’t be nice to you, quite the opposite actually, assuming he didn’t ignore you completely. This being so, it’s impossible to say whether he has the same interests or goals as anyone, but most everyone involved in the local gossip-mill is pretty certain he doesn’t have a normal life.
For one thing, he is highly schizophrenic. No, I didn’t get this second-hand; I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth. That is to say, from the school councilor who came in to talk to our class the day Ethan came in, about two weeks after second semester started. Teachers generally don’t tell students shit, so the fact that they did said something meant he was so screwed up they wanted to make an official statement before the gossip could get started in, producing something even worse than the truth. They also warned us not to provoke him because he was known to be violent. Why the hell is this kid in the public school system? Honestly. He should be in a fucking Asylum. Or at least remedial classes, I’m in college prep for Christ’s sake.
I’ve even seen his craziness demonstrated. He tends to mutter under his breath and tilt his head and furrow his eyebrows as if he’s listening to something no one else can hear. Even stranger, he has episodes where he suddenly freezes up and goes rigid, sometimes in the middle of moving, and doesn’t respond to someone talking or even waving a hand in his face, which I have seen rouse hisses and threats.
The only thing he’s got on Second-Worse place is that he’s not stupid. If he ever said anything that wasn’t a threat or a curse I might even say he’s smart (although some of those curses and threats are rather creative). I don’t think he has ever gotten anything below an A on a paper, quiz, worksheet, test or essay. Maybe the voices tell him all the answers or something.
All I can say is the voices better advise him to not be too psychotic while we work on this stupid thing together. I’ve got my own issues; I don’t need to deal with his too. Plus I think Ted would be pissed if I were to beat someone up. Not to mention mom would make me stop taking Karate if I didn’t get good grades…or if I beat someone up. Ted would probably cover for me with mom though; he wants me to keep taking karate as much as I do.
How did I end up with this guy as my partner? Or right, I have the (mis)fortune of sitting next to him; in a perfect position to observe his craziness, not that I want to. I’d have rather sat next to Second-Worse place.
Well, I should probably get this over with.
I turned to my schizophrenic partner, “So…” I begin drolly, “We’ve got to make up a deleted or alternate scene for Hamlet, type up a script, and put it on video to be shown in class. Got any ideas?”
Silence.
He was sitting in his regular position, with his legs pulled up close to him in the chair, arms crossed over his knees, glaring at Ms. Ash who was sitting at her desk at the front corner of the class while everyone spoke with their partners about their assignments. She caught his gaze and began to shake. I’m completely serious. Ethan is more creepy and scary based on how the teacher reacts to him than what he’s ever done himself, which says a lot. Why is this teacher teaching if she can’t handle an unruly student? What is up with the education system? Every once in a while you’ll get someone good but Ms. Ash just isn’t it.
“Hello?” I said exasperatedly, not really expecting an answer. He was staring at the clock now, as if glaring at it long enough might make it explode.
I know people who are schizophrenic and bi-polar and depressed. As long as they take their meds, they are mostly normal, and otherwise cool people. This guy obviously wasn’t taking his meds.
Ethan squinted at apparently thin air and murmured something that didn’t sound too friendly.
“What?” I frowned.
“I said stop fucking talking about me, asshole,” he growled fixing me with that silver-grey glower.
“I didn’t say anything,” I said indignantly, not bothering to take offence to the insult.
He muttered something that could possibly have contained the words ‘mother-fucking’ and ‘jerk’. I was so screwed.
I have to get started on this and have it finished as soon as I can, because I have another martial arts tournament coming up in a week and I’m spending extra hours at the dojo. I so didn’t have time for this shit.
Conceding to myself that I would most likely have to do the thing myself if I wanted it done while silently cursing my Ms. Ash for being a wicked bitch, I turned to a clean sheet of notebook paper in my binder and started scribbling down ideas on my own while Ethan continued to ignore me. I gave a pretty good effort for the first fifteen minutes or so, not even looking up when my ‘partner’ shifted in his seat unexpectedly. I looked up at the clock and it was a little over five minutes till the end of class.
This sucked. I know I keep saying this but it’s still true and getting truer by the moment.
I realized I’d been staring at my paper despondently for a while now without even trying to think up a scene for our video, much less managing to write anything down. That horrible, hopeless feeling that makes you want to cry was creeping up on me. You might think that I was overreacting a little and you would probably be right. I’d been high-strung and easily stressed since Rider’s group had kidnapped me and Becca. I was getting better, but that point when I would feel safe and secure again was a long way off. Long way off…
And in the mean time, if I didn’t have something specific to focus my attention on, to keep me busy in times of stress, I sometimes slipped back into that fearful state I’d been in right after the incident. Like right now. Not for the first time I started to feel anxious, miserable, and not a little ill.
Scared, I felt scared. It wasn’t as pronounced an apprehension as I’d felt in the first months after Ted and Anita had saved Becca and me, but it was worse than usual. If I had an object to focus my fear on, it might be more bearable, but I didn’t. It was a nameless fear that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Anyone around me could be a potential enemy waiting to pull out a gun and shoot me. At any moment a terrorist could set off a bomb or a suicide shooter could walk in with a machine gun and start a blood bath and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. It happens. It could happen to me. Right now. This second.
Something startled me from the corner of my eye, but I’d experienced this mental state many times before and I’d learned how to hide my fear from others. Despite my instinct to gasp and scramble out of my desk, I managed to stop myself from reacting. It was just Ethan, (just Ethan, yeah right). He was now slouching deep in his seat, legs crushed close against him, somehow squeezing between the desk and the chair back with a notebook held practically vertical against his thighs, scrawling surreptitiously in a notebook.
I put my head on my desk and tried to reason myself into calming down, all the while acutely aware that I was exposing my neck to anyone who wanted to take a chop at it. Why do you think I sat at the back of the room? It wasn’t because I liked the company I can tell you that. It was because I could see both exits, had cover at my back (or as much cover as the shitty walls in our school could give. A high caliber bullet could go right through it), and I had a whole class of meat-shields sitting in front of me for protection: selfish but true.
The bell rang.
Something made a sound right next to my ear and this time I failed to catch myself. I didn’t quite jump out of my skin, but I did jolt up from my desk, nearly banging my head against the classroom wall.
Not surprisingly it wasn’t an attacker. I frowned at Ethan’s back as he shouldered his backpack and stalked out of the room without so much as a glance even as people made way for him to get by. Looking down, I saw what had produced the sound; a folded up piece of paper.
Opening it up, I was astonished to see three miniscule but neatly written scene ideas and a phone number. I was wondering who had written it when I saw the name in the corner—Ethan Richter. I’d been half convinced it must be some random girl because the handwriting was, well, girly.
I so didn’t want to have to talk to Ethan over the phone, but I’d rather talk over the phone than in person so I guess I’d just have to deal with it. Frankly I’m surprised he actually bothered to help. These ideas actually looked pretty good, too.
My partner the schizo…great.
---
“Well that sucks,” Robert announced at lunch in between eating a burrito.
I was currently standing outside on the campus grounds with three of my friends. It was March, generally a pretty moderate month temperature-wise so we didn’t completely regret that our school had been architecturally designed like the houses and buildings around here: Open, one story long rows of buildings that were suspiciously ranch-like. The reason they could get away with this was because it hardly ever rained rain here and it hadn’t snowed since the dinosaurs. Course when it was over a hundred degrees it kind of sucked, but who needs students to be comfortable anyways?
“I know,” I said, completely ignoring my own uneaten meal. I still felt vaguely sick, not to mention paranoid of everyone who walked by. My friends may or may not have noticed but they were used to it anyways.
“You’re basically fucked unless you can get him to stop hating your guts,” he continued, polishing off his burrito and reaching for my untouched food. I didn’t say anything as he started eating my sandwich. I wasn’t going to eat the damn thing; it might as well not go to waste.
Robert was about five foot nine, with hazel eyes and chin length messy dark blond, almost brown, hair that just missed being curly, and wearing khaki shorts that ended at his knees, a white and green shirt from the brand Seedless, and brown leather sandals. Before the event that had changed my life irrevocably, Robert had been my best friend since childhood. For the first months after being molested, I’d completely isolated myself and two years later I still hadn’t bridged my relationship with my former best friend. We didn’t really hang out anymore except at school and I was surprised he was still civil with me even after I’d abandoned him like that, but when we ate together at lunch it was like nothing had even happened as far as he was concerned.
Me? I was still healing.
“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Dylan interjected, “Ethan is just a poser. I don’t get why people make such a fuss about him. I mean he’s a freaking midget; you could totally take him, Peter. No contest.”
Dylan was about half an inch taller than Robert, with green eyes and reddish-brown hair cut extremely close to his head. He had on black jean shorts, a red and white karate tournament T-shirt and wrist bands. He was a guy I’d met once I’d started going to the dojo. He had sort of a snooty tough-guy attitude that could get annoying but he was all talk and if you told him he was getting irritating, he’d usually calm down, so he wasn’t so bad. When I’d started Karate, he’d kicked my ass the first time I did freestyle and he’d gloated about it. The next time we fought I pounded him into the ground and suddenly I was his idol. He began hanging out with us once we sorted out that we went to the same school. I was better, but he was still pretty good. He got fifth place at our last Karate tournament.
“People aren’t afraid of him because he can beat them up, they’re afraid of him because he’s neurotic,” Matt informed everyone.
I’d known Matthew, aka Matt, almost as long as I’d known Robert. He was tall and gangly, about an inch taller than me, had shoulder length dark brown hair in a pony tail, wire frame glasses. Matt wore khaki jeans with more pockets than anyone needed and a pin striped short-sleeved button up shirt. He was my mom’s best friend’s son, so I saw him all the time. If he hadn’t been less friendly or more geekish, we probably would have hated each other as we were forced to be around each other so much, but he was who he was and we got on pretty well. Most of the time when we hung out it was because his family came over to our house for a barbeque my mom planned or something and we would sit in a corner of the yard in lawn chairs casting dark looks at the adults, half-heartedly bitching about our stupid parents, how shitty being a teenager was and the injustice of life in general.
Dylan dismissed him with a shrug. “Whatever, I’m sure it’s exaggerated. Stuff like that usually is.”
“Not this time. Both his parents died; his mom from suicide. He’s been in rehab centers and mental health facilities a couple times because of it,” Matt said.
Ouch. I’ve experience really bad stuff, but that still rated pretty harsh, even on my shit-o-meter. I saw my dad die before my eyes, but he didn’t commit suicide and leave me all alone without someone to take care of me. I’m still leaning toward me having the crappier life, though. He doesn’t have an excuse for being a lunatic asshole.
“And how would you know about that?” Dylan frowned. Frankly, I wanted to know that myself.
“Because he lives across the street from me with his Aunt, and she and my mom talk all the time,” Matt explained. Turning to me he added, “You know her, she’s that really shy black-haired lady that can’t string two words together. She goes to your mom’s shop for tarot readings when Brenda’s there, you know?”
Oh hey, I did know her. “Oh yeah, Ms. Novokov,” I said in recognition. But I knew that she hadn’t had a nephew living with her the last time she was at the shop a month ago (before Ethan showed up in class). Who was he living with in between age twelve and age seventeen? He couldn’t have been in an institution the entire time. At least I don’t think he could have.
“How the hell do they get along? She’s even more timid than Ms. Ash,” I wondered allowed. Maybe his mom committed suicide because he was such a freak?
Upon thinking that I immediately felt bad. That was a horrible thing to think. I wish I hadn’t. As if I hadn’t felt crappy enough already without feeling sorry for the asshole.
Matt shrugged, “They seem to do fine. Actually she’s like a totally different person now, it’s weird. She’s bizarrely happy all the time.”
“Weird.” Dylan commented.
“Yeah, I said that,” Matt said derisively.
I pulled out the paper he’d left on my desk and unfolded it. I don’t really know why I’d wanted to look at it. It felt like confirmation that my life was going to be miserable forever, somehow. The universe might as well have flipped me the bird. That’s just what I was reading from this situation.
“A phone number, huh?” Robert said looking at the paper over my shoulder, “That’s so you can talk about the project or something?”
“Yeah,” I say despondently, just looking glazed-eyed at the object that related to my misery.
Talk about the project. Our shitty, stupid project that I was probably going to end up doing all by myself if solely so I didn’t have to talk to that guy ever again. It’s funny how even after having experienced real life-or-death situations; the normal, every-day rigors of life were still just as stressful as always. Shouldn’t they matter less? If anything they seemed worse, because at least with life-or-death situations, you knew pretty quickly what the outcome was and if you lived, great and if you died you were dead so you probably didn’t care anymore. Plain old everyday stress tended to drag out like slow torture and if you screwed up you still had to live with the aftermath.
Dylan looked over my shoulder at the phone number with Robert, and excitement filled his face. “We should prank call him!” Dylan suggested enthusiastically, but became defensive and indignant when all three of us just frowned at him. Prank call him? Not only was that a completely juvenile and jerkish thing to suggest, but I don’t like bullies and that’s what Dylan would make me if I agreed to something like that.
“Messing with a psychotic guy?” Matt raised his eyebrow incredulously, “That’s just stupid.” That was also a very good point.
“I’m telling you, it’s all an act,” Dylan insisted again. He was irritated that we didn’t seem to think his idea was as great as he thought it was. “The guy just wants attention or something retarded like that.”
“He’s really not that bad,” Robert divulged, surprising everyone, “He’s in my German class and he rocks at it. He’s fluent.”
“You actually had a conversation without him insulting you?” I asked in disbelief. I mean come on, this was the guy that told me to ‘stop fucking talking about him’ for no reason. I’d offered him no hostility whatsoever. I’d been like a freaking saint. Ghondi or whatever.
“Sure, all the time,” he said, as if the fact we found this was surprising was odd, “We mostly just talk about how much of an idiot Mr. Vanderbelt is. He’s pretty funny. Plus it’s zero-period, and there’s only like ten people in that class so nobody is awake. Most our conversations were in German…and now that I think about it I didn’t know half the words so I guess he could have insulted me, for all I know,” he shrugged.
“’For all you know’? I thought you said you were good at German?” Dylan said sarcastically.
Robert frowned, “Hey, I’m only in second year. I didn’t exactly grow up in Berlin, okay?”
“Why is he in second year if he’s fluent?” I asked.
“He came in two weeks after the start of second semester so it was the only class with room,” Robert said easily. I guess he really did talk to the guy. Not that Robert would lie, it’s just a little hard to believe that anyone could manage to speak with him and come out of it still sane.
“How does he know German so well?” Matt wondered allowed, “I mean I could understand if it was Russian. Ms. Novokov speaks it all the time.” Yes she did, it was kind of irritating.
Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.” He didn’t think to ask? How could he not think to ask! Robert was kind of ambiguous to people’s differences sometimes. It made him a nice person, but it didn’t help in times like this.
“I bet he’s like one of those wanna-be Nazis,” Dylan said conspiratorially and everyone immediately groaned.
Matt rolled his eyes, “You’re just pissy because people think he’s more badass than you and you can’t stand being shown up,” he accused. It was a cruel statement but probably true. To be honest, I agreed with Matt, and Dylan’s stupid comments were getting on my nerves.
The accused jumped up angrily. “He’s just a fucking poser! I could kick his ass!” Dylan yelled in defense, but quieted down when a Campus Narc who was walking by gave him a look.
We all stopped talking and glared at the guy as he passed us so he knew just what we thought of him. Narcs were so irritating. Jumped-up college kids who just strolled around the campus on their walky-talkies driving golf-carts across the grass, pretending to do something important. Plus they pretty much gave dress-code violations out for the entertainment value of destroying someone’s day. That’s why we called them Narcs: they were snitches. If the Narcs ever had a professional sort of title I’d never heard of it. Even the teachers called them Narcs and were aware of their uselessness.
As soon as the Narc was out of ear-shot, Dylan continued, “I’m serious man, people just make this crap up,” he went on after moment, “If it’s true at all it’s exaggerated to hell and back. He’s probably not even done anything. He’s probably not even Schizophrenic, he’s probably just a freak.”
I shook my head holding up a finger, “One. The school councilor came to our class and flat out told us he was a Schizophrenic with violent tendencies and to leave him alone.”
“Yeah, ours too,” Robert said, backing me up.
“Two,” I continued, holding up another finger, “Dude, I sit right next to the guy. He’s definitely not all there, trust me.”
The Bell rang; lunch was over.
“I’ll talk to him for you,” Robert told me, but I think it was just to cheer me up; it didn’t help. I had no illusions as to how far ‘talking to him’ would change his attitude.
We all threw away our trash and got ready to leave. I picked up my backpack gave a half-hearted wave to my friends before I began walking to my next class, not feeling any better about my partner situation. Looking at the piece of paper with microscopic, girly writing, it still looked like my doom. Or at least the biggest pain in the ass project I’ve ever done in my life. How the hell was I going to get along with this guy to get this project done while pulling extra time at the dojo along with all my other homework? I had no fucking clue.
My parents better be happy with my report card, because I was busting my ass to please them. I don’t care about my stupid grades; they’re the ones that give a flying fuck. What did I get out of it? Pride? Self-gratification? Yeah right.
I repeat: My. Life. Sucks.
Story Notes:
Rating is subject to change as the story goes on. And everyone thank Winterineden who has volunteered to be my Beta as of chapter six!
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series or any of the ideas or characters associated with it. They are the property of Laurell K. Hamilton. Anything not recognizable as hers is mine.
*Just want to clarify that this story is told from the POV of Peter. I understand that it was a little confusing for some people because he doesn't come out and say his name right at the beginning.