The Eyes of September

Part Three: The End

Chapter Twenty:

Corrin – the bully's brother

He hated crying in front of his family. Crying in front of his classmates was even worse.

Corrin was standing under the scrutiny of twenty-five pairs of eyes. His face was flushed, tight. Knees and fists shaking with anger. He was wearing his Pop Punk Isn't Dead shirt and anger was tearing holes in his chest.

In front of him, his teacher crossed her arms. "Care to explain this?"

No, he thought, because he didn't have an explanation. Those weren't his words. That wasn't his handwriting. And his excuses were composed of nothing she would believe. In her hands, she held a note. Over and over against the faint blue notepaper margins, someone had written F***ER, creased it into a paper airplane, and let it coast to a stop by Corrin's shoe.

That was how this had started. His teacher had seen it, swooped in. Assumed the worst: that it had fallen out of his backpack, that he had been planning on throwing it at someone else. It was unjust. He felt very self-righteous, thinking that word. And then he looked up into a pair of steel eyes and knew he was busted for a crime he hadn't committed.

"Really," she said. "Nothing?"

He shook his head.

"Class..." she crossed the room to set the note on her desk. Arm propped on the back of her chair, balling the side of her long skirt between her fingers, she sighed. "This is kindergarten stuff. I don't want to see it again."

Corrin opened his mouth. "But –" a pencil drove, hard and straight, through the back of his kneecap. He started, legs buckling, and grabbed for the edge of his desk to steady himself.

Snickers sounded behind him. It had been the culprit. His head swung around, searching. Landed on a smug face and a lacrosse jersey and an ugly sneer. Pencils were lined up in a sharp row, miniature guard posts, in front of him. It was juvenile. That didn't make him any less angry.

"Is something wrong?" his teacher was watching him. "Do you have something to say to the class?"

"No," he said.

"I didn't think so."

After class, Haven ran full-tilt towards him in the hall. She slammed into his shoulder in a burst of pink hair dye and blue glitter, headphones sliding off her ears. Cords thrashed out into the sudden silence.

"Corrin! I heard! That's horrible!"

"What? What did you hear?" Irritable now, he pushed her off him. He shook glitter from his sleeve; it rained, effervescent, onto the dull tile floor.

"That you were suspended – which sounds very dramatic and all that, so I figured that part wasn't true. The part that was: you did something. Did you walk into class and punch him? Stand in front of his desk, and then – POW! – right on his stupid mouth?"

Since she had screamed pow! at top volume and close to his ear, Corrin jumped. He shied away from her. Glitter was still dripping off his clothes. How much did she wear?

"Who are you talking about? No, I didn't punch anyone! Some idiot –"

"Oh," Haven cut in, sounding disappointed. "He needed another black eye, or something. That would have been epic. And here I was, thinking the whole load about Knights in Shining Armor wasn't a complete myth..."

"If a knight's going to rescue you," Corrin said, "it wouldn't be me. I'd just leave you in the tower. You'd have you headphones with you – you always do – so, really, would you need saved?"