Teeth Out And Growling ||Gerbert||

iv. Silver (reflection)

TW. Erotica (mild); dissociation.

iv. Silver (reflection)

*

It’s Friday, and the last period is P.E.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bert tilts a can of coke in my direction and I take it. It’s cherry. I like the original better, and it’s gone flat cause he was zoning out at the kids running track, but it’s fine. Take a gulp, pass it back. The question is absurd.

“Penny for mine? I should be the one asking you that, man!” I say, but there’s a burning need to curse out the entire school staff, the coach in particular.

To them, our bones are metal which I can’t comprehend - missed me when mine crumble, dampen, tear and combust so often it’s ingrained in my muscle memory. So when it happens I don’t even scream anymore, my jaw shut, a nerve system response.

They say it’s unfair if he races, because his bones are metal. Because ‘other boys trained very hard and it’d be unfair for him to win just by chance of being different’, as they put it - it’s all very polite, very formal. Very smiles and hesitant taps on his back. They don’t give me an opportunity to say how it takes almost a month to build your bones back to what they were; all a wasted effort. It’s silly to argue, it doesn’t matter, he says... So we sit in the bleachers and share a coke.

“I mean, it’s fine. I’m kinda blasé to it, honestly. And it’s not like I wanna go pro,” he trails off, shrugs, knuckles covering the left side of his mouth. I think he wants a smoke, but even Bert’s not blatant enough to completely disregard the teachers when they’re staring him down and we’re pretty visible up here. I know he’s not blasé to shit, cause who would be; but since we’re not at a point I can get angry on his behalf, I let it go.

“So what do you wanna do, then?” Distract. And it’s only fair I’d know, he knows my ridiculous art school plan.

“What, other than detention? Well, Quinn and Jepha are trying to do this band stuff right now, so guess that.”

“So band?” Same as Frank then. There aren't not a lot of bands who accept wolves; if not superstition or fear, then because it’s inconvenient at best. Have your tour bus trashed, polyester bunk beds swallowed and scratches over doors and windows? No thanks. Though, maybe, it’s easier with an all-wolf band; and at least for Frank, the road is makeshift trampled in by his grandpa and dad. Bert will have to do it himself.

“Yeah, in case you worried you’re more clichè than me, cause, y’know, doesn’t everyone want to escape their hometown in a tour bus?”

And I mean, yeah.

It’s kinda inevitable for every kid to hear MJ or Morrissey and get all starryeyed, grab a guitar. But as you grow up, that willingness to be sawed open and seen becomes less and less appealing. As a child, being known doesn’t feel as terrifying. But then one morning you wake up with the dream dead; acquire too much damage worth hiding.

“Quinn’s an idealist romantic who thinks someone wants us. He’s looking for a manager. Doubt whoever he finds will be impressed with 10 people liking our stuff, but y’know...” he shrugs, stretches out his shoulders blades, raises his Doc Martens onto the seat in front.

“You post your music, but you don’t scream about it from the rooftops? You might be the first person in history to do that.” It’s not a lie, considering the first thing Frank told me other than his name is that he misses Pencey Prep. “But hey, it’s elusive and mysterious; now I wanna listen to your stuff, so your marketing works.” I conclude.