Second (History Plays, Book 1)

7: this sword of mine that should offend your foes

Edward

We have classes the rest of the afternoon, then study hall from five (the end of the last class) until dinner which is always at six. Upper classmen like myself only have to sign in to three study halls a week. Lower classmen have to do all five. I have homework, and don't want to go back to the room, so I sign into one and find a spot in the library with Teddy and Izzy, as is my custom. After dinner, I will have two hours of hockey practice. Obviously, on game nights for away games, I have to miss study hall. Ergo, for athletes, we're allowed to stock pile study halls so in the event of a game we can miss. Seven to nine for everyone else is additional help, the teachers hold tutoring, and the library is open with the nuns there to help the lower classmen and such. We can be in our rooms, but if so we're expected to be quiet and studying. We can also be in the gym or on the trails but if so we have to be within the main grounds and not in the outer fields. Only upper classmen can wander, lower classmen must be accounted for.
I'm just glad to forget about the day. I don't have to go back to the room until nine tonight, by which time Gaveston had better be clothed and asleep. I just want to focus on studying and pretend I'm having a normal day and a normal, straight, life.
"Your new roommate kicked Mortimer's ass today," Izzy, by way of greeting.
"Hmm?" Wow, I didn't know I was going to be able to articulate a response to that. I personally am proud of me.
"Yeah, he's a really good fencer, he said he'd show me Sabre. You didn't tell me he's Sinbad," Teddy, hurt, as he opens math books.
"He's not Sinbad," Izzy mutters.
"You're just mad he beat you in under five minutes—bouts are usually nine minutes," Teddy tells me. I didn't know that.
"Yeah um—great," I say, opening my notebooks to look at my notes and immediately snapping them closed.
"Don't you have stuff to look at?" Izzy asks me as I shove them in my bag.
"Nope, um, didn't take many notes today, not a good day, Teddy, show me what you're working on," I say. It would appear, based solely off of the evidence at hand, that all I did all day was write Gaveston's name over and over in every single one of my notebooks. Yeah. I thought I was better than this. I'm disappointing even me now.
"Ms. Fish gave us math homework, the first day," Teddy sighs, pushing it over, "I hate math."
"So do I—um Clare, where's she? She can add can't she?" I ask, looking around.
"Hey," Clare comes up and pats my back in solidarity because she saw Gaveston fence so, gay or no, she's got to understand some of the pain I'm in.
"Clare, tell him how awesome Gaveston did," Teddy says, "You've still not said two words to him, Edward."
"You haven't even spoken to your roommate?" Izzy asks.
"I'm sure I said good morning, and I don't know, I spoke," I lie, while I die inside.
"Edward got punched in the face, leave him alone," Clare says.
"You got punched in the face? The kids were saying that— did Mortimer really punch you?" Teddy asks.
"Yeah—it's not a big deal though—," I mutter.
"Why? He was miserable today," Isabella says.
"That's cause he didn't even get a point on Gaveston," Teddy says.
"He was miserable before that."
"He didn't?" I ask.
"It was pretty satisfying, considering Mortimer is a dick," Clare says.
"You guys are mean to him, he's just sad, have you not noticed he never takes off that jacket? Hasn't since mid last year," Izzy says.
"What's that got to do with anything?" I ask.
"Forget it—are you even going to try to study?" Izzy asks.
"Nope," I shrug, "I didn't take any notes."
Clare sets a stack of copies down.
"I really and truly love you, you know that?"
"You're welcome," Clare says, flatly, organizing them for me.
"Why didn't you take notes?" Teddy asks.
"I'm not feeling well—do as I say, not as I do."
"I need help," Teddy sighs.
"Here, let me see, oh this is just pre-cal, okay," Clare moves over to help him. "I can help you with this."
"Thank god," Teddy says.
"Yeah, because we could not," Izzy says, pointing me and herself.
I sigh and try to read over Clare's notes, but instead I just wind up reading over my own.
Dinner rolls around all too quickly, and I find I can't go to that. Upperclassmen can skip meals if they like, in favor of cooking at the dorms. We can't actually cook, well, there's a microwave and a communal fridge and we can buy frozen dinners at the shoppette. There is a working stove and such, but we have to get permission to use that. Sometimes when cramming it's more convenient to just eat there, but during exams weeks I find it clears the mind to make the walk to the dining hall. Not tonight though. Tonight I just want to go to hockey practice and—and I don't know what. I have zero plan.
So, since I know Gaveston will be at dinner, I take the opportunity to go to the dorm and get changed. We can be out of uniform after dinner, another reason to just head on to the dorm and stay there in comfortable clothing. As it is, I'm just changing into sweats to jog to the sports complex, but still.
I expect to be the first one to practice, but I'm not. Christopher (the dog) meets me at the door of the sports complex which stays me long enough to hear raised voices.
"Why should I have to skate? You've got a full roster," Mortimer is arguing. Wasn't Izzy saying he looked rough? Wait, he punched me today didn't he? I think he did. I've had a long day and I've been very very very busy thinking about Gaveston.
"Honest answer? You're a danger to yourself and others, at this point. First you fight your roommates, and lose, and then you punch Caernarfon, in the middle of the hallway? You're lucky Gaveston is apparently made of rubber and thinks being smacked with a sword is funny, we both know you fouled more than not with him, and you kept at it even after the buzzer sounded," Coach Marlowe says, "Now, I don't know or need to know what is going on, but you have Father Thomas if you want to talk and your own house master—whoever he is—,"
"I've got Coach Jefferson—," he's the football and rowing coach.
"Right, so you've got me, you've got Father Thomas, Ambrose isn't half bad either, now you can tell us whatever you've got going on, or you can wear yourself out on the ice with your friends and have a good nights sleep and have a better day tomorrow, yeah? It's up to you, one or the other, because I'm not interested in halting practice to come and fetch you out of the office for setting the school on fire or whatever you've got planned next."
"Thank you for not calling my mother," he says, quietly.
"You're welcome. Now. Do you want to skate tonight or you want to talk to someone?"
"I'll skate."
"Fine, go get changed before anyone else gets here—what, I'm not blind I see you sneak in and out of the fencing lockers, go," Coach Marlowe tells him. I wait a moment until he's clearly gone to enter the main locker room. The dog runs ahead of me to go sit on Coach Marlowe's feet.
"You're early," he grunts, holding up a hand to stop me from going in to get changed. "Hang on."
"Why?" I ask.
He shrugs, "Don't know yet. Give Mortimer a minute. We all have our days."
Why does he have to change alone? Does he always do that? He does, doesn't he? He hardly skated with us this spring.
"I'm having a day," I say, slumping down, too tired to care about Mortimer's neurosis at the moment.
"I noticed that too," Coach Marlow says, leaning down to pet the dog.
"Any sage advice?"
"Considering you haven't told me what's wrong?"
"Yeah."
"Skate it off, go wear yourself out, and focus on the game not whatever is bothering you, for a while," he says, "All right? We all think to much sometimes."
"Fair enough," I nod. He's right. Just forget about everything for a while. But the problem is, I don't want to forget about Gaveston.