Greatest

9: virtue is the fount whence honour spring

Four am comes entirely too early, as is its custom. I feel have barely drifted off to sleep before my alarm is sounding. I hop up, toeing into my running shoes.
"It had better not be morning," Bradley mumbles, he's cocooned in a precious little burrito of blankets, all sweet and sleepy with his beautiful hair frizzy and going all directions.
"It's four, I'm just going to run, you've got a couple hours," I assure him, taking off my sweatshirt. I'm not running in that.
"How much do you run?" He asks, sitting up at that.
"A lot, I'll see you at breakfast," I say, smiling a little, then I go.
Jonesy and Shane are loyally awaiting me outside the door. Together, we take off. It's not near as intensive of a work out as last night, this time just a steady four mile run around the trails. We're all wishing we were in bed and barely talk. I blast music and they keep an eye out for would be assassins or what have you.
We end the run near the sports complex and we head in to the pool. The agents will get to rest for this one. Of course I am just reporting to my swim practice.
Coach Nashe is there ushering us in. He takes a second look at my battered torso, but again elects to say nothing. My fellow swim team mates will have already been informed I'm on the team, and they do more than take a second glance at me, instead out right staring. They seem to come to the collective consensus that it's best no one talks to me.
A small, freckled, chubby cheeked freshman dares ask how I got 'all my scars'.
"Mostly a car accident, but like the bruises happened when I was ATV'ng with my brothers," I say, nicely, and he takes that, sort of backing away. I see the others mentally calculating how unlikely that is, but they spare me further lies, and we are released to the water. Coach Nashe has us swim laps, and the critiques our form in turn.
"You're not trying out for the Navy Seals, Laine," he criticizes, as I chug water in between laps, "You really going running before my practice?"
"I'm top of my form, aren't I?" I snarl.
"Well, reserve your energy for your sports," he warns, "I'd prefer you didn't pass out in my pool."
"Well, you may not get your wish," I say, icily. It's not the first time a coach has criticized my father's less than conventional exercise plan for me, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Well, actually, let's hope it's getting close to the last. I'm not going to have that many more new coaches.
After swim practice I'm satisfyingly achy, and we head back to the dorms so I can change for breakfast and morning classes. Bradley is already gone by the time we get there, so after a quick sweep I hastily put on my Rose and Swan uniform, a red jacket, mustard yellow tie, and white shirt, black pants. Then I gather my laptop for note taking, and couple of books.
My agents have swiftly taken turns changing into their day clothes, discrete button ups and dress slacks so they blend in with the teachers, and we all head to the main hall where breakfast will be served.
We eat by house here, and I quickly recognize Bradley among the throng. I say nothing, but blessedly he does not follow suit.
"Come sit with us, Cy, you've got to be starving after swimming," he says, lightly, and introduces me to a group of former roommates and friends. I nod politely, and soon they get lost in their conversation and I in eating.
It's not a good breakfast by any means, but it's hot and full of calories, so I scarf it down. Eggs, sausages, sub-par rolls with copious amounts of butter, danishes, and muffins adorn the table. Out of all of that I help myself eggs and sausages with exactly half a muffin. My agents eat on my one side, and they do similar, avoiding carbs and instead eating protein. There's milk and fruit juice on the table as well, but I only accept water. I like whole milk, but this is skim I suspect. The eggs are a bit dry and taste like they were made with too much milk, and there's nowhere near enough pepper, but I shovel them in my mouth anyway. The sausages are generic and taste like pork, but I eat them anyway. It's a good enough meal and I need to load up calories and protein if I'm to make it the rest of the day.
Bradley seems to notice my heaping portions and keto choices, but does not comment, instead generally drawing me into the conversations. We have no classes together, we discover, which I'm secretly disappointed about.
Breakfast ends and it's on to class. The students stare a bit at the agents but generally they ignore them and me with practiced ease. I'm far from the most famous person here.
Logan is in my third period, and to my surprise she sits down next to me, cheerfully asking how I'm finding things and the like. I give polite responses, and she flashes me a quick smile for each one. I feel almost bad making generic small talk, as she seems to be actually interested in me and my day.
The girls Rose and Swan uniforms are nearly identical to the boys, the jackets are just a bit more tailored and instead of pants they have black pleated skirts and black tights or leggings. Logan's jacket is a size too big and her skirt about an inch shorter than the other girls, I note. She doesn't seem to be flirting with me either, just generally being friendly.
"That's Senator Kyd's daughter, do you know her? Sorry, it's probably stupid to ask if you know everyone in Washington of course you don't," Logan says, as a few girls file in. "She's the one in front, black hair in a clip."
"I've never met her," I say. Recall, reader, this is the person that I'm intended to be here to murder. I will not do it, but that is why I came, as you well know. My father thinks I'm going to do it.
"She is an epic bitch," Logan says, getting out her notes so the girls don't notice us looking at them, "Just because her dad is in the Senate she's convinced she hung the moon and the stars. She bullies the hell out of everyone in our house, goes around and takes the girl's make up, does terrible shit to the younger girls mocking them. It got so bad last year my roommate left."
"Doesn't the school do anything?" I ask. I'm no stranger to bullying, but I'm generally the worse person in any given situation. When most families played monopoly or card games, our father schooled us in psychological manipulation, through first hand experience. I'm not necessarily a fan of it, but misery is sewn neatly into my DNA, and after seventeen years of honing there's very little righteous or kindness left in me. My brothers and I have long since sworn to be true to the other and not the rest of the world. It was all I counted on us holding onto. The result is I'm a crazy liar with a predisposition for casual violence. Not at all a great combination and as you read this you'll probably realize it's better off I'm not in the world.
"The faculty tries, but the most Sister Agatha can do is tell her off and she's a complete actress, of course Tessa lies. And all the parents here are more than happy to pay for the kids to keep coming back so the school has no leverage to do anything to them. Hell, once a student murdered another student on top of Canterbury house, and the school still took the kid back."
"What—really?" That feels unlikely, also the roof is steeped that bears noting.
"Rumor has it, this is urban legend obviously the school denies it," she shrugs, "Point is, if you can, stay away from Tessa Kyd, and her little squad of mean girls. There's like five of them usually, because they'd rather be under her thumb than the heel of her shoe."
"Point taken, thank you," I have no intention of having anything to do with Tessa Kyd. She does not concern me and my end of life plans.
We don't get much time to talk after that but to my surprise Logan sticks with me in the hallway and we walk to lunch together. We have the same lunch period as Bradley, and soon we are seated at the end of one long table, discussing morning classes. It's free seating for lunch, so some of his soccer friends join us. They regard me a bit warily, but Bradley draws me back into the conversation time and again. At first I'm wary, wondering if he'll mention my odd morning runs, or my scars.
But he does not. He's as generic as I am, asking how I found moving in and the mountain air, then we get on the topic of if the swim lockers are as mucky as the soccer ones, apparently they are. I contribute as little as possible while still being polite. I learned long ago it's easier if fewer people speak to me because deep down nothing pleasant I say will be true.
Lunch is chicken-alfredo, by the way, with breadsticks. I spend the entire time picking out the pieces of chicken and scraping the sauce off so I'm far from full by the time our lunch hour ends. Blessedly no one asks me what I was doing.
We break off for afternoon classes. I get a headache partway through fifth period, but a single Tramadol does the trick, and then I head on to fencing practice.
My fencing team is not quite as skittish as the swim team. They are a tight knit group and a bit wary of an outsider with my track record. The previous star of the team, a boy named Quentin, is cross since I beat him at nationals. I don't speak to him or anyone.
Coach Marlowe instructs everyone to be welcoming to me, and then puts us through our paces. Some of the girls are polite enough, offering to fence me.
I'm not a brilliant fencer nor do I strictly enjoy it, and with my opioids still in me I'm more than a little slow on the draw as it were. I am acceptable in the end and Coach only corrects my form or offers suggestions a couple of times. He has a few rowdy sabre fencers who appear to be related or just act like it, who he keeps trying to manage and usually ends up bickering with. I fence primarily foil and epee, though Coach warns me that he'll have me rotate to Sabre as well. I've done it but I don't love it. I don't love fencing as it is, I just spend enough time around sharp objects to be decent at it, and it's more tolerable than other sports save swimming. The headache stays gone so that's the main win.
After fencing I clean up quickly and head to study hall. I am considering putting minimum effort in considering I'm not going to live to reap the benefits of it, but I find most of my reading interesting. And I'm glad of the peace and cool of the admin building's study hall.
Since I'm not with anyone, Jonesy and Shane sit at my table. Well, they weren't going to they were going to go sit or stand somewhere else, but I shake my head at them that I'd prefer the company. I'm not going to study much anyway.
They get up occasionally, but my history reading is dull, as is my Spanish homework, so I wind up telling them about that as I breeze through it. I don't want to not do the work because then I'd feel bad going to class and disappointing the teacher and such. I need to at least try to pay attention and do some of the work. Also my literature work and philosophy are actually enjoyable, so I do those fully.
Dinner rolls around none too soon, I'm pleased to find it's roast beef, and vegetables. I eat everything including one dinner roll. I sit with students I don't know who don't try to engage me, so that's good enough. I'm content just to listen to their idle chatter.
Then it's back to the pool. My evening swim is a bit more rocky than this morning. My teammates are bold enough to whisper about me now, it seems, and Coach Nashe sends us to the water with little prep. He's harder on me this time. My form is sloppy from the drugs and exhaustion. By the time I crawl out of the pool my fitness tracker has been buzzing so much I'm sure it's telling me to sit down at this point. Over 20,000 'steps' and many hours of elevated heart rate that is physical activity.
We are all relieved I think to head back to the dorm. By this point Jonesy and Shane and I are companionably silent, and the men mostly wordlessly usher me in and sweep the room.
Bradley is only just getting back from hockey practice as well, his beautiful hair sweaty and sticking to his smooth face. No acne there, he's too perfect. It would not dare touch him. Sometimes I think nothing does. So why was a lonely, condemned demon sent to room with him? This perfect angel? I didn't have the courage to ask god to send me angel for my final days. I knew I didn't deserve it. But I got one anyway.
"Still doing homework?" Bradley asks, as he puts on socks before getting in bed. Of course, I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, writing in this volume of my end times.
"No, this is personal," I say, surprised it's true. I could have lied. I should have lied.
"Right then," he says, sitting back on the bed.
"Sorry that sounded wrong, it's just a—planner of sorts, schedule," I say.
"That's clever, I never write enough down," he says, lying back.
"Well, this has to be the greatest year of my life."
"That's ambitious," he laughs.
"I suppose I am," I say, softly. I'd never thought of myself as that before. I check my activity tracker. I've got more steps to complete before I meet my daily goal. This is what I get for sitting through study hall and all three meals. "Do you care if I turn on music?"
"No, go ahead, I'm just going to lie here," he says.
I get up and turn on 'Downtown'. Then I dance to it in the middle of the narrow room, closing my eyes and praying I'll get enough steps in. Two go throughs of the song I do so I flop back on the bed, rolling myself up in a blanket. Bradley laughs.
"What?" I ask, innocently, clutching this book.
"Ignore me, I like the song is all," he says, shaking his head. "Tell me why you picked it?"
"Never fails to make me smile," I say, though that's not entirely why. It's one I figured I wouldn't mind if he wanted to make fun of it. My personal songs, those I can't have made fun of.
"Great reason, Searcher," he says, fussing on his phone.
"Did you just take a picture of me?"
"I signed the NDA, calm down. I needed a contact photo," he laughs.
"Delete it!"
"No, forget it," he says, holding his phone and smiling mischievously, "I like this one."
"I'm sure I look ridiculous," I sulk. It's much harder having a crush on him with him knowing I'm really just a mess inside.
"You look like you."
"So ridiculous, lie still then," I take a photo of him half grinning at me, lying on his bed, his perfect hair soft and drying on the green comforter.
We talk well until lights out, and do so every day that week. I have less time to write in this as I spend more time staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening for his voice. I find he has the curious knack for asking questions I'm able to answer honestly. And one by one he undoes me, as the night grows darker, he doesn't ask about my scars, instead slowly working his way into my true self, which I don't even know. He laughs and doesn't mind when I revise my answer to be truer, and I find myself not minding tripping over my words as I eagerly recount an amusing incident from class or tell him my thoughts on the book I'm reading. I don't recall anyone, ever, having a true vested interest in my inner thoughts. And it's delightfully intoxicating, and so, so easy, lying there with him, as we laugh and talk about nearly anything. Anything but who I am supposed to be. Instead we remain in the happy part of my mind. I find myself sharing things I didn't know I had thoughts of, and him hearing me with no judgement. I've spoken and lied and manipulated and commanded all my life, but I've never felt heard until now.
Soon a week slips by and I barely notice, my so hauntingly numbered days ticking down in the blink of any eye, as morning runs, swim practice, and fencing all blend together with too short meals and listening to Bradley's soft voice, drifting through the dark, as he tells me about a lake by his mother's house, and hot summer evenings looking for fire flies, and an entire world of peace I'll never get the chance to know.