Greatest

10: your grief and fury hurts my second life

My first two weeks at Rose and Swan go remarkably smoothly. I slip out for my morning runs, and those plus my two sports satisfy my exercise quota for the day, my fitness tracker is exceeded which means my father leaves me alone. My brothers are busy in school and we text and I call Peter a couple of times, but other than that, we are consumed with our schedules. My mother calls once very quickly, but I relate brief anecdotes of classes and she's satisfied. I'm shocked that for once my tales of school are basically true. Bradley and Logan both remain my friends despite, you know, me, and they make a point of spending time with me at meals or in between classes. On weekends, Bradley will even join me for my marathon run workouts, though sometimes he gets tired and has to quit, but it's nice that he'll at least come run or jog with me and the agents of the week.
I only get a couple of really severe headaches, one in the night so I roll over moaning and take pills, and then another during an afternoon class so I have to just wind up going back to the dorm to lie down. Bradley is aware of that one and asks nicely if he can get me anything, but doesn't otherwise react other than with general sympathy. No suspicion. Well, I realize it's a relatively common ailment, but even so I do have something to hide here.
Then on the third week, I get a terrible headache right before fencing, two days in a row, for whatever alien goop infected reason. Both times it's so bad I have to lie down in the dark while I wait for the pills to get in me. My current agents are Marco and Jas. Jas is about seven feet of solid muscle, the man just picks me up and carries me into Coach's office, saying 'there there' like I'm a damn crying puppy or something, not whimpering seventeen year old clutching his head.
The pills work after a few hours, at which point I emerge not entirely sober after the opioids, to apologize to Coach for missing practice a second time. My agents had to, of course, hang out the entire time so that involved them sitting outside the office while I lay in there moaning in agony. They generally don't mind watching fencing, Marco actually did fence in middle school or something like that, so he'll as a rule enjoy shooting the shit (you can read that as flirting, I do), with Coach (who does not appear to mind ANY of my agents let alone ones who will chat with him).
When I finish being infected by alien goop, I emerge, of course my teammates are long gone, Coach is as usual fussing with swords and checking the bluetooth connections, while Marco helps and chats (read: flirts) with him, and Jas sits there petting the dog that for no apparent reason follows Coach around.
"I'm sorry I missed practice again, I'll make it up—," I begin, coming over to Coach.
"Kid, you didn't feel well. Don't worry about it. Anytime you don't feel well, don't come, simple," he says, a cigarette as usual dangling from his lips.
"I have—bad migraines," I lie. Well, I do have bad headaches but it's not due to migraines it's due to alien goop. "I'm sorry, I will make it up—,"
"Kid, you feeling okay is a hell of a lot more important than any practice, hear me? Now go on, your boyfriend or whoever was here looking for you."
"What?" I squeak with something like the confidence of a five year old with a stutter at a spelling bee.
"Blonde hair usually following you places?" Coach grunts while Marco smothers a grin.
"Bradley—my roommate, he's just being nice—I'll text him," why am I saying all this? "Thanks—um, thanks. I'll make up practice on Saturday."
"I really don't want to see you here any more than you already are, goodbye," Coach grunts.
So in the end, my alien goop inspired head trauma does not negatively affect my classes really. Most of my teachers are sympathetic if I have to cut out, and blessedly I don't have any more seizures. I'm lulled into a false sense that perhaps I'll be able to do this.
Then the day of our first swim meet comes. It's of course at seven in the morning, at a pool an hour away. I'm not even thinking of alien goop I'm thinking of my best pre-swim playlist and how much I actually genuinely like swimming.
And then it happens.
We're barely getting off the bus when the needles of pain slice through my brain. I stop, clutching my head. It's only going to get worse.
"Coach, I can't swim," I say.
"Why?" Coach Nashe asks, a bit critically. Of course I look fine.
"I cannot," I'm not accustomed to explaining myself to people, "I need to get back on the bus or something."
"Okay, go on," he says, nodding.
"What do you need?" Marco takes my arm to stop me from walking into the side of the bus.
"Backpack, water, and a different brain," I mutter, as they help me back up.
I curl up on the very back seat, palming a couple of pills. They do very little good. My agents sit in the seats in front of me. They're dressed in school colors to be inconspicuous, and look traditionally unaffected by the change in plan.
I press my face into the rough blue fabric of the seat and wonder if dying is going to hurt this much.
After about an hour of it the pain is finally subsiding, but I'm sick as a dog from the pills I had to take for it. I sit up to clutch my phone and be miserable. Marco wordlessly moves back to sit a row closer to me. He's cued up highlights from some music awards thing, and he soon has me requesting videos. For reasons, youtube is disabled on my phone (but not laptop or tablet), so I don't generally get to watch things throughout the day. Marco knows this, and he's nice about letting me or my brothers see a new movie trailer or something. By the time my teammates return he's got me in a better mood and mostly forgetting my pain.
My teammates are sullen as they lost, but given my impending death is on my mind, I'm hardly that worried about a swim meet. It takes me most of the ride back to Rose and Swan to realize they blame me. Of course they do, I was supposed to be in the relay and I'm one of the fastest at that. I wish I could say I feel bad. I don't. Again, I'm going to die and it's not as though I intentionally let them down. They don't strictly see it that way, but I don't strictly give a damn how they feel. It's not like I did something major like let Bradley with his perfect smile and beautiful eyes, down. That would be a big deal. This is not.
They don't see it that way.
Specifically Harrison Taylor Brown (lives in Oakland California, five twelve with brown hair and brown eyes, has a bad scar down the left side of his face), does not see it that way.
The next morning, I'm in the locker room, fresh from getting changed to go swim, when Harrison Taylor Brown approaches me.
"Oh, so today you can swim?" He asks, folding his arms.
"If you have a problem with me, say it," I say, tiredly.
"You walk in here like you own the place, act like you're better than everyone, and then you can't even compete?" He snarls.
"So we'll go in order, I don't own the place, I am better than everyone, and you're correct yesterday I couldn't compete, today I can fold you over backwards so you can lick your own asshole, is that what you want to happen?" I ask, very calmly.
"Is that a threat?"
"I'm calling it an offer," I say, fully expecting him to punch me. He does. I catch his fist with one hand, twisting it backwards, then drive my other fist directly into his throat.
He chokes for breath as I neatly trip him to the ground. One of the other boys runs up to shove me or something but in seconds he's on the ground too, my foot is smacking his temple.
Harrison Taylor Brown climbs to his feet to charge at me. I use his momentum to flip him over my back and into the row of the lockers.
At this point the rest of the boys are chanting 'fight, fight, fight,' while exactly one tries to summon Coach Nashe.
I pick up Harrison by his neck and slam his face into the locker, till he's black and blue and we're both splattered with blood.
Another boy has a knife (mistake), charging me screaming. I catch him in seconds, twisting his thumb till the knife is mine. I kick him in the stomach and he falls to the damp concrete. Harrison Taylor Brown is up and trying to jump on back and strangle me. I break his hold and flip him off, slicing down the left side of his face with my knife before tapping it on his throat.
"It's by my mercy that you live. I'm going to recommend you don't underestimate men that look like me. When you were still afraid of the dark, I was surviving wars so that you would have something new to fear. You will never, ever, win," I say, before kicking him to the ground one more time.
I step over him and past the other assailants. Coach Nashe is standing in the doorway of the locker-room. I drop the knife into his hand.
"I'll be in Dean Alleyn's office while you call my father," I say, calmly. Marco and Jas are waiting outside for me, wordlessly Jas hands me a towel.
"Got a little blood," Marco says.
"Any of that yours?" Jas asks, as we walk back toward the Admin building.
"Nah," I say.
Dean Alleyn is a stuttering mess by the time I arrive. He loses all oxygen when he gets a look at me, in all my bloodied, war torn glory. Coach Nashe shows up and they both stutter for a while. Then they realize I legally belong to Coach Marlowe as I'm here on a fencing scholarship.
"Are you happy with yourself?" Disappointed but not surprised about sums up Coach Marlowe's demeanor when he shows up, lit cigarette in hand, to discipline me. My agents wait outside patiently, not the first second or third time something like this has happened.
"The other guy started it."
"You fucking finished it, those are actual children."
"Who shouldn't pick fights with men who look like they've lost fights with eighty cats," I say, flatly. I'm still in my swim trunks recall so my destroyed chest and arms and back are clear for all to see. My legs aren't much better even past the swim trunks.
"Go on, call my father. I know you've got to."
"Why should I call your father? So he can give you a goddamn trophy?" Coach Marlowe asks, sitting down on Dean Alleyn's desk and crossing his legs, leaning back to smoke.
"That's ridiculous," he'd never give me a trophy or express approval he'd just be generally not cross to mildly pleased.
"I'm not stupid. I am not calling a parent so that he can send you a new knife to cut people up with or whatever the fuck he does to you poor miserable kids," he says.
"We are fine," I say, angrily, "Now I'm in trouble, so you have to call." My dad will be pleased, is the thing. And all things considered I'd like him pleased with me he'll leave me alone.
"You know what? I don't want you cutting up the student body again, I don't care why, you could have finished that fight without bloodshed, but you did it for fun, so, I am going to teach you a lesson. Yeah, I'll call your fucking father——," he gets out his phone, chewing the cigarette.
"Good," I say, sitting back in the chair.
We wait while the phone rings, of course it goes to voicemail.
"Hi, Mr. Laine, yeah this is Rose and Swan's fencing Coach calling to tell you that your son— you know, the oldest one, who goes here occasionally but not always, answers to Cyrus—?"
"Get to the point," I growl.
"Yeah, him. Never have I met such a gentle, quiet child who detested physical violence. Such a sweet, polite, respectful kid. He's been talking to all my students about the benefits of pacifism—"
At this point I dive across the room to try to rip the phone away but Coach Marlowe is remarkably quick, twisting me into a headlock against the desk. I kick him and try to get free, but he has his knee in my back and doesn't budge. He's not old, maybe twice my age, and he's not run ten miles already today and apparently is used to teenagers trying to kill him.
"He's been a real joy in the program, tutoring the younger students, very polite to all the girls. However I was concerned because the other day one of the students had a paper cut and he fainted dead away at the sight of blood? He says it's a new phobia but we here at Rose and Swan wanted to bring it up. Anyway, don't feel like you have to call me back. You sir, have a nice day and be glad you're the parent of such a sweet, peaceful, respectful, effeminate child."
He lets me up after that and I lunge at him, in anger.
"You gonna murder me?" He asks, holding up his hands, not even concerned.
"You know what you fucking did!" I cry, my voice shaking in anger.
"Don't chew up and spit out entire locker rooms of students, and I won't call him back and tell him you started wearing the girls uniforms," he says, lightly, stepping around me to open the window and let out the smoke.
"You wouldn't—you know what he's like or you wouldn't have recruited me in the first place—you think I fucking did this to myself?" I ask, hitting my chest.
"No. I don't. I think he fucked you up really bad, kid. But if it's between letting him take another swing at you, and ten more students permanently disfigured or damaged? I'll fucking turn you in every time. I don't think you're a bad person, in fact I think you can figure out what's right someday. But you'd better hurry the fuck up because I won't endanger all of them just to save you," he says, pointing at me with his cigarette.
"Why—why wouldn't you think I'm a bad person?" I ask, confused.
"Kid," he sighs, putting the cigarette back in his mouth, "Are you gonna get pissed if I tell you it's because you don't like it? I've seen the ones with bloodlust. That's not you. You only fucking smile when your roommate shows up or you're dancing shittily to whatever you have on those headphones. You don't like hurting people. You just got good at it. So as a recommendation for the rest of you life? Get bad at it. Not that many people need to be hurt."
"I am an amazing dancer," I say, flatly, making him laugh.
"You never fucking break do you? Listen, kid, don't wait too long to run, all right?"
"Perhaps it is too late."
"It's never too late."
"It might be. I'll not hurt anyone unless provoked," I lie.
"Good. And try to stop before they're half dead?"
"Got it, now will you call him back and tell him you were drunk when you left that or something?"
"Hell, no. That's what you fucking get for what you did this morning. I think we both know you didn't have to end it like that."
I sigh.
"Now go get cleaned up and get to class. We still have practice this afternoon even if you're off the swim team for a week."
"Why didn't you tell him I was gay?" I ask, gripping the back of the high backed leather chair until my knuckles are white.
"Because I figured it was true," he says, cocking his head.
"How did you know?" I ask.
He waves the hand with the cigarette in it, dismissively, as if the smoke curls in the air will explain his perception. They do not. They just drift up in lazy loops towards the ceiling, as inscrutable as the mystery of everyone but me knowing my sexuality.
"How long have you known?" I ask.
He shrugs, but in a way that says it was obvious.
"He'd hate it," I say, quietly, "You knew that too?"
He nods.
"I'm not allowed to be. I can't be it's—,"
"Free advice? Kiss the pretty boy you like and fuck what your old man would say," he says, "Life is too short not to be who you want to be."
"You know Coach? It really is." For me especially.