Greatest

14: let us march against the powers of heaven

"Why do I have to be here for this?!"
"You SAID I don't know any Christmas songs. You lied. You told an un-truth."
For point of reference, I'm in the gym, doing my exercises. It's midnight. 'Don't Shoot Me Santa' which is an actual song, look it up, is blasting on a set of speakers, in a few moments 'Christmas is All Around' will come on, then it'll be back to the first song. I'm in the fencing studio because I'm not allowed to work out outside anymore, Shane and Coach Marlowe unfortunately communicated, and Coach agreed to open up the sports complex so I can work out after hours. Which I have to.
I'm off the swim team because one of my legs has been compromised due to alien goop. I'm off the fencing team because one of my legs has been compromised due to alien goop. I can't run or do Cyruses because, wait for it, my one of my legs has been compromised due to alien goop. And so I'm getting zero exercise other than limping in between classes. So I have to go to the sports complex after hours, when none of the equipment is in use by normal people, in order to complete even close to my required daily activity. Swimming gets a lot of it done and I can still swim fine, but since I had a seizure in the pool and Marco dove in to save me from drowning and fished me out as I was coming to, people are concerned about me swimming for long periods of time. Yes, all my agents know about the seizures, now. That's a stipulation. Shane informed me they were all being made aware for my 'safety'. I didn't stop him. In the end I wish Shane could save me from alien goop.
Anyway. Now I can only work out in the sports complex after hours. Thankfully(?) due to Shane's communication with Coach Marlowe, Coach will let me in whenever I need it which is every night, and he will chain smoke and watch and/or participate. My agents, now Marco and Jas, are doing some light exercises and generally idling around.
Coach Marlowe somehow made himself in charge of the music, and is smoking, and poking our resident Catholic-person, Father Thomas, with a broom as the unfortunate Father hides under a table.
"These are not Christmas Songs! These songs are like nothing I've ever heard," Father Thomas, hands over his ears. I only let Coach Marlowe put on music because he usually just plays Queen.
"So you admit they are Christmas songs? Which I am aware of and clearly know?" Still lightly smacking him with a broom.
"No, they are not! If you made me get up at ten o'clock at night for the most demented songs you could think of —-,"
"He brought you here to counsel me because of the upcoming holiday break," I say, sitting up on the bench. I've been lifting and sweat is running down my face.
"Thanksgiving," Marco says.
"Genocide Day is next week, the kid has to go home, to whoever makes him train like a Spartan on a daily basis. Don't know what else is going on with him because he doesn't talk but—-you said you'd take the kids who need talking to because I 'encourage them to run away from home' and 'wind up suggesting dueling as a method of problem solving' and 'help them fake their deaths' and 'help them flee the country' and 'arm them with lethal weapons with minimal provocation'," Coach says, still swatting the actual priest with a broom.
"Yep, I did, that's on me, all right, turn the music off—,"
"But you admit I know two songs for your appropriated wintertime pagan holiday—?"
"I do not and we'll talk about it later if I did," straightening his priestly robes.
"You're wasting your time, I'm going home for Thanksgiving, I already skipped out last long weekend," I sigh, taking a drink of water.
"You seem much happier than when you first started at Rose and Swan. I know we haven't talked much since you got here—," Father Thomas says, readjusting himself and very firmly stealing the broom so that Coach will stop lightly whacking him with it.
"That's because I avoid you," I say, flatly, "I'm not religious, Father."
"I knew I liked you," Coach says, tapping ash off his cigarette.
"I will lock you out, I swear I'll do it this time—," Father snaps his fingers at Coach, then says, to me, "You don't have to be religious if you don't want to be. My religion and my faith guided me to this school—,"
"And that didn't make you quit the religion?" Coach, laughing.
"—you brought me here because we agreed you don't get to talk to people—," Father Thomas, very patiently.
"Shutting up. Needed to do that one. I'm not sorry it was funny. At least to me."
"—-and I want to help you, in any way I can. If you'll let me. We know you've had some health concerns and you have seemed apprehensive about your home life in the past," Father Thomas says.
"I haven't seemed anything. Because I don't talk to you," I say, flatly, "And you want to know what my faith tells me?"
"Yes," Father Thomas says, nicely.
"My faith tells me that the only person I can trust is myself, and that no one is too good for the blade of my knife. I'm the only real friend I'll ever have. Or real thing I can rely on," I say.
"I suspect a lot of people haven't been good to you. And I don't think anyone has ever given you a reason to trust yet. And you don't have to trust me, or your former fencing coach, or your body guards, or your roommate, or anyone. But someone is going to be worth trusting someday, it will be worth letting someone in, and I don't recommend you miss that," he says.
"You're a man of the cloth though? You don't have anyone. You live your life, alone, giving platitudes to lonely children," I say, leaning back on my hands and trying to move my numb leg.
"I do have something. I have my faith in God, which means that I am never, really alone. That's something that I let in, and choose to accept, God's unconditional love. And through it I've found many friends. I keep in touch with former students, I have friends in many of the faculty and staff here. I'm not saying you have to choose my faith, but a faith can help you in your own way. I'm not suggesting you even find religion. I'm suggesting I'm concerned about your return home for the holiday, and that you may need to lean on something."
"That's very nice. You've done a very good job, very comforting," I say, lying back down to continue lifting weights. Jas loyally comes over to spot for me.
"My speech is shorter: if and when you choose to come back here, early, we will pick you and your body guard people up from the airport. You don't have to stay a place you don't want to stay," Coach says, past his cigarette, "Got it?"
"What makes either of you think I won't want to go home?" I ask, annoyed but keeping my voice level.
"Nothing," Father Thomas says, "At all. The support is free and it doesn't require any circumstance."
"Everything. But mostly that every single crack story you spin about why you look like a bait-dog is stupider and less believable than the previous one," Coach Marlowe says, neatly, the moment Father Thomas quits talking.
"You're entitled to your opinion," I get back up because my head is getting light. I check my tracker. Nothing like close to complete for the day and it's nearly midnight. And this conversation is happening. Damn it. "And you can feel free to consider how much longer your careers will be if you consider calling CPS on the most powerful man in the world."
"Oh, so it's the father good to know," Coach scoffs, "Thought he was a really awful person. Then I got a look at you."
"And he's ensured I'm just as great," I say, dryly, "I'm very much all right."
"I'm sure you are," Father Thomas says, "I"m just here to tell you sometimes it's okay not to be."
"That's ridiculous," you always have to keep going on. No matter what. Time is running out.
"It isn't really, that's why we need a faith, in something. Because sometimes we do need to not be all right. How about this? Try an experiment for me. Next time you feel sad or tired, or overwhelmed, you let it out? Tell the nearest person, your body guard, a teacher, one of your school friends. Let them share the burden," he says.
"What would that do?" I ask.
"Try it and find out."
I try to ignore his advice. But it eats at me. By the next evening I'm very near broken. I go home in a week. I can't walk. I can't even stand properly. Not a single day have I met my exercise quota in the last two weeks no matter how much I swim. My agents know I have seizures they'll no doubt find out about the rest soon. And what if I have a seizure at home? What if I never get to come back here what if I never tell Bradley how I feel?
How do I tell Bradley how I feel?
Am I ever going to be able to do that?
How? I don't have words for that sort of thing. I barely have words for a real conversation. This is why I can't speak all this out loud. It doesn't make sense. Not at all. Not even to me in my head does it make sense. And what do I hope to gain by telling him how I feel? A dying boy loves you so completely he's forgotten how to think? That's not going to sound very good is it? Also the dying part so I've already lied to him like everyone. And I have seizures pretty often now, nearly every week. And I see the doctor twice a week so I'm missing more classes and they all wonder and I throw up most days now and none of that will be easy to hide at home and—
"That sounded like math."
"What?" I look up at the sound of Bradley's crystal clear voice from across the room.
"The groan, sounded like a math one," he says, as he stands over his bed, folding his shirts and things in preparation for going home.
"No um," tell him. Tell him. Try it and find out. "Just—not—" say the words. Say the truth. "—looking forward to going home is all."
"Right," he nods.
I don't say anything, that was not easy at all. And it did not feel good it feels like the truth is hanging there, naked, in the cold air of the dorm room, the window a bit cracked and snow flurries working their way in. The heater puffing as best it can between our beds.
"You going to DC or someplace else?" He prompts.
"Um—DC, can we—not talk about this?" I wish I'd never said anything.
"Sure. Sorry, didn't mean to pry—,"
"No it's not you. It's me I just—as I said. Not looking forward to going home," I say, staring at my fingers.
"Well. It's just a week, right? Then we'll be back here, getting ready for finals, and Christmas," he says, cheerfully, a smile gracing his soft, angular face, simply effervescent hair glowing in the light from his bedside lamp. I look at him standing there in the dim light of our room. And I think about how I told Father Thomas I don't have or need a religion. Maybe I do. Maybe I've found it. I can worship the sound of his voice when he speaks my name. 'Better than Electric' is playing on my speaker, the soft notes lazily filling the air around him, the soft neon glow of his lamp. Perfect. Just pefect. A complete peace in here in this moment, him smiling at me. A calm I never expected to feel.
"Just a week. Then you'll be coming back you wouldn't—move or anything, would you?" Is all I get out.
"No, of course not," he says, shaking his head, "I'll be right here, probably when you return in fact, your flight comes in after mine on that Sunday, I think."
"Right, good, then um, just a week as you said."