Greatest

18: be all a scourge and terror to the world

After one of the worst weeks of my life, I'm back at Rose and Swan. Our flight out of Dulles gets delayed so I and Shane and Jonesy have to wind up rushing through two airports only to miss a connection and in turn have to wait six hours for another flight. I throw up several times through out this experience, don't worry.
The upshot of it is, we get in in the early hours of the morning and I wind up just racing to the dorm to change in time to make it to hockey practice.
Cyrus, you ask, why are you going to hockey practice you don't play hockey? Well, do you remember how very gay I am?
Thing is, after my leg fell victim to my incurable brain cancer, I was no longer able to be on the swim team or the fencing team. Technically, I'm just medically off, but my scholarship is for fencing which makes Coach Marlowe responsible for me. In the end, he's still my 'homeroom' teacher, so he still needed me showing up. Coach Nashe doesn't want me; he has enough being my house father. So, Coach Marlowe came up with the idea that I could be assistant coach or something of that kind, to the hockey and fencing teams, to make up my two sports credits. He designed a little test thing on both disciplines to fulfill my midterm requirement. Before you get too proud of him here, the tests each had one multiple choice question that read 'circle true or false I genuinely don't care: true/false' and then a series of mostly sarcastic limiricks and rhymed couplets for me to rate, but all the ratings were good, like I could pick 'fantastic', 'astounding', 'breath-taking', or 'life-changing' for each one. It was actually kind of fun.
However, despite that lax requirement, he does require that I come to practice and help him with plays and repair swords and tape sticks and things. I don't honestly mind, because, see previously, where I explain how very fucking gay I am.
Yeah, Bradley is on the hockey team, you'll recall.
So I have no issues showing up to see Bradley with his perfect hair all sweaty from the helmet, cheeks flushed, smiling at nothing in particular, hands cold from being out on the ice.  But after the night I had and the week I had I'm more than exhausted. I've taken some pills already, but I'm trying to be coherent for this. I'm not not going, delayed flight or no. Recall, I'm very gay.
I show up just as practice is ending. Coach just grunts at me as he lights a cigarette, tossing me a stick he was working on. The players are drifting from the showers, having gotten changed, waiting for him to dismiss them or give them a little talk about the skirmish. Occasionally, I'm allowed to participate in these things, but as I'm late I don't know what went on.
I just go to work on the stick, and Shane and Jonesy hover on the edge of the room, tired as I am I'm sure, but I've got a full day of classes.
"Oh you made it—-what happened?" Bradley asks, face registering an acceptable amount of horror at my appearance.
"I—-," was in a car accident. That's the lie I've been spinning for the last twenty hours of travel. But of course it's a lie. My father's wrath was not easily quelled after the stunt I pulled sneaking off and getting Micheal and I shit-faced. But that's not something I'm going to say out loud. But I'm trying not to lie to him. "I don't feel like talking about it. Actually."
"Oh, right, sorry—you are okay though?" He asks, face set with concern.
"I am well now," now looking at you. No, Father Thomas, I need no religion. None but the curl of this boy's hair.
"Good, okay, how's your leg?"
"Worse," I nod. I guess I should elaborate. I look slightly more like I went through a blender than usual. As in, I do look like I was in a car accident in which a car hit me head on. As I said, my father's rage was not easily quelled. I didn't narrate it here, because I do not care to relive it. I'd rather talk about Bradley and the color his hair is, soft and damp, under the florescent lights of the locker room.
"That'd follow, okay."
"You're going to hear me tell people it was a car accident. That's a lie," I say.
"It wasn't a car?" He asks.
"It wasn't an accident," I force a smile, "Don't worry about me."
"I kind of do—?"
Our conversation is ended by Coach clapping his hands unceremoniously.  The rest of the hockey team gathers around, sullen, and sweaty after practice. Jonesy and Shane barely react, they do not care nor are they interested in our routine beyond idle curiosity.
"All right, I have an official announcement to make as your home room teacher, so listen up. The Winter Formal is coming up week after next. I have been instructed to tell you about it in advance to prevent you from freaking out—,"
"Isn't this just a dance?" I ask, raising a hand.
"Yes. Theoretically it is. However, historically you people have been unable to handle it. Therefore, this is advance warning that it will occur, and that should anything upsetting occur during the dance that you refrain from freaking the fuck out. Even if someone breaks up with you. Even if you think someone summoned the devil. Even if you think your crush has a pact with the devil in exchange for knowledge. Even if you and your crush are outed to the entire school. Even if you think people you sort of like were outed to the entire school. We ask that you not do a few simple things. We ask that you do not attempt to make a pact with the devil. We ask that you do not pull the fire alarm. We ask that you do not set anything on fire. We ask that you do not form a barricade and launch glitter bombs at people using a trebuchet. We ask that you do not attempt to flee the country, we ask that you do not start a fight club in a Chili's parking lot—,"
"Hey! My dad says I'm supposed to challenge anyone, but specifically you, to a duel if you start talking shit," a very tall boy in the back calls. He's sweaty, rubbing his face on a worn t-shirt, probably a freshman at the most, with red hair that's standing on end.
"Lionel, you tell your daddy I will duel him any day of the fucking week," Coach says, unperturbed.
"No, I can't," the boy replies, "I'm not allowed to distract him again today. I've already done it twice."
"I realize this is not relevant to anyone else's lives, but I'm most important so I'm gonna ask—how did you already distract your father twice today when it's eight am?" Coach says, amused.
"Well, first I texted and asked if he'd send me a scimtar 'cause you said you'd show me how to use it—-,"
"Wait, is he really gonna do that?"
"Absolutely, he said he'd mail it here."
"Good good cool, yes I will absolutely show you how to use that—,"
"Anyway, the second way I distracted him, I texted and asked why our house doesn't have a secret passage behind a book case, and he replied in all caps 'great question', then he put a screenshot of that text on our family group chat and said 'this is the sort of critical thinking we need, people', and then like two seconds later my mom texted me and said 'please don't distract your father for at least twenty-four hours, we are trying to accomplish something'. So now, I can't distract him again, but I am supposed to challenge you to a duel if you talk shit," the boy says, nodding like it all makes sense.
"Well, we did not need to know all that," I say.
"Shut up Laine I did need to know that, deeply,—yeah, sure, text him tomorrow that I'll duel him he can pick the time and place. Moving right the fuck along, if any of the aforementioned things or something you in your dumb teenage brains think is equally traumatic happens we are asking that you solve that by running away and crying, and not taking it out on school property or subtracting from the population. Students who are on mandatory community service due to infractions are required to help set up for the Winter Formal, not to single anyone out, but that part of the announcement is only for Cyrus Laine who is the only one of you on mandatory service, done, end of speech, go to class."
"That's not fair! I haven't done anything," I say.
" ' "I haven't done anything'' the protagonist cried indignantly despite having permanently injured half his former swim team',"  Coach says, doing a surprisingly decent impression of my soft midwestern accent.
"That's not that big a deal," Bradley says, nicely, to me, "It's just decorating. It should be fun."
"I suppose," I mutter, knowing fully well things don't usually go well for me.
That's how, a week later, I wind up with Marco and Jas, limping my way to the main hall to help the nuns set up for a dance I can't currently participate in for multiple reasons namely I can't dance and I am not out to anyone let alone my crush.
Also, my leg thing has gotten worse to where the arm on that side of the body is not doing awesome. Like it twitches sometimes. I realize cancer is NOT inherently convenient, but like, really?
Anyway, I'm busy thinking about all of that, as well as what I'm going to do about the dance which is namely not go. I don't even care to attend, also I'm flying out that night, so we'll have to leave partway through anyway.
Marco and Jas open the door for me because I'm on crutches at this point, probably prepared to be lightly amused at me attempting to decorate. In case it wasn't already obvious we are not a holiday type of family. My mother literally had to read books about how to pretend to be a normal person and decorate things normally in order to decorate the White House the first few years. And to be perfectly honest the results were not great. Like, google, it seriously, the results look like somebody in an emotionally abusive relationship who is slightly kidnapped and is afraid for the life of her two sons and unborn child is being forced to pick decorations for a holiday she's never happily celebrated before. And it looks like that because that is really, like, super close to what happened.
So, my expertise in decorating things comes from being forced to help out at the odd school thing and I should tell you, I have never really taken it very seriously. I mean, in my defense I'm a seventeen year old guy who apparently will not get to be an eighteen year old guy, stringing tinsel has never been a priority and I think the closest I got to decorating a tree was when we had to do it for publicity photos and my mom stood there telling me and Micheal exactly what to do. And it didn't work well at all and remember she didn't know what to do.
Anyway.
That's about my experience with Christmas decorations.
The main hall is half set up, with Christmas music blasting from a tinny sound system in one corner. My agents shift in to survey it, while a nun moves in and out bringing us boxes. Us is me and one other student, who is kneeling angrily untangling lights. After a moment I recognize Tessa Kyd.
In case you'd forgotten, because I temporarily did, I've been supposed to murder her.
"Oh, thank you so much for coming, Cyrus," the nun, Sister Agatha, comes up, "Go ahead and start helping Tessa with untangling those lights and making sure they work."
"Yeah I'm um—not going to be much use in the climbing ladders department," I say, gesturing to my legs.
"Don't worry, we'll still be able to put you to work," she says, patting my shoulder before leaving, "I'll be back with some more lights, but get a start on those."
"Right," I say, as Marco and Jas shift out of the room. There's only one exit, and as a rule if they already know who is in the room and they aren't a threat, then they can stand outside and let me have some moment of privacy. The same goes for locker rooms, and classes and the like, most of the time if everyone inside is clear, then they'll just stay outside.
Tessa straightens up, the moment the door closes, advancing on me.
"Was this your idea, Laine?" She asks, folding her arms.
"No. I don't have ideas," I say, calmly, "Nor do I want to know what you're talking about. I really don't."
"Look, my dad already knows your dad sent you here because of me. He says you're going to rape me, but I said I can overpower you easily with that gimp leg," she says.
"I am not going to hurt you," I say, and ironically enough, wait, this is funny later, that's the last thing I say to her before. Well. You'll see what happens here.
"I'm going to hurt you," she shoves me, knocking me over easily. I hook her with a crutch and we're both down, rolling across the floor.
She hits and kicks, scratching me with manicured nails. "Underneath the Tree" is now playing on the speakers. Together we twist on the floor, she kicks my legs and tries to claw my eyes. I can't get hold of her neck to snap it, I also do not like breaking necks. I hate the clicking, grinding of bones sound it makes, ugh, it makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.
I get hold of the Christmas lights we were untangling, looping them around her neck and twisting the wire around my hands as I tug, bracing myself against the floor as she twists on top of me.
It takes up to three minutes to strangle someone, and Tessa Kyd is no exception, fighting to the bitter end as she painstakingly slowly loses air. Her maincured nails, now caked with my blood, flop and slowly go still. I'm my father's son, I wait a moment after she's stopped struggling to finally let her go, pushing the corpse off of me as I lie on the floor, panting, in a sticky mess of our blood and other bodily fluids. Yeah, most bodies expel all liquids almost immediately after death. It's disgusting. Nothing Hollywood about death, no it's messy and long and it smells terrible.
What?
Why are you looking at me like that?
Oh. Yeah, I did say I wasn't going to kill her. So I lied. Big deal. You needed some surprises in this story didn't you? What fun would it have been if there were not surprises? We already know that I'm gonna die that's that blown for you.
Anyway, I lie there a decent amount of time before the nun comes back and the agents come in, and people scream. It's not very fun. I knew I was going to hate decorating.