A/N: So it appears this is the Thursday update which I'd hoped would entertain the stay-at-home, pent-up heart, struggling to stay afloat. I'd like to dedicate this chapter to angst lovers GCChiara42 issahuh and kireideiji haha I love me some tears :> you know me best.
==================
Vanilla Julian White simply could not fathom how anyone, any child, could survive their first day of elementary school without the immediate disintegration of their mind. While rules were, by their very definition, necessary in every social and human establishment, the boy was having a hard time understanding policies like holding hands on the way to the bathroom, or having to wait forever to get to the end of a picture book read out during reading time. Worst of all was the work he and the rest of the children were made them to do. No way in the various, multiple parallel universes he'd read about was colouring considered homework. Artwork they had to be completing without those 48-shade colour pencil sets, but with three colours to each student.
It wasn't the taking turns that he minded, particularly—he'd managed his way through by swapping the pencils one after the other, going around to scout for the shades he required—but the sheer lack of intellectual, academic rigour that these fellow six-year-olds were experiencing. And enjoying.
They were doing things like 4 + 7, 2 + 3 and by god were those the silliest mathematic equations he'd ever imagined. He'd also been mildly offended by the school's collection of literary texts. None of them were a decent read, let alone, a challenge. The bottom line was the Vanilla did not enjoy his first day of elementary school despite the various promises that his Aunt Julie had made. Something about furthering his intellectual discovery and propelling levels of curiosity to greater heights.
By this rate, he was going to end up just like everyone else. Just like that girl who wouldn't stop raising her hand in the middle of class and unfortunately answering every question wrongly.
It was upon dismissal, the sound of the bell, that the bespectacled bean had found it in himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He was standing by the front gate of the school, right beside the guardhouse where the teachers were waving and speaking to concerned family members, exchanging greetings and brief anecdotes about their child's first day of school.
Vanilla's uncle was no different. In fact, being the anxious overthinker that he was, he'd nearly bypassed his nephew waving at him in his tippy toes and went straight for one of the teachers standing by the front gate. Vanilla had to run up to him and tug at his coat. Moments later, they were standing in line and waiting to seek the words of the boy's homeroom teacher.
"Good afternoon, Miss Reeta. I'm Alfred, Vanille's uncle," said the critic, extending a hand after resting his briefcase against the side of his right leg. "Apologies if he's been quite the chatterbox on his first day. He could never resist the temptation of answering a question."
Miss Reeta, a dark-haired, olive-skin woman with a brilliant smile, had appeared fairly surprised by Alfred's sudden apology. "Is that so? Well, actually... Vanilla's been very quiet today. In fact, the only noisy little one has been this girl, Elena, who's been raising her hand all day."
Alfred could not believe his ears. He'd glanced down at his nephew, who'd picked out his entire wardrobe on his first day of school—from the little bow tie on his neck to his long socks and matching tiny boat shoes. Impossible was the word that passed the forefront of his mind in that instant and his very first instinct had been to confront his nephew right away about his apparently abnormal behaviour.
After thanking Miss Reeta on their way out and bypassing the front gate of the elementary school, his uncle had prompted him to speak with a single gaze.
Vanilla, knowing how his uncle's policy on truth and honesty, wasted no time in coming up with a response.
"Elena got all the answers wrong but I've learnt that people don't like to be told that they're wrong, especially in front of an audience, so I decided not to answer any questions so that she would think no one else knows the answer and therefore feel better about herself. I read it in the book you left on the armchair last Saturday evening. 'Winning the Heart of the Human Population by L. O. Red. It's an effective strategy. I've made a friend today." He gazed up at his uncle with wide, round eyes that looked very much like a frozen lake.
Needless to say, the latter had been stunned into silence, recovering only after they'd turn the corner. Fifty feet ahead was their usual hangout on Monday afternoons; for Vanilla, after kindergarten and his uncle, after getting off early at work. A quaint little bookstore in the basement of a Balinese art gallery.
"Well Vanille," he began on a lighter note, knowing that it would only grow heavier as their conversation progressed. "Firstly, that book is meant for adults. And yes, that is very much an effective strategy, but applicable to those of working age. Which you, and your fellow classmates, are not. I'm... both terribly surprised and proud of you at the same time but I sometimes wish you'd learn all these things as you grow up, without the assistance of texts meant for people twenty years older than yourself who continue to lack the social skills that is required of every employee. Of course, there's nothing wrong with learning things from books and all. It is a critical part of humanity. But, you know. I'd say that making mistakes and learning from them is part of every childhood. You don't need to become an adult this very instant."
They arrived at the hidden, narrow entrance of the bookstore after heading down the stairs, greeting the owner as they entered. One, with a nod, and the other, with a small wave on his tippy toes.
At once, as per routine, they'd made for the shelf of new arrivals, one grabbing the nearest stool around for additional height and the other, already, with two in his arms and more to say about his nephew's way of life.
"In fact, you've grown so much in the span of two years. I remember you throwing flowers in the air at Chip's wedding as though it was yesterday. You were a sweet little thing. Still are. But... you know. Sometimes, having a superior mind separates, distances you from the rest of the world and this... this ability of yours to just completely devour every piece of knowledge given to you might end up being your greatest enemy."
It would've been clear to anyone else listening to Alfred's words that he was speaking from personal experience. Unsurprisingly, he'd been through a childhood of similar nature, although not to the extent that his nephew has. Vanilla was much, much cleverer than he was at that age. And the boy himself was well aware.
"It doesn't help that I have the kind of personality that finds telling the truth so much better than a lie," said the bean, turning to the stamp collector's section just beside the new arrivals and sifting through for one of those marvellous finds. "Which is something I haven't been able to master. It's actually really hard, and Mr. Chocolate Chip was right about that. I'm not very good at lying."
The pair fell silent nearly at once. Deep down, Alfred knew exactly how and why his nephew had become the very person he was at present. And he says 'person' not because he'd made a fleeting mistake of synonyms—a good writer never does that—but because he could not quite see Vanilla as anything else. He wasn't a child; not since that incident at the diner and that friend of his. How odd, how strange it was to see a small boy, barely four feet tall, encase himself in a block of ice. Not so much that he was cold in personality, per se. Just, distant. Apart.
And Uncle Al knew that it had everything to do with his letting go of Annie's son. It wasn't so much that he'd changed, strictly speaking, he hadn't. He was the same, bookish chatterbox of knowledge—happy ripples and waves only they were hidden under a sheet of glass, of ice. A frozen lake.
Two years ago, the immediate effects of his red-headed friend disappearing from school and the closing down of Annie's diner had been harsh. Back then, Vanilla had hidden in his room the entire weekend, refusing to speak to his uncle for nearly a week before eventually just avoiding him at dinner and then, finally, going back to 'normal'.
'You can tell he's different. Like he's lost that little bit of warmth,' or so Julie had phrased it then. Both she and Alfred had noticed the boy's spirited eyes everyday after school for nearly half a year, just when Annie's son had started inviting him over for homework. Or so he hoped to be the case but his wife had begged to differ, placing her faith in their child-like innocence and that they were, like every child, playing together. After all, Vanilla never really had a playmate.
And now, in the absence of that friend of his, the boy had seemed so distant—even from his family; so cold with his knowledge which had soon progressed even further, at an exponential rate. He'd built his own impressive ivory tower with a stone-cold foundation that most said would propel him to greater heights.
"So, um," the critic cleared his throat after minutes of silence, having sifted through the shelves of new arrivals. "Why don't you tell me about that friend you made today."
"Oh!" Vanilla had perked up at this, turning to his uncle with a grand total of three books, all a little too thick to hold in his arms. He had resorted to lowering his hands to utilise the full length of his limbs. "His name is Calvin and he sits beside me in math and during reading hour. He invited me to play at the swings over recess too."
"That's very nice," his uncle smiled, relieved that Vanilla seemed perfectly capable of handling his own life and leading a normal one with friends and... and company. "Your Aunt Julie wouldn't mind hosting a weekend brunch sometime. Perhaps you could invite him."
The bespectacled bean paused, nodding once before holding out all three books to his uncle and then fishing for his own wallet to pay.
*
As the weeks went by, the six-year-old had seen an increasing number of waiting hours for either Julie and Alfred to pick him up at the front gate of school. The former, having recently returned to teaching at a pre-school nearby, was having trouble dealing with her working hours that would vary depending on the time parents would pick their children up. On paper, she was getting off at six but in reality, it was really half past seven.
And because Julie and Alfred would take turns walking home with their nephew, there were days neither of them could make it on time due to an unfortunate mismatch in their schedules.
"I'd like to request for permission to go home on my own," said the boy to Miss Reeta one day, tiny hands gripping on the straps of his hazel brown, faux leather backpack given to him by Rachel last Christmas. "Could I maybe speak to my uncle on the phone? I would've liked to make the call on my own but u-unfortuantely, I don't have one. A mobile device."
After standing by the guardhouse and watching the crowd thin and soon, disappear, Vanilla had finally decided upon the truth: that he was tired of waiting outside school and wasting his time not being able to read the thick, heavy books he had at home that could not quite fit into his backpack no matter how hard he tried.
The boy had, on the second week of school, read all the decent books in the library meant for 8th graders and, having saved up for another two second-hand treasures he'd found in that bookstore he so loved, would only settle for reading at home these days.
After Miss Reeta had made the call to Alfred and spoken to him about Vanilla's request, she'd handed him an odd clicker of sorts, telling him to press the button in the middle should anything discomforting happen on his way home. Vanilla had thanked her with a polite little bow, as he so often did, never forgetting his manners, before briefly reassuring his uncle on the phone and then, starting in the direction of home.
Imagine the look on Alfred's face after rushing home in a frenzy, only to see Vanilla in a nice comfy sweater, fresh out of the shower, clothes in the washing, curled up by the fireplace with 'The Soul of Man Under Socialism and Selected Critical Prose by Oscar Wilde' in his tiny little hands and a cup of hot chocolate by his foot—brows furrowed deep in thought as he came across a particular notion he did not quite understand.
"Vanille..." Alfred could barely speak. He'd practically ran his way home. "You, you're... well, I see you're..." doing well.
The boy looked up from his text. His seventh birthday was right around the corner and though he hadn't quite asked for anything specific, both Julie and Alfred had been planning for some form of a cellular device that would allow him to keep in touch with them without them having to worry. Given the circumstances, Vanilla becoming addicted to using his phone was perhaps the last of their worries.
"It's not very hard, Uncle Al," said the boy after a sip of his hot chocolate. With marshmallows. "I just did what we do every day. Just, alone. How was work?"
The adult had responded with a vague nod, implying that it had been 'quite alright' and simply 'the usual.' He made his way over to the fireplace, filling the empty space next to his nephew's bean bag before placing his briefcase aside and removing his gloves to feel the warmth of cracking flames.
"And you? How... how was school? You could've spent some time after class playing with that friend of yours. Calvin. I would have come straight after work and you would have enjoyed yourself too."
"Oh," Vanilla shook his head with a tiny smile. "He did extend an invitation but I told him we'd do it tomorrow instead. We had a lot of homework today so he might've needed some more time to complete it."
Surprised by the thoughtfulness of his nephew and moved by the implication that he was getting along swimmingly with this Calvin friend of his, Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. "Well then. Next time, you can invite him over and you two can do homework together."
The six-year-old had blinked in return. As though he couldn't quite understand the notion of 'doing homework together'. It felt to him, more like tutoring someone else.
*
"Vanilla is an absolute pleasure to teach. He's bright, polite, courteous... takes the initiative to solve problems on his own and has never really gotten himself into the kind of trouble children end up in. His manners are... they're flawless and, well, we've always wondered how amazing the people who brought him up must be."
It was the end first grade, a day after the children had brought their report books home and have them signed either in desperate tears or joyous laughter. Vanilla's elementary school were known to schedule their parent-teacher-meetings on this very day and here they were—Julie and Alfred—settling into tiny plastic chairs in front of Miss Reeta and Mrs Sparrow, the primary and secondary homeroom teachers of 1 Aptitude.
"You say that, but we've never really taught Vanille a thing about manners," laughed Julie, honest and embarrassed. "If anything, well... this might be strange to say, but he's learnt it himself. Most of it, if not all. He's very special... since kindergarten."
"Yes, and we've noticed." His teachers had exchanged a look, nodding in relief. "This is good. You're aware of Vanilla's unique disposition so it makes this much easier to say: we think he can qualify for third grade classes. Or maybe even two grades up, straight to fourth. He'd breeze through, even then."
There was a pause. Adults in colourful plastic chairs, silent for a second.
"Oh no." Then Alfred was shaking his head, hands raised in polite disinclination. "I've already thought about that. Believe me, given it a huge amount of consideration. Vanille's been under our care for nearly four years now and his education has been the forefront of our concern, so... well... Julie and I have arrived at the conclusion that he shouldn't be skipping grades. Most importantly, he's made a nice friend in class and... so... yes. He should stay."
Uncle Al had finished on a lame note, not quite knowing how to phrase his thoughts regarding a matter so oddly foreign. He'd admittedly been so scarred by the incident with Annie's son and the extent to which his nephew had been so affected by losing him that he swore he'd never allow for something of similar nature to happen ever again.
Nevertheless, Miss Reeta and Mrs Sparrow appeared mildly confused by his decision.
"We understand your concerns," Mrs Sparrow put forth gently, hands clasped together. "You mean to say that you wish for Vanilla to... advance accordingly with his peers and the classmates he's become acquainted with. That is true..."
Miss Reeta cut her off with a sigh, getting straight to the point. "Does Vanilla talk about school very much? Not homework, but. His peers. Or his feelings. Whether he enjoys it."
"Yes," said Alfred. Confident. Beside him, Julie was nodding away. "Yes he does. There's a boy named Calvin who sits beside him during math and... what was it, reading class? They're rather close."
Yet again, the teachers exchanged a look. Turning back to Julie and Alfred, they now appeared fairly uncomfortable. "He shares his experiences in school willingly? And... um... specifically?"
"Yes..." Aunt Julie was feeling increasingly concerned. "Vanille talks about his friends all the time. One of them, more specifically. Calvin, he's—"
"Yes but," Reeta breathed a sigh of unease. "We don't have a Calvin."
They paled. Quiet.
"Kevin? Kelvin, or..."
The teachers shook their heads. Miss Reeta was at once mediating the unexpected situation they were having with every bit of information she knew about imaginary friends, and how it was, really, quite normal for a child to have one—only they didn't expect Vanilla, of all children, to be one of them.
Speechless and ridden with guilt, his uncle made no attempt at a wordy response; merely shaking his head and averting his gaze. Not only had he, as Vanilla's guardian, missed out all the clues, he'd even played a part in causing the trauma that might have led to his nephew's current situation.
"In class—in school, really—he's very distant. Almost aloof... though we'd never use that word to describe a child, really. It's not that he's in a world of his own. Children daydream very often, staring into space. Vanilla doesn't quite do that. He's very much rooted in our world. He just likes sitting out, watching others play. During recess, or...or gym period, or when we play interactive games, stuff like that." Mrs Sparrow was doing her best to comfort the two but neither of them appeared the slightest bit convinced. Julie tried to smile.
"Well he's very observant," she said after taking a deep breath. "In kindergarten too. He does that all the time, I know what you mean."
Miss Reeta nodded. "And he puts it in words very well, too. Explained this to us, even, when Mrs Sparrow approached him to ask if he'd like to join in."
"Yes, um," Julie attempted explain his behaviour. "He doesn't like joining in—"
"Or when I ask him to go play with his friends in recess instead of remaining in class to read, he tells me things like 'he doesn't have any friends.'"
Again, they fell silent. But this time, for good reason. All four were confused.
"But if Calvin is an imaginary friend, a-and he believes that Calvin exists, then... then why would he say that?"
=================
A/N: The kind of lies that children tell when they're 5 or 6 years old are the kind of lies that don't get them into trouble; that would avoid a good spanking or scolding from their parents or in the case of school, do away with detention or extra homework. The very first, basic nature of lying: to protect oneself.
Then there is the next step which comes soon after is lying to, willing and deliberately, inflict pain on someone else. Not only to protect oneself, as in, a shield, but using a lie as a weapon.
Then the third step in which human beings learn or develop is the capacity to lie to protect others. This develops at a later stage, when minds are acute enough to register the presence of other minds beyond its own, internal existence. When that happens, there is a willingness to hurt oneself, as which lying does, in order to prevent the infliction of pain on another.
Often so, children do not reach this level of understanding until they are much older and possess a more developed mind of what it means to hide the truth and veil it with a version so much nicer and beautiful.
This was Vanilla's first lie. He's skipped all those first, second steps of lying and jumped straight to the third on his first attempt. He lies about having a friend, named Calvin, just so that Julie and Alfred will think he's settling in at school and that he's gotten over the incident and that he's above all, normal and going to be okay.
While most children wouldn't think twice about losing a friend or gaining one, Vanilla's mind, because it had been so developed at the age he met Leroy, can feel much more complex emotions and think much more than any other child, therefore feel the kind of pain of losing a friend one might have when they are, say, fifteen or sixteen. When human beings have lived for that long in this world, we begin to understand the weight and importance of relationships, unlike children who are not yet as familiar.
That is the extent to which Leroy was significant to him; as his first and only friend. Vanilla was never truly able to move on.
Some of you were asking in the previous chapter for more about Vanilla and his relation to the element I've given him: ice. This chapter gives some insight to it! :) How he's been growing up, and how he can be without fire. A frozen lake.
-Cuppie has a whole collection of tears so... *holds vial under your eye*