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He was standing in the kitchen when I came in the next morning, his shirt crisply pressed, the Windsor perfect in his tie. The clock had barely passed seven and he was already dressed for work, the moron.
"So what do you have planned for the day, honey?" my stepmother asked, batting her eyelashes at my father as she leaned across the counter. "I was thinking."
"Sentencing," he muttered, not even looking up as he rifled through his briefcase. "Busy day."
"I was thinking about visiting the new day spa next to Montgomery's," she continued, unprompted. "Elisabeth Walters insists the mud baths are simply divine!"
"Mmmhmm."
"And I was thinking I'd take the convertible out today," she mused, removing the cap from her lip-gloss as she examined her reflection in the toaster. "Elisabeth has been dying to see the new Porsche!"
"Sounds great, Jen," he told her, his body language tense, agitation written in his stance.
My father had never been a morning person. Although I usually made a point of avoiding him around the house, his thumping footsteps and slamming doors were an easy-enough signal to read. Some people were a little slow to catch on, though. Despite her amazing abilities with a push-up bra, Stepmother #2 had been doomed from the moment she'd waltzed into the kitchen and proclaimed mornings to be 'the best time of day!!!'
The divorce had been settled four Thursday mornings later.
"And after the day spa, I was thinking I'd go swimsuit shopping for our holiday," Stepmother #3 said, pursing her lips as she replaced the cap on her lip-gloss.
"Uhuh," he said, still ignoring her.
"And did you ring the hotel about upgrading to the honeymoon suite?" she asked, again leaning against the counter as her blonde hair fell around her face. I'd largely ignored her up until that point, but the words 'honeymoon suite' had most certainly grabbed my attention.
"What honeymoon suite?"
And now I'd grabbed his.
"Why aren't you dressed for school?" my father demanded, his head snapping around as he cut her off.
"It's 7am," I said dryly, ignoring his glare as he cast a disapproving eye over my sweat pants and t-shirt.
"I don't care; you should be getting ready for school."
"It's - Se - ven - A - M," I repeated, making full-eye contact as I reached across the counter and grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl.
"Don't get smart with me, William," he warned, snapping his briefcase shut and locking it.
"Whatever," I muttered, peeling the banana as he continued to glare in my direction. I returned his glare at least tenfold, barely taking time to register that my stepmother had left the room.
At least now it was one-on-one.
"Did you do your homework like I told you to?" he asked.
No.
"Of course."
"And where is it?"
In the rubbish bin.
"Upstairs."
"Don't lie to me, William."
"I'm not lying," I told him, folding my arms across my chest.
"I know you're lying," he accused, not moving from where he stood. "Would you like me to go up to your bedroom and prove it?"
"The door's locked," I informed him, taking a firm hold of the counter that separated us.
"Excuse me?"
"That's right," I told him, dangling the key as he took a white-knuckled grip on the dining chair in front of him. "I put a lock on my door after your little stunt last week."
"HOW DARE YOU!?!?" he roared, banging the chair fiercely against the tiles below. "You have NO RIGHT to put a lock on that door."
"Well maybe now you'll stay out of my stuff."
"You had NO RIGHT," he repeated, now moving toward me.
"And YOU have NO RIGHT to go through my stuff," I told him, as he moved toward me with increased speed. Things were quickly getting out of control, I wasn't stupid. The simmering tension in the air was reaching boiling point, and my fight-or-flight instincts were well and truly on alert as I began to back away toward the door.
Fight.
"As long as you are under my roof, you will live by my rules, is that clear?"
.or flight.
Fight.
"Do I make myself clear?"
.or flight.
"DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
Fight.
"WILLIAM?"
.or flight.
"GET BACK HERE, WILLIAM!"
Flight.
7:35am.
The alarm clock glowed in the dull morning light, telling me exactly what I wanted to hear as the front door slammed downstairs. It was the same time he left every weekday morning, and every other Saturday morning, too. But don't for a second think I was waiting, as I stood next to the window and watched him drive away.
Letting go of the breath I wasn't holding, I turned my back and reached for the remote, increasing the volume on my stereo as I yanked the curtains closed behind me. Listening to the sounds of Taking Back Sunday as they filtered through the speakers, I pulled the dirty t-shirt over my head, preparing for the day ahead as I began to navigate my way across the floor, searching through the mess for a clean school shirt. Coming up empty-handed, I briefly considered donning yesterday's school shirt, before realizing yesterday's dirt marks had probably failed to vanish overnight.
Taking a deep breath and unlocking the bedroom door, I stepped quickly out into the hallway, making a beeline for the laundry as I went searching for a crisp, clean white shirt. Finding one folded on top of the dryer, I began to move quietly back toward the stairs, pausing only briefly as my stepmother came in from the back deck.
"Oh, good morning, Will," she said cheerily, glancing at the shirt in my hand with a welcoming smile. Ignoring the attempted olive branch, I simply grunted in response, searching for clean socks as she closed the back door behind her.
"Would you be able to turn your music down for me just a bit?" she continued, the smile losing just a little of its polish. "Please?"
"No," I said simply, ignoring her still as the search for socks continued. After finding a matching pair on the third attempt, I turned around and faced her.
"Please, Will?" she asked again, her smile now wavering. She looked just a little uncertain standing there in the doorway, as if she had no clue of what to do in this situation.
"Let me think about that for a minute." I began, watching as a hopeful expression began to blossom on her face. On another day, at another time, I might have even felt sorry for her. But as I watched her play nervously with her necklace, I decided I just wasn't in the mood. "NO."
Anything else she had to say was abruptly cut off as I shut the laundry door in her face. She might have even called after me as I took the stairs two at a time, but that was also cut off when I slammed and locked my bedroom door behind me.
Ignoring her pleading voice, I grabbed a clean pair of pants off the hanger in my closet and set about preparing myself for the day. Discarding my sweat pants and toweling the last remnants of water out of my shower-damp hair, I began assembling my school uniform in the mirror, finishing with a Windsor knot in my school's red and blue-striped tie. Then, after securing my belt and making sure everything was in order, I began to methodically dismantle the entire ensemble, yanking out my shirt tail and loosening my tie before making sure my hair walked the fine line between 'perfectly messed' and just plain messy.
Finally, when I was satisfied with my look for the day, I swiped the car keys off my nightstand and grabbed my backpack off the floor, pausing briefly as I considered turning off the stereo. After a moment's hesitation, I turned the volume up to max, leaving it on to annoy my stepmother for at least another 20 minutes until the CD finished. Covering my ears against the onslaught, I pulled open the bedroom door, closing it quickly behind as I turned the key in the lock and secured all the secrets contained within.
'Just start at the beginning,' the Detective had told him, watching as Will had stumbled over words in an attempt to find a starting point. 'Start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.'
And now, a little over half an hour later, Mike was sure he wasn't any closer to a result. Glancing at the clock situated on his wall, the Detective could see it was past half-past eight, and he was very much overdue for dinner.
"So why did you decide to put a lock on the door?" the Detective asked, leaning forward slightly as he again reached for his coffee. Although the warm liquid did nothing to fill his stomach, he could see that Will was beginning to open up, and he hoped this progress would somehow result in food.
"I bought the lock to stop him going through my stuff," Will explained, fire igniting behind his eyes. "He claimed he was looking for a bottle of Scotch that was missing, but I think he was just doing it to be a twat."
"And did you take the Scotch?" the Detective asked, smiling at memories of his own mis-spent youth, before remembering the position he currently held. "It's ok; you won't get into trouble for it."
"Um, yeah, I took it," Will admitted, his cheeks beginning to flush in embarrassment. "But I wasn't stupid enough to keep it in my bedroom."
The Detective set down his coffee again, as he laughed in spite of himself. "So what did he actually find, then?"
"Um, I'd rather not say," Will declined, his quiet voice faltering again.
"Nothing you say has to leave this room," the Detective tried to reassure him, watching the kid pick at a thread in his jeans. "For the moment, this is off-the-record."
"Ok," Will responded, still not seeming 100% convinced. "He stormed in and he found a porno."
"You're kidding me?" the Detective said, his laughter now returning full-force. "That's nothing to be ashamed of, kid."
"Um, well." Will began, still unable to make eye contact. "It probably wasn't the kind you're thinking of."
"Oh." The laughter stopped.
"Yeah," Will continued. "That was pretty much his reaction, too, for the first few seconds. Then he dragged me out of bed and started beating the shit out of me."
"Were you hurt?"
"I couldn't go to school for two days," Will admitted, his hand unconsciously tracing his ribcage. "But he didn't put me in hospital or anything."
"Did you report him?" the Detective asked, regretting the abruptness of his reaction.
"There wasn't any point," Will said, his other hand still picking at his jeans. "My dad's a defense attorney in the city; he'd make it go away, no matter how bad the evidence was."
"It's not too late to report it," the Detective said, pointedly.
"As I said, there's no point," Will repeated, finally looking up. "It won't do any good now, anyway."
"Ok," the Detective said quietly, feeling like Will was about to clam up on him again. "Tell me what happened next, then."
Fashionably late was a term I'd learnt in seventh grade.
When phoning to discuss my less-than-perfect attendance record in his homeroom, disciplinarian Mr. Avram had asked my mum if my constant lateness was an attempt to 'appear stylish' in front of my fellow classmates. She'd laughed and told him 'fashionably late' was the term he was looking for, rolling her eyes when he'd subsequently lectured her on punctuality and good parenting. Eventually hanging up and shaking her head, she'd ruffled my hair and told me she'd be driving me to school from now on. No ifs, no buts. But, despite the game of twenty questions that followed, she never actually asked the real reason I was late every morning.
"So what happened to 'fashionably late', douche bag?"
And I never told her I was watching SpongeBob.
"Well, did SpongeBob finish early or something?" my friend Scott asked in sarcastic tone, sidling up beside me as I arrived at my locker. Although at least three inches taller and 15kg heavier, he'd somehow mastered the art of stealth in our eleven years of friendship.
"Har-har, very funny," I said, giving him the finger by way of greeting. "Don't tell me, you skipped the last half of Dora, too?"
"Skipped all of Dora this morning," he said, shaking his head somberly as he settled against the locker beside me. "I hope she can forgive me."
"I dunno, dude, she might set that monkey onto you," I warned, entering the combination as I pulled open the door in front of me. "I've heard it has herpes."
"Herpes? Wouldn't be the first time," he said, laughing.
"Dave's mum doesn't count."
"I'm gonna tell her you said that," he laughed, letting his backpack fall to the ground in front of him. "Where is the unco prick, anyway?"
"Who, Dave?"
"Yeah."
"Dunno," I said, dumping my gym clothes in my locker. "Haven't seen him yet. Why?"
"He still has my copy of Grand Theft Auto," Scott said, standing up on his tiptoes as he scanned the crowd for our missing friend. "I'm gonna go find him before home room."
"Fair enough," I said, pulling out a couple of textbooks and closing my locker. "I've got a hot date, anyway."
"McMahon?"
"You know it."
"Ah well, you have fun with that," he said, scooping his backpack off the ground as he went off in search of Dave.
"Always."
You'd have thought that as a lawyer's son, the words 'truth' and 'justice' would hold some sort of relevance as I went about my everyday decision-making. I mean, the lawyer's son should be raised on Batman comics and his hero should be George Washington, right?
Right?
Wrong.
Standing inside the Principal's Office at two minutes after 9am, all I could think of was the guy who said most people will tell three lies in the average ten-minute conversation. Now there's a true hero. Thanks to his research and genius, we can now be allowed three blatant mistruths every ten minutes and simply write it off as 'following the crowd'. That means if I worked in a call centre later in life, I'd be able to justify one hundred and forty-four lies in an eight-hour shift, and nobody would be any the wiser. Now there's a skill you can put on your resume.
"And how are you on this fine Tuesday morning, Will?" Principal McMahon asked, smiling at me from behind her heavy Blackwood desk.
"I'm good, thank you, Miss McMahon," I replied, in my best cheerful voice.
You can consider that lie #1.
"That's good to hear, Will. Would you like to take a seat?"
"Yes, please."
That's lie #2, and not even ten seconds into the conversation. Damn.
"Ok, Will," she began, watching as I sat down in her still-uncomfortable guest chair. "I'm not going to keep you long this morning. I've just called you in to discuss the new arrangements for you and your third period English class."
"Sounds wonderful," I told her, offering a smile.
Ah fuck, that's lie #3.
"At this stage it's only a trial, but Mrs. O'Keefe has agreed to take you into her English Literature class."
"O'Keefe?" I'd never heard of her.
"Yes, she teaches the advanced course in Room 508."
And that's probably why.
"You're putting me in an ADVANCED class?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yes, Will," she said, with what could only be described as a don't-make-me-look-stupid-for-doing-this look. "I think a large part of your misbehaviour can be put down to boredom in your classes."
Well no shit, Sherlock.
"So when does this all start?" I asked, sitting up straight and paying attention.
And over the next nine minutes, she explained her plan. I won't bore you with the details, but for the record, I only told two more lies before walking out of the office at 9:16am. In my defense, though, this wasn't exactly the average conversation.
And I'm not most people.
"So what did she say?" Scott asked, an hour and a half later when we were done with first period.
"That you're a fucktard," I replied, barely missing a beat.
He laughed. "Anything else?"
"No no, just that you're a tard."
"Oh."
"Yeah," I said, watching Scott pretend to take offence. "But when we were done with that, she might have mentioned something about putting me in advanced English."
"What? Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"And you're sure she didn't say 'remedial'?"
I laughed. "Like you can even spell 'remedial'."
"I dunno," he said, appearing to give the question serious thought. "Could you use it in a sentence, please?"
"Haha, fuck off you tool," I said, watching him do his best retarded impersonation. "What else is news, anyway?"
"My cat's name's 'Mittens'," he informed me, continuing with his retarded 'impersonation'.
"Shut up!" I said, laughing again as I smacked him behind the ear. "You do 'retard' a little too well, if you ask me."
"I learnt from the best," he retorted, accompanied by a not-so-subtle gesture in my direction.
"I'll bet," I told him, shaking my head as I stretched out on the staircase we'd somehow ended up on. "So what's the go for this weekend?"
"Dunno," he said, watching as I stretched out my forearms, pausing to give him the finger in the process. "But I was thinking."
He slowly trailed off, his gaze locking on something in the distance. Or actually, someone, to be specific. Watching as his dark eyes glazed over, I turned and followed their trajectory until I came to rest on the figure not forty feet from where we sat.
It wasn't hard to pick him out of the crowd, despite his best efforts to disappear into it. The bangs were a bit longer and the shoulders a bit broader, but there was no mistaking that nervous smile as he walked toward us down the hall.
It was the smile he'd worn on our first camping trip, before we'd ran back home out of fear. The smile he'd worn when we caught our first fish, and the day he'd finally beaten me at Scrabble. It was the smile he always wore when I was around, because he always smiled when he was happy. And now I'd made it go away. The eyes that had once lit up at my very presence, were now hidden and wary behind his dirty blond hair.
"Justin Riley," Scott silently mouthed, the voiceless answer to an unasked question. "What the fuck is he doing back here?"
But even if I'd had a voice at that moment, it was a question I couldn't answer. Seeing him there had reopened old wounds, wounds that felt as fresh as the moment they'd been inflicted. Wounds that were best left forgotten.
"Hey, Justin!" Scott called out, breaking the tension as he waved to grab his attention. "Riley, over here!"
But rather than prompt Justin to move toward us, Scott's invitation had made him to do the exact opposite, stepping in front of a dozen students and making a hasty exit out through the side door.
"What was that all about?" Scott asked, turning to me in expectation.
I had no clue what to tell him.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Scott asked, continuing to watch my reaction.
"Nothing," I said, turning away from him and standing up. "I'm going to class."
"Dude, we have like, five minutes," he said, looking at me incredulously.
"So, I'll be early."
"You haven't been early to geography in the whole time we've been here."
"First time for everything," I shrugged, moving forward suddenly and grabbing my bag.
"Whatever," he said, deciding to let me go. "See you at lunch, then?"
"Yeah, whatever," I called behind me, leaving him to wonder what the hell had just happened.
And no, I'm not going to talk about it, either.
"So this Justin kid, was he your boyfriend?" Detective Holden questioned, processing everything Will had just told him about their relationship. Despite the stop-start nature of their conversation, he was beginning to feel comfortable enough to ask such a question.
"How do you mean?" Will quietly responded; a stalling tactic, as much as anything else.
"Well, the question seemed pretty self-explanatory," the Detective responded, uncharacteristically frustrated with the constant game of two steps forward, two steps back. "Were you somehow involved with this kid?"
"He was my best friend in the world," Will finally said, displeased at being forced to admit the truth. But despite the frank admission, the Detective didn't press the issue further.
The word 'was' had told him everything he needed to know.
Author's Note: Good lord, so many emails! Thank you to each and every person who has taken the time to read and respond to my story; I really can't overstate how much that means to me. Hopefully, by the time you're reading this, I'll have responded to each and every one of you. Anyway, just to reiterate, I can't see sex playing much of a role in this story. There are thousands of wonderful authors on Nifty who can bring sex to life in the most incredible of ways, but I really don't think that I'm one of them. So, if sex is exclusively what you're looking for, I encourage you to click on one of their links and send them a nice, encouraging email afterwards. Hopefully you'll make their day in the same way that Nifty readers have made mine. But the fact remains, sex just isn't my thing. Well actually, it is, but...
A wise author once said 'write what you know' and, well... this is what I know. It's not particularly sexy, but I'm trying to do it justice all the same. If it's not to your taste, just hit the 'back' button on your browser and pretend this never happened. If it IS to your taste, you have mighty fine taste indeed haha. All comments are welcome, so feel free to email me at mcooke0@utas.edu.au, or add me to MSN at tiger_fan_tiger_man@hotmail.com. Otherwise, keep an eye out for chapter three!