Here in this Sorrow Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The electronic bell pinged three times, cutting the white-haired woman off in mid-sentence. She wiped the chalk off her hands onto her floral-print dress. As the class began to rustle books and bags, she said, “Sit!” There was a collective groan. She sighed. “You have plenty of time to get to your classes. If you are late, just tell your teachers that I kept you. If they have a problem, they can call me.” She smirked and picked up a text book off her desk. She leafed through several pages and nodded. “I want you to read... All of chapter 12 and do the questions in the back.” As books closed and backpacks were zipped, she called out, “I’ll probably collect this, so make sure you have it.”

Christian got up and reached over his shoulder, brushing at the tiny paper wads that covered his back. He felt the back of his head, flicking off the two there and slung his black backpack over his shoulder. He didn't look to see if anyone saw him. He walked out of the classroom and into the chaos of the hallway, the heels of his combat boots clicking on the polished tile.

Clark leaned against the wall by the door, wearing in camouflage pants, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a leather collar with inch-long spikes. “Warren Boyd just came by and told me to watch out for spit-wads," Clark asked. "What happened?”

“That fucking white trash piece of shit. I fucking hate him,” Christian snarled. “I want to kill him, Clark. Honestly kill him.” He shook his head as they went down the hall. “Mrs Hanrahan is as blind as a bat, so that fucker and Chuck Egan just throw spit wads at me all period.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “They should be scared of us, Clark. Why aren’t they scared of us?”

They stopped at a locker and Clark opened it. “Why should they be scared?” He asked. “We’re fucking pussies.”

Christian shook his head. “I can’t wait to be rid of this fucking school”

“One month,” Clark said. “One month, and then away to college in the fall!” He stretched, shoved his books in his locker and slammed it closed.

“Yeah,” Christian said dryly. He pinched one of the blond spikes on Clark's head. "Your hair is crunchy. Did you just bleach it?"

"Last period," Clark said, delicately poking the palm of his hand. "I'm thinking of dying it blue after gym.

"I can still smell you over Emily Mann's perfume."

“Thanks,” Clark said, batting Christian’s hand away. “I was going to dye last night, but my mom freaked. She said that last time I did it, the dye wouldn’t come out of the bath tub for weeks.”

“That’s bullshit,” Christian said. “It washes out right away. Did you get your ticket for the show yet?” he asked. “Shannon and Andy both have theirs.”

“Not yet,” Clark said. “I’ve been saving my pennies. Not everyone has a job,” he smirked and elbowed Christian in the arm. “I can’t believe you call yourself politically conscious and work in a gun store.”

Christian snorted. “Do you want to tell my dad I won’t work for him? After that, you can live at my house for me too. Besides, think of how many people have come in there and not bought anything just from the sight of me wearing eye-liner.”

Clark laughed. “Or how about when you had a blue mohawk?”

Christian nodded. “This guy came in and asked, ‘What are you, some kind of fruit?’ That was when my dad made me shave it. He shrugged. “Oh well, spending all this time with gun people has made me one hell of a shot though.” He smiled at Clark. “Do you need a ride to get your tickets?”

Clark shook his head. “Todd Filth is taking me over to get it tonight.”

Christian cocked an eye-brow. “Is he going?”

Clark laughed. “You think Dr. Filth would miss a Misfits show? Don’t you remember him telling us how he was going to have Jerry Only’s signature tattooed on his arm?”

“Sorry about this morning,” Christian said.

“What happened?” Clark asked. “I was already outside waiting for you when my mom told me you called.”

Christian groaned. “I had to work late at the store last night, and slept right through my alarm.” He smirked. “Then my dad got mad at me because I was late for school, and he started bitching me out and made it even worse. I might have made it to pick you guys up if I hadn’t gotten in a fight with him.” They walked past the main office and Christian threw a hateful glare inside. “They took my iPod this morning. Principle Andrews said I had it too loud and it was causing a disturbance.”

Clark snorted. “Dude, he’s just pissed at all of us because I fucked his daughter,” he said loudly. They passed the main entrance and a sign pointing to the cafeteria.

Christian shook his head. “Just think of all the trouble you caused the rest of us,” he said, raising his voice as they were consumed by the crowd of people. “You didn’t have to let it slip that you nailed her, either.”

Clark snorted. “Where would the fun be in keeping it a secret?” Clark asked as they passed a glass door leading to a tiny courtyard outside. “She wasn’t even very good,” he said with disappointment in his voice. “I think it was her first time, but she wouldn’t admit it.”

The hall ended at a ten foot corridor that ran perpendicular to the main hall. A set of blue, metal double doors were at each end. They walked through the doors on the left into the cafeteria. There was a cacophonous din from the people sitting at the dozen large pastel circular tables. At the opposite end of the room was a set of wooden double doors with a line of kids going in one and kids with lunch trays slowly coming out the other. A balding man with a full salt-and-pepper beard was standing next to an overweight woman with white hair.

Jim Smitt yelled, "Hey queer," as Christian and Clark passed his table with John Parker, Warren Boyd, Chuck Egan and Ben Tramer. Jim's friends all laughed like it was the first time Jim had yelled anything like this. Christian’s face tensed. “I see John and Ben came for lunch today,” Christian said. “I wonder where Nick Caufield is.”

“Probably fucking his retarded girlfriend,” Clark said with a snicker, and walked faster to a table where a normal-looking blond boy and a girl with pink hair were sitting.

“Hey,” Christian said to Andy and Shannon, dropping his backpack on the table. “What’s going on?” When the two of them mumbled monosyllabic responses, he followed Clark up the shrinking lunch line. They stood there silently, moving with the flow until they got to a blue-haired woman separated from them by a counter filled with steam trays.

“What can I get for you?” she asked Clark, pointing at him with the spatula.

He tapped the sneeze-guard over a cookie sheet covered with shrink wrap. “Give me a cheeseburger,” he said.

The woman pulled one out and put it on a tray with a massive pile of french fries. “And what can I get for you” she asked, turning to Christian.

“Uh... can I have the pizza?” he asked, pointing the greasy sheet next to the cheeseburgers. He took the tray out of her hand as she filled it with pizza and french fries. The two of them followed through he line, grabbing milk from a giant cooler next to the cash register. They paid for their food and went back to the table. “How are you two?” Christian asked, sitting across from Shannon with his back to the cafeteria.

Shannon looked up at him with hatred in her eyes. “Aside from Jim Smitt telling me that maybe if he raped me I’d turn into a normal person, I’m fine,” she hissed, her eyes not meeting any of theirs.

Christian’s teeth clenched.

Shannon shook her head. “His fucking girlfriend was the one that laughed the hardest! Do you believe that shit? Doesn’t she understand what he said?” She sucked in through her nose and said, “I was going to hit him, but Ashley was right there in my face.” She shook her head and cried out, “Oh! I should have fought her!”

“Should have just kicked her in the axe-wound,” Clark said. He pulled a pack of cards out of his military backpack, shuffled them and said, “So what are we playing?”

Shannon fought to repress a smile.

“Axe-wound?” Andy asked.

“Yeah,” Clark said, holding his hand out to them. “You take a perfectly formed crotch, hit it with an axe, and what have you got?” he asked, putting the cards down and whacking between his fingers with the blade of his hand. He picked the cards back up and continued to shuffle. “I guess we play ‘Bullshit’ again,” he said. “I wish you guys would come up with something better.”

“I’ll show you an axe-wound,” Shannon snarled.

“I keep asking and you keep refusing,” Clark said. He dealt the cards and glanced over his shoulder and said, “Remember, whoever gets Mr. Henry to come over and yell at us automatically loses that hand.”

Before anyone could respond, above the cry of the cafeteria came a cry of, “Faggot!”

As the word registered, Christian’s eyes widened and he started to turn, just as the open mustard packet bounced off his right cheek, spraying his face and trench coat with obscene yellow spots and landing on the table in front of him. His eyes lowered and lingered on the packet as he brought a finger up to his cheek, running it through the splatter. He looked down at his shoulder and released a tortured groan. “My mother is going to kill me,” were the first words out of his mouth. “This is the second time this month my coat had to be taken to the cleaners.” He grabbed a napkin off Andy’s lunch tray and wiped the explosion off his face. “Was it them again?” he asked, not looking up.

“Who else?” Shannon muttered, pretending not to notice the vicious cat-calls from Jim Smitt’s table.

“Someone needs to kill those guys,” Clark said, loud enough for them to hear.

“I’d love to,” Christian snarled, just as a giant hand fell on his left shoulder.

“What was that, faggot?”Jim asked as Christian struggled out of his grasp.

“Get the fuck out of here, Jim,” Shannon said, putting down her sandwich.

“Quiet down, cunt,” Jim ordered, slamming his other fist down on the table. All of their drinks splashed over the edges of their containers.

Shannon half-rose out of her chair. “I said, get the fuck out of here, or I’m going to claw your fucking eyes out!”

Jim turned away, laughing. He arrogantly ran his fingers through his hair as his friends cheered his return.

“Fuck that guy,” Shannon grumbled, sitting back down. She looked at the lunch tray and pushed it away. “Now I’m too angry to eat.”

“Someone needs to shut him down,” Clark said, finishing his cheeseburger.

Wordlessly, Christian got up from the table.

“What are you doing?” Andy asked.

Christian was still wiping mustard from his neck and collar as he approached where Mr. Henry leaned against the door to the serving area. Mr. Henry’s looked Christian up and down and the thin lips below his salt-and-pepper mustache turned down.

“Mr. Henry,” Christian said, dropping the yellowed napkin into the garbage bin.

“What is it, Duke?” Mr. Henry replied icily.

“Every day Jim Smitt, Warren Boyd and Chuck Egan throw food at us,” Christian said, pointing to Jim’s table. All seated there had taken a nervous interest in the conversation. "Every day, even though they yell about it, no one else notices what they are doing." All five were facing, eyes wide like prairie dogs. “I just got hit with a packet of mustard.”

“And who threw the mustard?” Mr. Henry asked, his voice detached. His eyes continued to scan the room above Christian’s head.

“I’m assuming Jim did...”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Mr. Henry snapped, his eyes widening impatiently.

“Could you do something about it?” Christian asked, his voice edged and getting higher.

“Like what, Christian?” Mr. Henry demanded. His eyes focused on Christian at last. "I didn’t see them throw anything. Did you see which one did it?”

Christian shrugged, turning up his palms. “No, but...”

“But what?” Mr. Henry whispered harshly. “How do you know it was them?”

“Do you think I smeared mustard on myself?” Christian cried, pointing to the discolored spot on his shoulder. “I have to get this dry-cleaned now!”

Mr. Henry’s jaw clenched and he took a deep breath. “Why don’t you try standing up for yourself?” He spat. “Why don’t you be a man and do something, instead of crying to someone else every time someone is mean to you?” He grabbed the flaps of Christian’s trench-coat and pulled it open. “Look at this. You wear black clothes, combat boots and this coat?” He pointed to the grinning skull on Christian’s shirt. “You wear shirts openly saying you’re a misfit. What is that, some kind of gang?”

The entire cafeteria was silent now. Christian didn't have to look to see Jim Smitt was smiling. “It’s a fucking band,” Christian growled.

“Do you want to spend the afternoon in detention?” Mr. Henry snapped.

“No,” Christian mumbled, looking at the ground.

“Then I suggest you watch your language,” Mr. Henry snapped.

Christian clenched his teeth and worked his jaw behind his lips.

“Look at you!” Mr. Henry shouted, turning the heads of the rest of the cafeteria. he paused for a moment, scanning the room. “You come to school dressed like the Grim Reaper and expect people not to pick on you?”

“Is it wrong for me to dress the way I do?”

“Maybe not at some Marilyn Manson concert,” Mr. Henry cried. “This is a public place. This is where normal, soon-to-be-functioning members of society go to school, not where ghouls congregate for a feast!” He pointed at Christian’s lunch table. “How many people here have pink hair? Only Miss Donahue.” He pointed at Clark. “How many times has Mister Golding been asked not to wear that spiked collar? Does he think we don’t see it? He is the only person in the building wearing a spiked collar.” A hush had fallen over the entire room, and Mr. Henry’s words echoed through it. “Mr. Duke,” He continued. “Maybe if you’d try to fit in a little better, you wouldn’t get treated the way you do.”

Christian turned away, and the other kids began to clap. He stared at the ground as he walked back to his table. The clamor rose, and a few cheered, but Christian couldn't identify the voices. He pulled out his chair and slumped into it, his head lowered as to not meet the gaze of his friends.

It didn't take long for the rest of the room to lose interest and pay attention to something else. As the din faded, Clark said, “What a motherfucker. He had no right to say that shit.”

Christian hesitated, but finally looked up.

“What the fuck is he saying, telling us we have to fit in?” Shannon snapped. “Is he trying to say we’re less than human the way we are?”

Christian shook his head. “Stand up for myself?” He slammed his fist on the table. “If I threw that mustard, I’d be out of here so fast my head would spin,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the dull roar of the cafeteria.

Mr. Henry looked over.

“Fuck this,” Christian snarled, wiping away a tear that ran down his cheek. “Stand up for myself? I’ll fucking show them standing up for myself!”

Mr. Henry came over to the table. “Mr. Duke, I warned you about the language. It may be acceptable at one of your punk-rocker parties, but not here. You can spend an afternoon with me in detention.”

Christian leaned forwards. “Fuck you,” he muttered, putting his face in his arms.

“What was that?” Mr. Henry asked, laying a thin hand on Christian’s shoulder. “Would you like to shoot for two?”

Christian grabbed his hand hard and yanked it away. He spun around, his eyes slicing into Mr. Henry. “If you touch me again, you’ll regret it.”

With a smirk, Mr. Henry put his hand back on Christian’s shoulder. “Threatening me bought you that second afternoon.”

Christian stared hatefully, but said nothing.

When the bell rang, Mr. Henry sneered. “I’ll see you tonight then,” As Christian and his friends got out of their seats, he cheerfully said, “I’ll make sure your usual seat is empty. Oh, and Clark, if I see that collar tomorrow, you can join him.” He crossed his arms and watched as they hurried out of the cafeteria.