Excerpt: High School Freak

Here's the excerpt for High School Freak.

Here's the excerpt:
Enjoy!

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"What're you looking at?"

"Nothin'," John said and stared at his shoes. He hadn't meant to look up at Smitty, but he did, and now the upperclassman was in his face.

"Yeah," Smitty said, pushing John. "You were mean-muggin' me."

"I... I..." John couldn't think of anything to say. They were in the hallway leading to his class, and if Smitty kept pushing, he would be late. It wasn't like John could push Smitty back. The upperclassman played on the varsity football team, and more importantly, he was a foot taller than John, and weighed twice as much.

"Smitty." Mr. Cox peeked his head out of the classroom. "Don't you have class to go to?"

Smitty looked at the teacher, then back at John. He leaned forward. "All right, wimp. Next time you won't be so lucky."

John kept his eyes on his shoes as Smitty brushed by him, knocking his notepad out of his hands.

"Come on John, you're late for class," Mr. Cox said in a tone that sounded disgusted.

John shuffled into class, wondering why Mr. Cox was angry with him, and sat down in his chair. He was in the back, where he liked it. In the front sat the students trying to kiss up, as well as the ones that proved too troublesome in the back. John pulled out his binder, and Mr. Cox started to drone on about biology. They were learning about insects and the process of metamorphosis. John'd already learned about this in a book he read at home, so he started to draw circles, then ovals, then lines, then a large man, then a smaller man beating the large man. He scribbled over that and turned the page.

Bored with drawing, John tilted his head and strained his eyes to look over. Sitting two seats to his right and one up was Jessica. From his seat he could see the side profile of her lips, and the tight shirt she was wearing today. This was the main reason he liked sitting in the back. He went back to drawing circles, ovals, small circles in ovals, then hair and lips and legs.

"John?"

"John?"

John looked up. Mr. Cox was staring right at him. Everyone else turned and gave him weird looks. In his periphery, he could sense Jessica glancing at him. She was looking at him! Did she even know that he existed?

"Yes?" John asked, though the words only came out in a whisper. He never liked talking out loud. His heart started to beat fast.

"Speak up John," Mr. Cox said, again with a look of disgust.

"What?" John said, or almost shouted. His voice cracked. The other students jumped back, then giggled.

"Class, silence. Were you even paying attention, John?"

"I was," John said, though he knew it was a lie.

"Then answer the question."

"I couldn't... hear you... back here," John said, and gulped. He could feel himself turning red. Why did Mr. Cox always do this? Why did he want to make John look like a fool in front of the class, in front of Jessica? The class laughed again. John didn't know if it was with or at him.

"I asked if you knew the last classification of animals that undergoes metamorphosis in its lifetime."

John stared at the board. Why did any of this matter? Sometimes he wished he could undergo a metamorphosis and not be such a loser. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, most of them filled with contempt, only a few with concern. He swallowed and hoped that he wasn't beet red yet.

"Anytime, John."

The board had a list. Insects and amphibians were already taken. John knew the answer, and he knew why no one else had said it yet. But did he want to say it? The eyes of his classmates and Mr. Cox burned, into him. If he said the right answer, he would only be picked on even more by the other kids in class. He looked at Mr. Cox. Mr. Cox had helped him in the hallway and John didn't want to let him down. Mr. Cox's forehead furrowed, and John realized that the teacher had a very sharp face, like a knife, with matching eyes. John also realized that Mr. Cox scared him on some level.

"Echinoderms," John said, his voice suddenly low, and he looked back down at his desk hoping that the attention would be taken away from him.

"That's correct, John. Very good," Mr. Cox said and turned to write the word on the board. John waited until he was sure he heard everyone else shuffle their bodies, and lifted up his head. Jessica's eyes were on him.

John's heart dropped. He froze and stared at her. She had brown hair down to her shoulders, green eyes, and lips that were almost too big. She smiled and John held his breath, he was sure it was directed at him, but he could feel himself turning red again, so he turned his head back down to his desk. He glanced up a few minutes later, and she was writing on her notepad. Could it be that she was looking at him? No way, he thought, she probably didn't know that he existed. Maybe she thought he was a weirdo after the exchange with Mr. Cox.

He went back to his notebook and wrote a few random words, shaded them in, and turned them into people. Girls. Or more like replicas of Jessica.

John took a look at the clock. They had ten more minutes. He tilted his head again and strained his eyes to look at Jessica.

He flinched. She was looking right at him. But she wasn't straining her eyes like him. Instead, she had twisted her body half way, as if she didn't care that she was looking at him. John glanced at his desk then back at her. She was still looking, and she smiled again. John couldn't help but smile back.

"Jessica, perhaps you would like to name the book?" Mr. Cox said.

Jessica snapped her head back to the front of the class.

John looked at the board. The topic seemed to be metamorphosis in popular culture. One of the topics was novels. Mr. Cox was always trying to tie a subject to something in the greater world.

Jessica was turning red. For some reason, John felt protective of her, yet he didn't dare say anything.

"Well?" Mr. Cox said, as if he didn't care how much he tortured his students with these questions of his.

John felt a surge of anger at the teacher and leaned forward, almost out of his desk.

"Kafka," John whispered.

Jessica twitched.

"Say Kafka," John said in a louder voice.

"Kafka," Jessica blurted.

"Very good Jessica, thank you," Mr. Cox said and flashed John a smirk, before he turned to the board. "And thanks to your friend."

John swallowed hard. The smirk, almost smile, on Mr. Cox's face wasn't something he'd seen before. Mr. Cox was always serious and never smiled, he only liked to torture students with his questions, or stern stares. Did the teacher hear John giving the answer to Jessica? He usually punished such 'cheating'. Why did he smile this time?

The bell rang and John could barely hear what the assignment was over the rush of his classmates heading out. He packed his books and almost bumped into Jessica who stood right in front of him.

"Thank you, John."

John didn't know what to say. He was surprised that she even knew his name.  She smelled like fruits. Her eyes sparkled and gave off a magical effect that sapped all the air out of John's lungs.

"Oh, it was nothing," John said, glad that his voice didn't crack. He was sweating, and could feel the dampness of his t-shirt. Why did his body have to react this way? Suddenly he felt blood rushing and pushed his notebook down to waist level. His mother'd warned him about all these changes, but she made them sound dangerous, like something he should hide from others. She never said anything about how embarrassing they were.

"No, it was something. I mean, who knows who Kafka is?"

John felt himself twitch. Was she making fun of him? Maybe she just thought he was a nerd who read too much.

"I do," he said and walked past her and out of the room. He wanted to go home, but there was one more class before school was over. He spent it coming up with equations on how to get a girl in his notebook. The bell rang, and he felt the release of tension as he walked away from the school building. He thought he saw Jessica in the parking lot, but he made sure to walk the other way. She was with a group of upperclassmen. He heard them laughing, and felt that they must've been talking about him.

He headed back home, his backpack slung over his back, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. Spring was cutting into winter, and the day was exceptionally warm. The sweater he wore in the morning hung over his shoulders, and he could smell the flowers blooming. It was only March here in Michigan.

John liked walking through this neighborhood. It was next to where he lived, but the houses here were nice, big, and the lawns were always clean. It used to be that he'd see Jessica walking through here to her house too, but now that she'd access to a car he walked it without any enhanced views.

John stopped to observe some ants. They were running around between a crack and around some crumbs of bread. He had an impulse to step on them all, then remembered that his mother had told him to never kill anything, never raise your hand or foot in anger. He watched them break apart the crumb, and he thought about getting a job soon. If his mom would let him. He walked by them.

John's heart jumped when he heard wheels screech. This was a quiet neighborhood. People usually didn't speed here. John turned his head. A car was speeding towards him. No it couldn't be, he thought. He felt his brain tell him to run. He felt his body freeze. And the car came for him, the wheels jumping the curve. John could now see Smitty in the front wheel, a group of other upperclassmen leaning out and yelling at him. The car skidded on the grass and came to a halt. Smitty and five of his friends, all large football players, jumped out of the car.

"Hey dork," Smitty said. He was drinking a can of soda and threw it at John's face.

John ducked and the can flew by him.

"Hey, he doesn't want your drink," one of the guys said. He had a sneer, thick jaw and close-set eyes.

"What's wrong? You don't wanna drink?" Smitty said.

John looked at him. There was no way Smitty had meant to offer that drink.

"I..."

"Well," Smitty said and stepped up to him, placing a finger on John's chest. "You think you're tough when Mr. Cox is around, but how about now, huh?"

John looked at the other guys; none of them had nice faces. Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding. "I wasn't being tough. I didn't say anything."

"Yeah you did," Smitty said and pushed John. "You said I was a punk."

"N... no..." John said. He was getting dizzy. It seemed like Smitty wanted to hurt him and there was no getting out of it. John'd always been picked on, but he was usually quiet, so people left him alone after making fun of him. He'd never been beaten. Now, however, he'd an inkling that he was going to experience just that. He hated high school, why couldn't he just stay home and read? He'd learn more that way.

"Please..." John said. "I... please..."

"Aww," another thick-necked blonde boy with aviators on said from behind Smitty. "I think he's gonna cry."

Everyone laughed.

"You gonna cry?" Smitty said. "You going to tell your mommy on us?"

"No... Please, I didn't say anything."

"Yeah right," the guy with the sunglasses said. "I saw him hitting on your girlfriend in class."

"I didn't hit on her," John blurted out, knowing they must have been talking about Jenny. Didn't they hear her and her friends laughing at him earlier?

Smitty stepped forward and grabbed John's curly hair. "You were trying to score with my girl?"

"N... no."

Smitty cocked his fist.

John looked around, but it seemed like there was no one around to help him. His mom had always told him not to fight, not even to defend himself. He closed his eyes.

The sting and punch took him out for a second, and he felt some of his hair being torn from their roots, then the ground smacking him on the ass. Pain shrieked through his body. It was then that he felt a surge unlike ever before. It was anger, and energy—like he was flying through the air. This feeling scared him even more than Smitty. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.

Then the feeling evaporated, and he looked up.

Everything was different, quiet. Smitty and his friends were no longer looking angry. Two of the boys were piled on top of each other on the grass with their jackets ripped, and bloodied faces staring at the sky. Another was on top of the dented car roof, groaning. Yet another was face down in the grass next to the car. The fifth one was lying half inside the car, half out, in the broken windshield. Smitty was in front of him, looking up and shaking his head. His face trickled with blood.

"No, don't," said Smitty.

John looked at Smitty, stunned. John then realized that his hand was cocked behind his head. He lowered it and stared at it. It felt like it wasn't his hand. And yet it'd blood all over it.

"No," Smitty said again.

John turned and ran back to his house as fast as he could. If his mom found out about this he was going to get into some serious trouble.

He got to his small apartment on a crumbling building at the edge of the neighborhood. It was like a different world here. You crossed a street and suddenly the beautiful lawns were gone and there were beer bottles broken on the ground and cigarette butts between.

He opened the door to his apartment and was glad to see that his mom hadn't come back. Not that she usually came back early, but sometimes she did and today he didn't need that. He washed his face and after he was sure he looked presentable, he cooked up dinner.

Cheese and macaroni. He loved it, and his mother never complained that she had food for her when she got back. He touched the lip that Smitty had cut with his punch. It'd healed up completely; he touched it again, and ran to look at the mirror. It was as if he'd never been punched. He had always been special, his mother always told him, but this was weird.

John decided that perhaps he hadn't been punched at all. He finished his homework and started to work on a few equations that he'd been hatching up.

"Hi sweetheart."

John ran out to the living room and hugged his mom.

"Hi mom. How was work?" He looked at her and smiled. He loved it when she arrived from work, and especially loved her face when she smiled.

"Great honey, how was school?"

"Nothing. I made some food for you."

"Oh honey." His mother smiled. "You are such an amazing kid. You know that?" She kissed him on the forehead.

John blushed; he loved it when he could make her happy. He wished that she would smile more, but she always seemed to be thinking thoughts that made her sad. Sometimes he'd catch her staring into the mirror, tracing her finger over a wrinkle, and sighing deeply. It hurt his heart to see that. He'd seen pictures of her when she was younger, always smiling, always looking young and pretty. There'd never been, however, any pictures of his father. And if he asked about him, she would shutdown. John always wondered if it was his dad who made her sad.

They ate dinner with the television playing.

"How's that girl you're always talking about?" his mom asked.

"Mom. It's no one." John felt himself getting red.

"You should talk to her," his mother said, playfully tapping his shoulder.

"No mom," John said forcefully and stared at his plate.

"Well, that's what your mother thinks," she said and went back to eating.

John looked up, he didn't mean to be so mean. His mother was picking at her food. "I'm sorry mom, I didn't mean it." He touched her arm. "I don't know about the girl. I don't think she likes me, though."

His mother nodded. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"You should be more confident," she said.

John shrugged.

After they were done, John cleared the table and pulled out his books and started to study in the living room. His mother sat and read a book. John could feel her looking at him.

"What are you working on? You're always so into those numbers."

"It's an equation for data manipulation, mom," John said, and then kept quiet. Whenever he talked about these equations his mother would look at him like he was someone she once knew. And it wasn't in a good way.

A loud knock sounded on the door.

"Are you expecting anyone?" his mom asked.

"No," John said, turning back to his equations.

He heard his mother unlock the door and heard a man talking to her.

A pause ensued and John sensed tension drifting his way.

"John, honey, can you come here for a second, please?"

John felt a jolt in his chest. He knew when his mom sounded stressed.

John got up and came to the door. There was a policeman in front and Smitty was behind him.

The policemen looked at John, then Smitty.

"This him?"

Smitty was staring at the ground. He glanced up at John, then stared back down at the ground. "Yes."

"John," his mother spoke. "This young man says you beat him and his friends up. Is this true?"

John stared at Smitty. Why would he rat him out like this?

"Sorry mam, it's obvious that my son is trying to pull some joke," the policeman said then rapped Smitty on his head. "You mean to tell me this boy beat you and five of your friends from the football team up? Huh? He probably weighs one-twenty, max."

"One thirty five," John blurted out.

The policeman looked at him and smiled. "Of course," he said. He slapped Smitty on the head. "Get in the car. Now!"

Smitty turned and left.

"Sorry about that mam. And you too." He gave a half smile to John. "Take care."

John's mom closed the door and as John turned to go back to his books he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"John, what happened between you and that boy?"

"Nothing," John said, trying not to turn or to look at his mom. She always had this ability to drag the truth out of him. She would stare at him, and he would start to squirm.

"John, look at me."

John turned.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I... They... They started it."

"So you did do that. To that boy, and five of his friends?"

"They started it. They came at me and even when I said please they—"

"John!" his mom said, so loudly it seemed to startle even her. "What did I tell you about fighting?"

John looked down. His mother grabbed his arm. "Answer me, dammit!"

John jumped. He'd never heard his mother swear.

"Not to do it," he said.

"Not even to defend yourself, right?"

"That's right."

"Then why did you disobey your mother?"

"I didn't."

"Don't lie to me, John."

"I... It wasn't me. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them they were lying everywhere. I swear ma, it wasn't me." John felt a tear coming down his cheek.

He felt his mom's eyes all over him.


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