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Edited by Lain.

Underlying
Chapter 04

The next morning, Mark was sitting in his car. His stomach felt wretched and his head was throbbing. He had woken up earlier, thinking he had a chance to sneak out before his mother woke up, but she had been in the kitchen with Mark’s car keys in hand, waiting for him. She said she had called Hannah Rogers the night before and she was making sure Mark stopped over her house in the morning. Mark had started a screaming match again, hoping that maybe she would give up. He had argued until he started to feel nauseous but his mother had stayed firm on what she had said the night before:

“I don’t care if you’re feeling sick, I warned you yesterday. You’re driving Sandy to school even if you have to drag yourself out of this house and that’s final.” Mark had sat down a moment because he really didn’t want to risk throwing up all over his car seats.

Now he was parked across the street, and he could see his own house behind him, hidden by the trees through the side mirror. The Rogers’ front door was only a couple of steps away and he couldn’t (wouldn’t) bring himself to walk there and ring the door bell. He knew his mother was watching him, somehow. He could feel the stare on the back of his neck and he rubbed at it, only managing to make his head hurt more when he grazed the bump there.

He knew it was getting late, and he had to pick up John after this but, dammit, Rogers could damn well get out himself without making Mark humiliate himself any further, couldn’t he?

Of course he couldn’t.

Cursing, Mark stepped out of the car, stomped to the wooden door and rapped his sore knuckles against it three times, loudly, so he wouldn’t have to do it again. Rogers took his sweet time answering. Mark heard voices inside, then nothing and just when he was preparing himself to knock again without losing his temper, the door opened.

Well, at least Rogers looked about as pleased as Mark was about the turn of events. His left arm was covered and secured against his body with the sling, no fingers visible. He was wearing a green zip-up jumper over his shirt that matched his cast, the left sleeve hanging limply on the side. Mark wondered for a moment how he had even gotten into his shirt.

Rogers’ face was a mask of cold anger; he didn’t even look at Mark when he pushed his way past him. Mark returned the push just as forcefully.

“To the back,” he grunted when Rogers made for the passenger’s door.

“What?”

“To the back, I’m picking someone else up.” Rogers moved away, mumbling something and that’s when Mark saw it, just as Rogers got out of the way, a big, ugly scratch on the side of his car, blue paint scrapped off and ruined.

His wounded cry alarmed Rogers and made him turn around as Mark kneeled down and placed his hands on the door. How had he not noticed it? How hadn’t he checked before slamming into the house the nigh before? He had heard the screeching noise Rogers’ bike made against the car, how could he have forgotten?

“No,” he moaned. “Shit. How-” He looked up, making his neck pop, and glared at Rogers, who was staring at him oddly. “You’re paying for this,” he told him.

Rogers actually laughed.

“Sure, like you’re paying for my bike, right?”

Mark stood up and took a step towards him. Rogers closed the car door and turned to face him properly, prepared to fight back if Mark threw himself at him, but Mark wasn’t that thick. He wasn’t going to jump at someone with an immobilized arm – at least not for the moment. Besides his mother could be watching and this was exactly the excuse she needed to- Well, actually Mark was already living his worse nightmare so he couldn’t think of another punishment for his mother to give him that would really get to him.

Forcing him to spend time with Rogers was the worst, most terrible thing anyone could make him do and now he was completely unafraid of what else his mother could come up with.

He still wasn’t going to give in; he was going to hold back for as long as he could since he was sure Rogers was provoking him on purpose and he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re the one that bumped into me and you’re the one the one that scratched my car. If-”

“I was driving in a perfectly straight line. You are the one that went insane and threw his car against me!” Rogers was suddenly in his face, close enough so Mark could see in perfect detail the little cuts on his face and the bruise forming under them. He noticed that the band aid on his chin was yellow today, instead of blue. His hands itched to crack Rogers’ nose under his knuckles; Rogers was begging for it and if he didn’t back off right now…. “My bike is useless and now I’m being punished because you tried to kill me!”

“I thought it hadn’t been my fault,” he said, forcing his voice down (Act nonchalant, dammit.). Rogers snorted and drew a bit closer. Mark was tense from holding back; he was probably never getting a chance like this one ever again. Rogers was throwing all his anger at him now, and later, after he’d vent, his defenses would be up again and the only reason for him to be this close to Mark with a messed up arm would be to pass him in the school halls or something. Rogers wasn’t expecting a punch – not next to his house and definitely not just out of the hospital – and Mark was doing his fucking best at keeping his hands down.

“I was drugged up with pain killers; I had no fucking clue what I was saying.” And he smirked, the smirk he saved for when no one but Mark was watching and if this had been any other day, Mark would have blackened his eye.

“Get in the fucking car,” he ground out instead. Rogers’ smirk slipped off his face and he frowned, backing away. He looked at Mark as if he couldn’t believe he had let go of the chance to smash his face. Mark was very proud of himself and he turned around and got inside the car without sparing another look at him.

It wasn’t everyday that he backed off of a potential fight with (a handicapped) Rogers. John would be proud.

--

John could’ve died from the shock.

At first he thought he was seeing things. Certainly that wasn’t Sandy Rogers in the back of Mark Wallace’s car. Besides, Sandy couldn’t still be breathing since Mark had probably already seen the giant scratch on the side of the car and had murdered and buried him in his backyard.

After a closer inspection, it turned out he wasn’t hallucinating and it really was Sandy Rogers sitting there, looking annoyed. Mark, to John’s surprise, was actually in a good mood. John sat close to the door in case he needed to jump out of the moving car when things finally blew up.

“Hi….” he said, tentatively.

“Hey,” Mark replied lightly. Sandy grumbled something and John was now almost sure he had stepped into a parallel universe.

“Um, what’s going on?” A shadow crossed Mark’s face when he began to explain. He told John how their parents had made arrangements for them to drive to and back from school together since Sandy’s bike was busted and Mark was crazy and everything. They thought – and Mark practically spat the words out – that it would make them get along. Well, now this was the Mark that John knew. At least having to spend time with Sandy without lashing out hadn’t melted his brain into goo or anything.

They drove mostly in silence, John wasn’t sure about turning on the radio, afraid that even a little change in the tense atmosphere would make things come crashing down. He could tell Mark was trying really hard to stay in this weird, calm mood of his; his hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel. Sandy was slumped against the door on his good side. John couldn’t see how bad the other arm was. He cleared his throat.

“So, Sandy, how’s the arm?” He turned almost all the way around, the seatbelt digging into his side, as he looked Sandy in the eye. Sandy returned his friendly look with a tired, moody one.

“Useless,” he said in a low voice. John made a sympathetic face.

“What was wrong with it?” Sandy raised his eyebrows at him, still in his slumped pose, his chin almost on his chest. “I mean, um, technically.”

“Dislocated.” He glared at the back of Mark’s head and Mark continued to pretend he wasn’t listening. John hissed. “Thanks for dropping the bike off yesterday,” Sandy sighed.

“No problem, I had to pick mine up anyway.”

His father had driven him all the way to the house with the dog to grab his brother’s bike the day before and he had taken Sandy’s too so he could give it back on their way home. As John put them in the trunk, his father had talked to the owner of the dog about what had happened and apparently had warned him to keep the dog on the leash or they were going to call the authorities or something. The man, who looked like he shouldn’t be allowed to stand up on his own, had thrown a fit and slammed the door shut. The dog had started barking from inside the house and his father had told John to check in a couple of days and to let him know if the dog was loose.

“Thanks for helping me, too.” John smiled at him. Sandy was okay sometimes.

“He cried,” Mark said when John turned back around and Sandy reached out a leg and kicked the back of his seat hard. “Hey! What-”

“Watch the road.” John pushed his shoulder. “Two car accidents in two days, Mark? No, thank you.”

“What’s your problem?” he snapped at Sandy, glaring at him on the rearview mirror and ignoring John.

“You,” Sandy snapped back.

John knew it had been too good to be true. Still, ten minutes without fighting? It had to be a record.

They arrived at school just as the last bell rang and the gates closed behind them while they walked the stone path in silence. Mark walked ahead with Sandy at the back and John stuck in the middle, not wanting to choose a side. Sandy wasn’t his friend but he didn’t want to shun him by walking alongside Mark and turning his back on him. And if he walked with Sandy, Mark would probably push him down the stairs or bite him or maybe both for betraying him.

He was also biting his lips in order to avoid offering to carry Sandy’s bag, not only because Mark would wring his neck for it, but also because, well, asking that to a guy was just not on. But it had to be uncomfortable, maybe even painful, and that bag looked heavy and John felt guilty on Mark’s behalf.

Right in the middle of John’s internal struggle, when they were walking down the main corridor to their lockers, a teacher intercepted them.

“Stop right there,” he boomed and walked over to them, managing to look down his nose even though they were all pretty much the same height. “You two,” He gazed between Mark and Sandy, “are supposed to be in my classroom right now.” John didn’t know the teacher’s name and the teacher didn’t seem to know who he was either since he looked him up and down and asked gravely, “Do you go to this school?” John didn’t even flinch. It was a big school and the teachers couldn’t possibly know all the students´ names and faces by heart. Mark and Sandy were special since every teacher had had the pleasure of breaking them apart on more than one occasion and they’d lived in this town all their lives. John was sure there wasn’t a single person in the whole building who didn’t know who they were, either because they had heard about them or actually met them.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“What are you two still doing here? To class, now!” the teacher ordered and then looked back at John. “You too,” he said, his voice still stern but softer, in a way. He was probably used to yelling at the other two.

Mark and Sandy continued walking in the same direction they had been going.

“I believe you missed your exit, gentlemen. The classroom is this way.”

“I need to get my books,” Mark snapped, turning around. Sandy stopped but kept his back to them. John could swear he heard him sigh. It struck him as strange since he was used to them using every comment the other made as an excuse to jump at each other’s throats.

“Watch your tone, Mr. Wallace,” the teacher said slowly.

There was a long pause and eventually Mark said, “I need my books.” He made a weird face. “Sir.”

“Very well, you have five minutes.” Then he turned around and went back the way he’d come from.

--

Mark stomped over to his locker, annoyed by the ever-present presence of Rogers at his back. He could hear the guy’s sneakers squeaking against the tile floor and he gritted his teeth, knowing he had no other choice but to suck it up since their lockers were only a couple feet apart.

Mark knew the universe had something against him. He had known ever since they were kids and their parents made them celebrate their birthday parties together and everyone ate Rogers’ mom’s cake and Mark was the only one eating the low fat carrot one because his mother wouldn’t let him eat chocolate. Rogers was skinny and tanned and blond, while Mark was fat and was covered in freckles (so much worse than now) and had very few friends. Almost every kid at those parties was Rogers’ guest. They’d shared every event of their lives together since they had been born and Rogers had always been the main character in them.

He was sure, somewhere, someone was laughing at his expense.

Mark had hoped he would grow out of his freckles and someday he would be thin and athletic like Rogers and he would show him. In the eight grade he finally had his growth spurt and was now gangly and awkward (all elbows, his mother said) but he was taller than Rogers and he was going to take up a sport and beat him at everything. Instead he ended up picking fights all the time and getting kicked out of the track team, then the baseball team, and finally the swim team. He realized that all that fighting with Rogers had actually done some good to his body and decided to train on his own for a while.

Jessica didn’t leave him alone about it and mocked him every chance she got. Eventually he gave it up and found himself fighting Rogers even more often. As a way of blowing off steam, he guessed. Now, he couldn’t help it. Every little thing set him off and the fact that Rogers egged him on didn’t help. Rogers never backed away. Once Mark had thrown the punch they were done for.

He was failing two classes and he avoided going in order to prevent detention, because he would yell something at Rogers, at some point, who was tapping his pen against his desk or talking with someone and making him lost concentration or something. Everything that Rogers did bothered him ten times more than anyone else ever did because he knew that everything Rogers did was done to annoy him.

Today he had left his bag at home. It had slipped his mind because all he could think of when he was leaving his house was a way of getting out of driving Rogers to school. As he yanked open his locker and started to search for the books he needed for Mr. Leander’s class, Rogers was fumbling with his lock and attempting to keep his bag on his shoulder at the same time.

Mark tried to ignore it; it wasn’t his problem. Rogers could manage. It wasn’t that hard. Yet seconds seemed to drag by, Mark with his face buried in the locker in order to control his temper and Rogers clinking the little combination lock against the metal as he tried to open the door without dropping his lock. Mark slammed his door shut and locked it again in jerky motions, gripping the text books to his side. He walked past Rogers, bumping his shoulder by accident, for once. He was just in a hurry to get out of there before his self control snapped.

Rogers threw the lock on the floor viciously and whirled around.

“You could help me, you know!” He spat and Mark turned around to face him. There was a moment of stillness when neither of them knew exactly how to proceed. They just stared at each other until Mark backtracked and pushed Rogers on the chest, making him knock his head against the lockers. He straightened up awkwardly, using his good arm to balance himself and got ready to jump into action if Mark happened to decide he was done playing nice.

Mark walked past him and, without even looking at him, opened his locker door with a quick jerk. Rogers didn’t say a word. He was either shocked or mollified by the action – Mark wasn’t sure and he didn’t really want to find out. He had actually helped Rogers when he could have just walked away. It wasn’t like he was that big of a threat with that useless arm and still he had turned around and helped him. He wasn’t even going to think about that sick feeling he’d gotten when Rogers had snapped at him, the same one he’d had when he’d faced Hannah Rogers at the hospital. Like he actually felt sorry for him.

Like he felt guilty.

He strode down the hallway and to his class in a rush and he heard Mr. Leander halt on his explanation when he almost tripped inside the room.

“Where’s Mr. Rogers?” he asked. Mark only shrugged and walked over to his desk just as Rogers, much more calmly, appeared at the door.

Mark hunched over his desk at the front of the class, he could feel everyone’s stare even though he knew Rogers was the centre of attention. A murmur started rising as he walked all the way to the very back of the classroom to take his seat and people started asking him what had happened to his arm.

“Quiet, now,” Mr. Leander said in a much calmer tone than the one he used with Mark. “You can talk after the bell rings, people. Now back to the lesson.”

Mark opened one of his books to a random page and it took him three full minutes to realize it was a biology book and this was history class. With growing irritation, he read the spine of the other two books on his desk that turned out to be a Spanish-English dictionary and the novel he was supposed to read for his literature class. Mr. Leander stared at him as if he were stupid for a little while and then made him pair up with the boy next to him. The day had begun crappy and seemed to turn more and more horrible every passing second.

Mark blamed Sandy Rogers.