Still Standing
Chapter One
by: EclipseKlutz
T, PG-13
General/Drama/Angst
Disclaimer: All is mine aside from frequent references to things that obviously don't belong to me (Star Trek, Wicked, etc.).
A/N: Of everything I've written over the years--long and short, original and fanfiction--this has unquestionably been the most difficult to put together. I suppose this is due in part by how close it is to home, but despite whatever relations it may have to my life, it is only a story -- but one I need to write. I ask of you, the reader, only to be patient with likely slow updates and that if you get uncomfortable, don't read it.
Monday, October 27
Fourth Period: AP English
The prompt scrawled across the dented blackboard reads "standing / still".
I stare blankly at it, toying with the possibilities although absolutely no decent ideas have barged into my head yet. Beside me, April's staring off into space, probably shaping another poem in her head; a few desks in front of me, David Keller's head is bent over his paper and he's finally stopped tapping the tip of his pen against his desk, sure signs that he's started working and I'm way behind.
Mrs. Hodges glances up from her stack of ungraded papers and casts me an odd look, saying well enough without words that she can't figure out why I'm not on my second page yet either. For a moment I consider asking her about the creative dry spot I seem to have come across, although I know she'll only grin and tell me that I ought to start finding an oasis. So I shrug back. She frowns at me, and I'm pretty certain she can read my mind, but returns her attention to her work all the same.
Barring a sigh behind my teeth, I look back up at the board. "Standing still" and "still standing"… it vaguely reminds me of geometry. Conversed, the equation's different; standing still, you're not bound anywhere, you're pointless, a waste of space—still standing, you've achieved something in a world that longs to drag you down.
I'm the prior. I'm standing still. I've always done so… and it's absolutely no pleasure to write about—trust me, I've tried.
But then, still standing's difficult to do 'cause I just don't do happy. I can't, really. Sometimes I wish I could though; sometimes I think maybe I could attempt and maybe I'll make it… of course, I thought the same thing about flying when I was five, and that only landed me with a broken arm and a very long lecture on avian bone structure versus a human's. I didn't listen.
After a moment I look down at my paper, my mind disobediently buzzing with elevator music instead of a rich plot that will win me a dozen or so awards in the next competition. I'll try anyway.
As usual, fate has other ideas.
Just as I press the point of my mechanical pencil to the paper, the bell rings. Screw this. I've got a free.
-:-
I hardly manage to slip out of my chair before April clobbers me with her pencil case, which is plastic and over-stuffed with math supplies. It hurts.
"Don't go anywhere, Nat," she says with a wide smile. "Kyle's agreed to take us to Taco Bell for lunch."
"Um… okay…?" I try to sound interested, if only to humor her. Times like these I wish I talked more, if only to tell her my opinions of her recent boyfriend and that I really hadn't been intending to go to Taco Bell today. I mean, I love the food and all, but eating it two weeks straight? I think I'll pass.
Her smile broadens into a grin as she gathers her supplies before wandering out of the class, me towing reluctantly behind.
Sometimes I think life may have been easier without her around, but other times I doubt I'd manage very well without her overbearing optimism. April's an enigma, for lack of a better term, but a simple one with no real direction. I think I appreciate being less of a lost cause then her… but then I consider all the stupid things I've done before and am doing now just by following her and realize all over again that although she may be impossible, people still hold out hope for her.
They've long since given up on me.
The thought drags me down, makes me want to bang my head against a locker and maybe cry for the fact that something so petty means so much to me. Instead, I groan and shake my head, "Um, April… I forgot—I've got homework."
She blinks at me as she pulls her locker open on the first try, as if she's trying to ask me why homework's important at a time like this.
"That's due today, for Wes—you know Bruins'll kill me," I did my best to make the excuse sound plausible. Let her think I'm working on the Western History homework while I'm actually milling aimlessly about the library, skimming over titles of books I've already read or have too much dignity to read.
April pursed her lips in a sort of mimic of a frown. I suppose she thinks it's cute, but that's assuming she thinks about it at all. Finally she rolls her eyes, "Fine. Go fail."
I bite back the acerbic sarcasm that had been all too ready to seep out and effectively damage one of the only relatively friendly relationships I have. As quickly as I can mange, I trade in the disgusted look for a most likely ridiculously fake smile and nod. I say nothing because I don't trust what I might say. That filter that ought to belong in the space between my brain and mouth is nonexistent.
She turns her back to me so she can indulge in the mirror plastered to the back wall of her locker, and I take off the second I realize it's an out.
I don't know why I bother with April. I don't know why I let her come over and raid my fridge and force me to watch grossly sappy chick flicks. I have a theory that it's because subconsciously I know she's an alien and I will eventually receive the Noble Prize for my amazing discovery. I also have a theory that Captain Kirk could have happily lived in a monastery, abiding by all the rules.
The dim glow of the frequently empty library greets me like business for a tramp—there's bits of regret, possibly self-loathing, but mostly a bitterly happy feeling that I've reached a sanctuary very few others dare to breach.
Except, apparently, the entire video production class. No one glances at me as I enter, so consequently no one notices the death glare I'm giving them all in turn. How dare they film here? Did they actually get permission from the librarian? I look over at her briefly, trying not to gag at the look she was giving the video teacher—of course they did. Whore.
As I move to hide in the pathetically equipped sci-fi section, David Keller enters—late, as pure usual. The only reason he hasn't been placed in permanent detention for his chronic tardiness is his position on the foot ball team… what place is that? Hell if I know. He doesn't notice me either, but I don't care. I didn't expect him to.
I offer the video production class one final glare before poking through the books, looking for something new although I know the possibility of that is one to a very, very large number. There's one Star Trek novel, most likely from the librarian's personal collection—the only name on the library card in the back, though, is mine. Beside it sits a dozen or so Forgotten Realms stories, none of which I could get into. Nearby these is an Andre Norton novel donated by an absurdly kind girl who graduated last year. That's basically the extent of the books displayed, give or take a few created for second graders. Hence, I've given up on the students in my school.
Is no one educated in pop culture anymore?
I sneak a look over at the video production class, who happen to be filming a skit that sounds as though it was shamelessly stolen from a James Bond movie. Guess not.
Rolling my eyes, I grab a random book off the shelf and plop down in the middle of the isle, perfectly content to stare at the same page for the rest of the period—and probably through lunch too, seeing as April won't be there. I live a truly pitiful life.
"The Wicked's lives are lonely," I mumble under my breath, absently quoting what has to be my favorite musical of all time. As a child, The Wizard of Oz was considered the best film ever made. As a teenager with undeniably matured tastes, I've collected a nice batch of Wicked souveniers.
One of these years, maybe I'll grow up.
"Hey, Natalie?" David Keller's irritatingly confident voice sounds above my head. How long has he been standing there?
I shift my glare up to him. He doesn't flinch—nice bravado act. Finally, I offer in as bored a voice as I can manage, "What?"
He continues on unfazed, too caught in his excessively large ego to properly comprehend my tone. "Um, the vid class needs to use this isle."
I cock an eyebrow at him, "Why this isle? There's gazillions of others… well, three others—but all perfectly empty, nonetheless."
"Yeah, but we need this one," he said it so matter-of-factly I was tempted to punch him. I opted for the better course: defiance.
"Uh-huh, but I'm sitting in this one," I remind him, being sure to speak slowly as though I was talking to a particularly stupid child. "Go an isle over. I assure you, there's absolutely no difference."
He groans, apparently annoyed with my "insufferable stubbornness" (in the words of my seventh grade science teacher), "Look, Natalie, I've never asked you to do anything before--"
I scoff, effectively cutting him off. "No, no, no. Let's see: countless times you've asked me to give you paper, lend you a pencil, etcetera, etcetera. Oh! And can't forget last year's homecoming: 'Natalie, move, I'm trying to dance'… you are aware there was plenty of space around me, right? And, if you can call that dancing then I'll give up my subscription to Geeks Weekly."
David takes his time digesting everything I'd told him. After several long, uneventful moments, he blinks and shakes his head. "It's a matter of location. We need to film here because--"
"Keller, it can not be that hard getting someone to move." This time it wasn't me cutting him off. One of his buddies and fellow foot ball players, a tall dark-skinned boy whose name is an utter mystery to me, had approached and decided to take over the situation. He looks down at me, offers one of the most insincere smiles I've ever seen and says, "Can you move? Please?"
I groan in reply, as it's the best response I can come up without receiving a week's worth of detention for my habit of belittling idiotic people. After a second of consideration, I stand and slip the book back into its place on the shelf before informing David, "He said 'please'."
I'm sure, had I bothered to look as I walked away, I would be getting one of the most vile glares I've received in a long time.
-:-
Monday, October 27
Sixth Period: P.E.
I spent lunch hiding out in Mrs. Hodges's room, holding highly unintelligent discussions over a few of the most random topics I've bothered considering in a ridiculously long time. And, somewhere in this timeframe, she referred to the class as a "tribble infestation", hence bringing her to the top of my favorite teachers list.
Which is stupid because she already held that position.
However, good times only last so long, as gym has forever proven. Honestly, the class should be illegal, if only for the benefit of those of us who have no hand-eye coordination to speak of. Mine's rather nonexistent 'till I start up the video games, and even then it's choppy.
I left the changing room as quickly as possible to avoid the nonsense chatter of girls with alien interests, and instantly knew something was horribly wrong when I spotted that the curtain that usually divided the boys' and girls' side of the gym had been pulled back. This could only mean one thing--one horrible, terrible, scary thing: dodge ball.
Insert lengthy string of colorful words here.
Timidly, I shuffle slowly forward. It crosses my mind that I probably look like a frightened squirrel to anyone that might be watching me, but I shove the thought away because no one actually pays attention to the idiot who dismissed everyone back in fifth grade with the words "live long and prosper".
Mr. Felding, the boys' fizz ed teacher, is a truly scary man. He reminds me of the Incredible Hulk, actually. When he talks, his carotids bulge, like the stress exerted on them is too much from them to handle. Also when he talks, I feel like I have to check outside and make sure there's not a thunder storm. He's talking to some gangly kid I've never seen before in my life as I approach, and I feel myself absently hiding my hands in my sleeves.
Never wear a t-shirt in gym glass. This rule holds out extra for… well, me. And others stupid like me—tired like me—hopeless like me.
Again with the wretched urge to bang my head into a wall.
When I get home, I'm going to bed.
"Yes?"
I look up at the roll of thunder, noticing the scary beady eyes glaring holes into my skull, swallow hard and force the question past the lump in my throat: "Uh… dodge ball?"
I really should practice talking more.
He rolls his eyes as though I've just asked the stupidest question in the world (which I probably have) and nods before turning to some other kid. I stand there a moment longer before shaking my head and walking towards the stage. Our school has a stage but skipped out on the bleachers. I'm still looking for the sense in it.
April's standing there talking to David, pointedly ignoring me. David doesn't seem to mind overmuch—pretty girls like her don't speak to him often, obviously. He's waving his hands around quite a bit, as though trying to get something across. April simply grins and tosses her auburn hair. I think he might be drooling. I sigh and hesitantly make my way over to a gawky boy who radiates the intelligence of a slug.
Yeah, I love gym.
"Okay," Mr. Felding bellows, and everyone in the auditorium jumps to attention. I notice the recent transfer-in from some military school go stiff out of the corner of my eye. Felding, however, notices nothing and starts pacing, juggling a yellow foam ball in his hands as he continues, "Today is dodge ball. Everyone from Kevin over, go to the right—everyone else, left."
Who's Kevin? Beats me. I follow everyone else.
In less then a minute I'm leaning against the back wall, listening to the two must-be-jocks on either side of me talk about something that apparently involves a ball and a stick. Some days I think I might benefit from a sports dictionary. Other days, most days, I don't care. Not sure which one today is.
And then Felding blows the whistle draped around his neck, and chaos erupts. Kids who like to be involved leap forward and spring into action, hurling colorful foam balls at random people on the other team. Geeks of all assortments stand back and watch it happen.
Me? I'm not that stupid. Stand back and you'll be the last one on your team and that will get you nothing but ridicule for the rest of the week. Instead, I move a little to the front, in view of anyone with a ball, wishing like hell for a neon sign reading: "HIT ME!"
A purple ball lands about a foot away from me, and I hand it to the nearest jock before walking towards the out box hoping it would look as though I'd been struck out. Sadly, Lady Luck hates me and David taps my elbow just as I'm about to reach sanctuary.
"Natalie, I saw that one," he declares, tone a little smug. I suppose he's getting me back for the library. "It didn't hit you."
Just as I open my mouth to respond with something effectively witty and cynical (that likely would have come out sounding desperate), something collides hard with the back of my head. I stagger for a moment, and nearly fall over—on foot ball reflex, David shoves me into the out box, grabs the ball, and throws it hard at whoever had targeted me.
I groan, slumping to the floor and rubbing the back of my head. He cocks an eyebrow, as if to make sure I didn't get a concussion or anything. I respond with a rather bitter, "That one hit me."
David nods and returns his attention to the game just as Felding approaches me. He fixes me with an uncommon frown and says in a booming voice that was likely meant to have been somewhat reassuring, "You need to go to the nurse?"
I shake my head; no way in hell. The lady doesn't know the difference between gauze and a cardboard box.
"You wanna rejoin the game?" he continues. It's an old rule of his—hit in the head and you can choose whether or not you want to be out.
Again, I shake my head.
He nods, seems satisfied, and stands to the side for all of four seconds before calling some beefy moron on a foul. I didn't know dodge ball had fouls.
-:-
Monday, October 27th
Bus 39
The girl next to me won't shut up, but she never does anyways. Every day it's the same thing: "My life sucks, my boyfriend dumped me and I chipped a nail." Every day, I care less.
She was in my Algebra class last year, I think. Her hair was blonde then, and she wore pink a lot. Now she's in my eighth period Geometry class, decked out in the latest "goth" fashions, her hair freshly dyed black.
I can't stand people like that; the ones who sit there and follow trends like there's no tomorrow. Prep one moment, goth the next. Granted April's like that, but still, April's different… I'm not sure how yet, but she is. She tolerates me. No one else will.
"Hannah," I say finally, a little slowly—I'm not sure if that's her name or not. She stops mid-rant to look at me, probably surprised that I spoke, and I continue in as neutral tone as I can manage, "I have a headache. Shut up… please?"
She—Hannah—nods. A lot of people have been doing that lately. A few moments pass in silence before: "…and did I tell you that Mike--"
I lean back in the seat and sigh. I think there's an epidemic out right now—contagious ADD… I hope I don't get it.
-:-
Tuesday, October 28th
6:32am, Field's House
I want to say this started in seventh grade, this ritual of mine. I want to say it started because my life had all but fallen into the gutter. I want to say that I know how it started, every detail. But in truth I have no idea.
Time has lately acquired an irksome habit of blending together. Seventh grade feels like yesterday, and yesterday could be seventh grade. A minute ago might have been a week ago. I can't follow it, and honestly don't even bother trying anymore.
I remember the decline though. Between forth and sixth grade I went from an incredibly bright girl with potential to no one. I remember feeling lost all of the time, and breaking down in tears without a reason. I remember being so tired and weary and sad that I just couldn't move, and all I wanted to do was sleep—because dreams were easier to handle then the world that resided outside of them. And then… then I remember feeling nothing. Just going numb, turning into a monotonous robot who lived in books and for Star Trek reruns.
And then this started.
I don't have the slightest idea as to where I got the idea to begin with, or how it came into my head that morning—whenever it was—that this first began. But it worked… in a sense.
It never hurt after the first time, but it woke me up just a bit—just enough. I felt again, if only for a few moments. And… and this way I didn't have to keep it locked inside of me. The pointless turmoil, the chronic exhaustion, the pain—it came out. Not entirely, never entirely, but to some extent I was released from it.
So I never stopped.
Why would I?