he didn’t have the strength to resist this time, letting
the sobs come in full force as he leaned into her
shoulder.
Again with the crying?
Jesus, it’s a wonder you’re not dehydrated all the time. Pick one:
crybaby or lunatic. We can’t do both, you don’t have that much
depth.
He thought he could smell blood on her
but he realized it was him, on his hands and probably on his face
from when he wiped his eyes. He tried to pull away but she held him
in place. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s all over
now.”
He rested his head on her shoulder
looking down at his stinging, wet hands in his lap.
No it’s not, tough guy. Now
it’ll never be over. You know that, right? Jack will never let this
go and he’s going to turn your temporary victory into the first
shot in an all-out war.
Chapter Twelve
What Mark hated the most after
subjecting someone to one of his hysterical crying breakdowns was
how they looked at him afterward. First it’s with sincere looks of
concern, as if he’d break down again at any moment over something
ridiculous, like “I asked for Coke not Pepsi! Bawwww!” Over time,
when it became obvious that pathetic weeping wasn’t going to be an
all the time thing, the reaction became a kind of offhand teasing
as if the whole thing was a joke or magic trick that he’d maybe
whip out if given enough encouragement. “Hey, I made sure I brought
you a Coke so you wouldn’t freak out like you did last
time.”
Why couldn’t they just let
it go? Did they think he enjoyed reminiscing about it? Last year in
Biology Ken Shenkman randomly turned to him and said “Hey, remember
that time in 7 th grade when Mr. Hollman made you cry at the black
board? That was pretty wild, huh?”
No, it wasn’t “wild,” Mark thought, it
was something I was trying to forget but thanks for bringing it up
fucknozzle.
It was even in Steve’s eyes, sometimes
with concern, like the other day at the funeral, and sometimes with
that mischievous “I take things too far” glint. The only person
that never had it was Clara and she’d seen him plenty of times at
his blubbering, snot-caked worst.
Now it was in Christine’s
eyes.
He saw it when he dropped her off at
home and she waved at him when he looked back at her. He realized
there was more to it when he kissed her cheek and she pulled back
ever-so-slightly. This wasn’t just about crybaby Mark Watson, this
was about the “New and Improved Holy Shit He Beat That Guy with a
Helmet” Mark Watson. He wanted to say the perfect something to make
her realize that today was just the final straw in a long line of
horrid, humiliating straws that he never thought he’d get rid of,
but there was no way.
The girl he was going to have the fresh
start with and who he wanted to be perfect for just saw him at the
worst he’d ever been. So much for that plan.
Mark wasn’t surprised when he got to
homeroom the next day and there was a referral to go directly to
the office. He’d spent the night wondering when Detective Prescott
would show up at his door, helmet retrieved from the garage and
held aloft in a plastic bag. Finally, the piece of evidence he
needed to bring Mark Watson down to the station and sweat him out
under the lights.
There was no helmet or lights, and
thankfully no dreams that night either (although he wasn’t sure if
he’d slept long enough to have any). A couple of the kids he knew
nodded at him when he passed them on the office, one of them even
putting up his dukes and bobbing and weaving around until he
passed. Mark wasn’t sure if he was being congratulated or
mocked.
Are you Mark Watson? What do
you think?
The office for Mark’s end of the
alphabet was in the basement and when he got there he showed his
pass to the secretary. She waved him to a seat while she buzzed the
inner office to let them know he was here and probably to bring out
the Lecter-style restraints. He hadn’t said a thing to Joe about
what happened, and
the sobs come in full force as he leaned into her
shoulder.
Again with the crying?
Jesus, it’s a wonder you’re not dehydrated all the time. Pick one:
crybaby or lunatic. We can’t do both, you don’t have that much
depth.
He thought he could smell blood on her
but he realized it was him, on his hands and probably on his face
from when he wiped his eyes. He tried to pull away but she held him
in place. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s all over
now.”
He rested his head on her shoulder
looking down at his stinging, wet hands in his lap.
No it’s not, tough guy. Now
it’ll never be over. You know that, right? Jack will never let this
go and he’s going to turn your temporary victory into the first
shot in an all-out war.
Chapter Twelve
What Mark hated the most after
subjecting someone to one of his hysterical crying breakdowns was
how they looked at him afterward. First it’s with sincere looks of
concern, as if he’d break down again at any moment over something
ridiculous, like “I asked for Coke not Pepsi! Bawwww!” Over time,
when it became obvious that pathetic weeping wasn’t going to be an
all the time thing, the reaction became a kind of offhand teasing
as if the whole thing was a joke or magic trick that he’d maybe
whip out if given enough encouragement. “Hey, I made sure I brought
you a Coke so you wouldn’t freak out like you did last
time.”
Why couldn’t they just let
it go? Did they think he enjoyed reminiscing about it? Last year in
Biology Ken Shenkman randomly turned to him and said “Hey, remember
that time in 7 th grade when Mr. Hollman made you cry at the black
board? That was pretty wild, huh?”
No, it wasn’t “wild,” Mark thought, it
was something I was trying to forget but thanks for bringing it up
fucknozzle.
It was even in Steve’s eyes, sometimes
with concern, like the other day at the funeral, and sometimes with
that mischievous “I take things too far” glint. The only person
that never had it was Clara and she’d seen him plenty of times at
his blubbering, snot-caked worst.
Now it was in Christine’s
eyes.
He saw it when he dropped her off at
home and she waved at him when he looked back at her. He realized
there was more to it when he kissed her cheek and she pulled back
ever-so-slightly. This wasn’t just about crybaby Mark Watson, this
was about the “New and Improved Holy Shit He Beat That Guy with a
Helmet” Mark Watson. He wanted to say the perfect something to make
her realize that today was just the final straw in a long line of
horrid, humiliating straws that he never thought he’d get rid of,
but there was no way.
The girl he was going to have the fresh
start with and who he wanted to be perfect for just saw him at the
worst he’d ever been. So much for that plan.
Mark wasn’t surprised when he got to
homeroom the next day and there was a referral to go directly to
the office. He’d spent the night wondering when Detective Prescott
would show up at his door, helmet retrieved from the garage and
held aloft in a plastic bag. Finally, the piece of evidence he
needed to bring Mark Watson down to the station and sweat him out
under the lights.
There was no helmet or lights, and
thankfully no dreams that night either (although he wasn’t sure if
he’d slept long enough to have any). A couple of the kids he knew
nodded at him when he passed them on the office, one of them even
putting up his dukes and bobbing and weaving around until he
passed. Mark wasn’t sure if he was being congratulated or
mocked.
Are you Mark Watson? What do
you think?
The office for Mark’s end of the
alphabet was in the basement and when he got there he showed his
pass to the secretary. She waved him to a seat while she buzzed the
inner office to let them know he was here and probably to bring out
the Lecter-style restraints. He hadn’t said a thing to Joe about
what happened, and
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