Fragile (AU,M/L,MATURE) Pt 9 - AN 02/11/04 [WIP]

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Solaris
Enthusiastic Roswellian
Posts: 11
Joined: Tue Oct 09, 2001 4:58 pm
Location: NYC

Post by Solaris »

Fragile
Chapter Nine


I'm gonna make a mistake
I'm gonna do it on purpose
I'm gonna waste my time
Cuz I'm full as a tick
And I'm scratching at the surface
And what I find is mine
I'm gonna fuck it up again
I'm gonna do another detour
Unpave my path
And if you wanna make sense
Whatcha looking at me for
I'm no good at math
And when I find my way back,
The fact is I just may stay, or I may not
I've acquired quite a taste
For a well-made mistake
I wanna make a mistake why can't I make a mistake?
I'm always doing what I think I should
Almost always doing everybody good
Why-
Do I wanna do right, of course but
Do I really wanna feel I'm forced to
Answer you, hell no
I've acquired quite a taste
For a well-made mistake, I wanna
Make a mistake, why can't I make a mistake
I'm always doing what I think I should
Almost always doing everybody good
Why-
—Fiona Apple, A Mistake (4:57)

Ten Miles to Ruidoso.

The door clanged loudly as it slammed shut behind him, a certain finality to its tone.

He was uncertain about how he’d ended up in the situation he was in. He just knew that one moment he’d been flying high, speeding along the country roads’ blacktop, and the next, lights flashed red, and blue, and white, and he’d been pressed against the hot metal of the car’s fender having his rights read to him.

He’d been numb even as they’d handcuffed him and placed him in the back of a police cruiser. He’d been numb even as the woman at the desk had taken his fingerprints as someone else perfunctorily read his details of his arrest, aloud.

Male. White. Fourteen. Found joyriding with those two over there—head jerk to the corner—in a stolen sedan. Late model Town Car registered to a Mr. Romero, reported stolen…

Over the loud ringing in his ears, he heard someone say, “Your parents are on their way to pick you up, son.”

His stomach clenched thinking about his mom and dad. He wished for a convenient hole to come swallow him so that he’d not have to face his parent’s anger and disappointment. He’d never been in a youth detention center, before. In Roswell, if caught engaging in a bit of mischief, the sheriff or one of his deputies would cart him and any of the other offending miscreants back to their parents, after delivering to them a sound lecture, of course.

His pulse beat erratically as his numbness wore off and he thought about what lay in store for him. Probably another of his dad’s lecture on bad judgment and his spectacular lack, thereof.

He sighed tremulously, looking around the room furnished only with a metal back chair and desk, and he thought, unbidden, of the highway that had stretched out before him and the marker he’d seen just before he and his friends had been pulled over. 10 miles to Ruidoso, Cloudcroft, 25.
*****

“Well, shit. What have we here?”

Max tensed, his hand clenching the door of his locker as he turned around to see Billy Connant and his posse of buffoons smiling at him with ill-concealed malice from the middle of the hallway.

He was peripherally aware of conversations and idle morning gossip coming to a halt as everyone eagerly turned to watch the unfolding drama; an unexpected, and all the more for it, delicious treat.

He turned back, more calmly than he felt, to the entrance of his gaping locker to retrieve the remaining items he’d need for the day and placed them in his book bag.

He felt, more than he heard, the ripple of sound that reverberated in the narrow hallway, and turned again in time to see Billy holding aloft the science project he’d foolishly left propped against the bank of nearby lockers.

Max casually zippered his bag and slung it over his shoulder, and shut the door of his locker behind him, so that it echoed with a clang, into the anticipatory silence.

He studied the boys in front of him. They were big and meaty, members of the football team, who’d harassed him since he’d first started school.

He hadn’t made a single attempt to a make one friend, although his efforts probably would have been wasted. He might as well have tattooed ‘new kid’ on his forehead in bright, shining letters; football season long over, picking on him seemed Billy, Brian, and Brett’s entire raison d'être.

Max had, as yet, made no attempts to discourage their harassment of him. He was a coward by no means, but he wasn’t stupid, either. He was pretty decent at arithmetic, and he could count. One of him and one, two, three, four, five of them equaled pretty shitty odds.

However, he knew that people with limited brain cells, particularly those who’d taken up bullying as a hobby, did not like being ignored and apparently his time was up.

Max straightened out of his slouch, assuming a cocky stance and steadily regarded Billy, the presumed leader of the posse; he certainly was loud enough for the role. Stretching his hand out in exaggerated fashion, he said quietly and clearly, “Give it here.”

Billy snorted, as the others sniggered and mocked Max, repeating what he had said.

“Give it, here? D’you here that, guys? Faggot wants me to give it, here.” The others laughed as though Billy had said something remarkably funny while a few of the nearby onlookers tittered nervously.

“Yeah, I said, give it here. What exactly did you not understand? I’m sure one of your sycophants has at least one functioning brain cell to help you sound it out.” Max lifted his brows, the look on his face unconcerned, as though he, a bit part, without direction and explicit instruction, had not dramatically changed the script, mid-play.

Silence followed, and the audience shifted, as they stared agog, absorbing this most unexpected twist in the play.

Billy blinked stupidly before collecting his admittedly dull wits, and smiled, his teeth gleaming brightly under the glaring light.

Emboldened by his friend’s goading, Billy stepped forward. Slowly and deliberately, ignoring the, by now, gaping faces in the crowd, he ripped the oak tag purposefully in half.

Delighted by the attention he was garnering, and the strained expression on Max’s face, Billy gathered the two halves of Max’s ruined science project and threw them at his feet.

He watched as the corners of Max’s lips crumpled.

“Oh,” he taunted, adopting a childish lisp, “are you gonna go crying to your Mommy now, little boy?”

Billy didn’t wait for a response. He turned around laughing, uproariously, and high-fived his friends, tickled by his own wit.
*****
“Hi.”

Max lifted his gaze from his desktop the grain and texture of which he’d been studying absorbedly. “Hey,” he said, and returned his gaze to its previous contemplation.

“Max, right?”

His gaze lifted once more. “Yeah. Who wants to know?”

“Melissa.” The girl smiled brightly as though the boy she was conversing with was not rather abrupt and surly. “Melissa Cohen.”

“Yeah?” Max looked faintly amused, now. “You sure you want to be seen talking to the school’s social pariah?”

Melissa shrugged. “I’m one. Or, rather, my group of friends and I are.” She smiled wryly. “We’re not exactly at the top of food chain.”

"Food chain?"

"Yes. I mean, I know you've seen Billy and his gang. They're chest sizes are just not natural. They had to have eaten a lowly freshman or two, in their day."

"Ah," Max definitely amused, now. "Do you spend great deal of time contemplating chest sizes?"

"Yes, a small portion of my day is given over to the study and analysis of chest sizes." She glanced down. "Yours is quite normal, I see."

"How reassuring." Max had to laugh, despite himself. His companion was quirky and quite charming. “So, what are you?” he asked. “The meet and greet for Social Pariahs United.”

Melissa snorted. “Hardly, but I will extend an invitation to lunch if you'd like to join us.”

Max opened his mouth to speak, but shut it when Melissa interjected, "Oh, shush. Here comes Butler of the extremely Bulbous Nose.”

Max chuckled, softly. “Is that what we’re calling him, now?”

“Nope. Just me,” she said, grinning cheekily, "I thought it had a nice alliterative ring."

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Melissa opened her mouth to speak furthur, but stopped when Mr. Butler, whose nose was rather bulbous, swept in just as the bell rang, signaling the beginning of class.

“Max,” Melissa hissed.

“Yeah?”

“See you at lunch?”

Max looked at her consideringly. “Yeah. Maybe.”
*****

The scene that greeted the masses as they exited the school’s doors and entered the parking lot upon dismissal later that day inspired a comical look of stupefied amazement on Billy Connant’s face.

Despite his outraged disbelief, Billy was hard-pressed to utter a coherent sound, and could only squawk loudly as he tried valiantly to get his vocal cords in working order, again. He blinked rapidly a few times to assure himself that what he saw wasn’t a narcotically induced vision, and quickly regained his voice.

“What the fuck did you do to my car?!”

Evans, the kid he’d been tormenting relentlessly in weeks past, sat brazenly atop the hood of his car. That however, was not the reason for his staggered countenance. Braced against the front grill of his rugged sports utility, were two doors. Though that was, of course, unusual, it did not account for the fact that said doors—driver and passenger—had previously been attached to the body of his car.

He could only stare, agape, while a crowd, his friends among them, formed around him and Max, who sat, blinking at him with exaggerated nonchalance.

Billy swallowed, a bit unnerved, not wanting to admit, even to himself, that perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

With more confidence than he felt, he strode forward, extending his beefy arms and jabbed a finger in Max’s direction. “What the fuck did you to my car, man?”

Max lifted his brows, innocently. “Moi?”

“Yes, you! I know you did this!”

Really?” Max feigned surprise as he casually twirled a screwdriver between his fingers. “What, exactly, gave it away?”

Billy had reached his limit. Growling deeply in the back of his throat, he surged forward, intending to kick some ass. He paused, however, when Max abruptly raised his hand, palm outward.

“Stop, and think—if you can—about what you’re about to do.”

“Wha—?”

Max assumed an apologetic, yet oddly determined expression. “I apologize for my singular lack of originality and overuse of movie clichés, but,” he shrugged, with barefaced cheek, “you caught me on short notice.”

“Fuck! You’re crazy!” Billy interrupted, vainly trying to forestall the wave of laughter that was sweeping the growing crowd.

“Of course,” Max said, matter-of-factly. “Why do you think I was sent here? It certainly wasn’t to spend time in your charming presence although I must admit to a certain level of entertainment value.”

Max ignored the poor befuddled boy’s sputtering. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes,” he said, holding the screwdriver threateningly over the shining chrome of Billy’s prized possession. “I’m armed with a deadly weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Okay, okay,” Billy entreated. “Just…give me back my doors, man—”

“Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear everyday.”

“Okay! I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t scratch my car. Please!”

“Well, now. That’s more like it,” Max enthused. He looked up scanning the crowd. “I’m going to have to ask your friends to join us.”

“My friends?”

“Yes, your friends.” He beckoned to the group of boys that Billy was frantically motioning forward. “Come on, don’t be shy.”

They shuffled forward, almost timidly. “Okay. They’re here. What is it that you want?” said Billy, a trace of belligerence in his tone. He’d lost face in front of the entire school.

“I think you know.” Max’s smile brightened, as he watched Billy squirm uncomfortably.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

Max sighed in a martyred fashion. “No?” he asked lifting a disbelieving brow, and then shrugged, unconcernedly. “Alright then…you leave me no choice.”

“No! Fuck!” Billy cried frantically. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I…” he trailed off uncertainly, looking at his friends, none of whom met his eyes.

Max looked expectant.

A dull red flush crept up the back of Billy’s neck, as he mumbled to his shoes. “I’m sorry that we gave you a hard time and…and…” he cleared his throat, uncomfortably, “…and I’m sorry about your project.” He cleared his throat, again. He looked up, and then shrugged, averting his gaze slightly past Max’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Well…You need to brush up on your apology-making skills,” Max said, a bit ungraciously, “but apology accepted.”

He slid off the hood, and stooped, gathering his belongings. Shouldering his book bag, he sauntered over to Billy, and handed him a weighted cloth bag and the screwdriver.

Billy blanched when he looked inside the bag and saw numerous nuts and bolts and other assorted accoutrements.

Max leaned forward, swept his eyes over Billy’s assembled friends then drilled his gaze into Billy’s, playful expression gone. “Don’t fuck with me. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Billy bit out.

“Cool,” Max said.

Billy stared, along with his fellow classmates, at Max’s departing form.

“I like that kid,” he overhead someone say, admiringly.

“Yeah,” was the awed response.

Billy chanced to glance at his watch, and started. From start to finish, the entire incident had taken less than ten minutes.
*****
Liz cast her thoughts back to her first time with Max. It had been imperfect, but sweet.

She’d kissed and been kissed, before, but it had been her first sexual encounter with a boy. He had been far more experienced than she, and afterwards she’d had to concede that his reputation was not undeserving.

He’d made love to her that night. Her first time. She’d been eager, but anxious. And he’d soothed her, and had been gentle, this cocksure boy who was often written off as a troublemaker.

They hadn’t many opportunities for privacy, but they used any time they had to their advantage; to learn the rhythm and shape and feel of what gave the other pleasure.

It wasn’t always sweet. Sometimes, and she became hot just thinking about it, they…fucked. Rough. Scratching and biting like animals as though their joining, even that, wasn’t enough to bind them together.

Sometimes she scared herself, something she’d never admitted to Max. Was a sixteen, almost seventeen year old, supposed to feel such raw lust? Such deep passion?

She was a teenager, of course, and like any other, her hormones ran amok, creating havoc with her libidinous system. But she’d always associated such feelings, the ones she read about—when she’d bothered think on such things—as ones only adults experienced.

Liz shook herself loose of her straying thoughts. She contemplated her naked reflection as she stood in front of the beveled glass of her grandmother’s antique full-length mirror. The warm tones of her skin were flushed pink, as she coasted a trembling hand down her body, pausing briefly to fondle her nipples, and continued past her thatch of pubic hair. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, pressed into the apex of her thighs, and she closed her eyes, sighing, as she manipulated the tight bud that lay nestled between her moist lips.

Suddenly, she stopped. Her eyes flew open, as fine tremors shook her body, a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin. Breathing quickly and shallowly, Liz guided her hand up her body. She swallowed loudly, as her hand skated and faltered over the skin of her belly.

A brisk knock at the door. “Chica, it’s me.”

“Hold on!”

She hurriedly slipped on her panties and bra and yelled, “Come in!”

Maria bounced into the room, and stopped short to admire her friend’s body, and whistled loudly. “Whoa, Liz! A strip tease? For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up,” Liz laughed. “Close the door before my dad comes in.”

“Are you almost ready?”

“Almost.” Liz’s voice became muffled as she searched her closet for a shirt. “Give me a sec.”

“Yeah, well, a second’s all you got sister, ‘cause the guys are threatening mutiny.”

Mutiny?” Liz laughed wonderingly. “Like, on a ship?”

“Whatever,” Maria dismissed, as she wandered into the bathroom, intent on admiring her reflection in a lighted mirror.

Liz had found the shirt she had been looking for, and was bent rummaging in the bottom of her closet looking for appropriate footwear. “I guess I got sidetracked with the time.” She paused, having found her favorite pair of black boots. “Could you go down and tell them—” She stopped noticing that Maria was no longer in the room.

Her eyes flew to the bathroom. Her heart pounded. “Maria.”

No response.

She walked hesitantly to the bathroom door. “Um…Maria?”

Maria emerged, face pale and shell-shocked. A picture in perfect bewilderment. “Liz?” She held aloft the package in her hand.

Liz stepped forward, mouth dry and heart pounding in her chest. She stretched her hand out beseechingly, and then lifted her fingers further twining her hair nervously about them. “Maria, please. It’s not what you think.”

Maria stared at her friend disbelievingly. “Liz, how stupid do you think I am?” she said, shaking the box.

“Okay,” Liz conceded. It’s exactly what you think.”

Maria, not one to ever be at a loss for words was stricken nearly speechless. “This is a…this is a…a…”

“Pregnancy test,” Liz said, wincing softly.

Maria’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments, before her brain caught up with her tongue. Her arm fell, boneless, to her side. “So, are you?” she wondered in bewildered fashion, nodding at Liz’s bare stomach. Pulse racing, she asked, staring intently at her best friend, “God. Liz, are you…pregnant?”

Pause.

“Yes.”
*****

Forgive me for inconsistencies in my description of small towns or high schools, in general. I'm basing this on a rather exaggerated interpretation of my observations of my high school, which was rather large and located in New York. It was nothing like I've heard it can be in small towns. Friends that I met in college and I all thought we came from respectively strange and distant lands.

Jan :D


Solaris Posted: Wed Feb 11, 2004 3:07 pm wrote:Hi guys,

First, I must extend my profuse apologies. I'd really hoped to have a new chapter out by now, but as you can see, no such luck. It's really a combination of excessive procrastination, and a number of other life issues. I don't like to make promises without being able to deliver, but after a couple of false starts, I do have a portion of chapter ten written, so we'll see.

Your feedback and appreciation for my story means a lot to me; more than I can ever express. Thanks.

And if I may be so bold I'd just like to leave you with this thought: Fuck Bush.
The gaping hole in my beloved skyline and the Yankees losing the World Series to the Florida effing Marlins, notwithstanding, it's a beautiful time to be a New Yorker.

Fragile
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