Just another High School Story (2)
Just another High School story Scene 2 By Roofles
Class started as it always did. And always would. With the single ring of the bell and the students falling into hushed whispered voices, as if the teacher couldn't hear them. Alan just stared out the window, resting his head on a arm. Watching the snow slowly fall, one snowflake at a time to be lost forever amongst all its friends below, covering every square inch of ground in a white plane of nothingness. The depressing thought brought a smile to the corner of his black lipped muzzle.
The teacher started, as he always did. And always would. At the sound of the bell. Grungily pushing up from his desk and looking over the classroom in front of him. It was clear that he would rather be anywhere or anyone else than here and now teaching a bunch of ungreatful brats that would never accomplish anything. Most of which would just end up serving food or working at a gas station. The rest going to college and sort of kind of making a difference by helping someone else do something with their life. His eyes scanned to room with a contempt and hatred for all things undeer the age of twenty and centered in on the dalmatian staring off out the window.
"Mr. Baker. Could you tell us what Charles Dickison was trying to convey to the reader through his literature masterpiece, Huckle Berry Finn." The owl lifted up the book to show the picture of the skunk and beaver rowing on the raft.
"Racism is bad." He mumbled as he pulled himself away from the much more interesting landscape that had so piqued his interest.
"Well, yes but what I meant was-," the old owl said shuffling his feathers.
The dalmatian's cobalt blue eyes slowly shifted towards him. And, relunctantly, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out his homework. A bookbined binder, novel size of the story itself with gold letters reading The adventures of Huckleberry Finn across the surface. He got up and, walking to the front of the class, giving it to him directly not letting go until it was in his feathered, winged hands.
"A hundred and thirty two page summary of the book with themes, morals, motifs, symbols and the relationship between them and the view they had of the world around them. As well as vocab, highlighted portions of the book and the political correctness of it all. All of which taken in todays perspective as well as during the time frame." He said as he walked back to his seat, fist bumping one of the sideliners of the team. A young antelope that he had helped with the same report.
The owl flipped through the book as he examined his work.
"This is in ten font, I asked for twelve." He said softly with a pleased smile. Glad to see at least someone here might actually do something productive with their lives and feeling glad that someone actually put in a bit extra effort into one of his projects. Unlike the other several papers on his desk that had just enough effort put into them to make two full pages, quadriple spaced.
"I thought the twelve font was too messy so I used the ten. It comes off more poetic, or something." Alan shrugged.
A squirrel behind him patted him on the back as the tomcat in front of him joked about how he needed to do his homework from now on. Everyone laughed as the teacher beak shut and he turned around to write on the chalkboard. The older owl never bothered using the new technology and made due with his blackboard and chalk. The class began talking amongst each other as his back turned to them.
And still the dalmatian felt hollowed. A perfect student, does perfect work. Even though he was snide, rude and acted better than the rest of them and the teacher they didn't even bat an eye. They nudged him, joked and went back to their own lives. He was probably just being a spoiled only child, but he felt as empty as ever. Be a good boy. Be a bad boy. Didn't matter really every still treated him the same. From a good well off family, with natural good looks allowed him to get away with murder if he so chose to.
As he stared out the window he wondered if others like him felt that way. Surrounded by dozens of furs and still utterly alone in this cold blank canvas of nothingness. Then again he frowned at the idea of being like the others. The punk kids with the spiked collars and mohawks would say the same thing as he felt. An by no means did he want to be like them, even knowing smoking in the bathroom more than likely.
The lunch bell rang and he was forced to part with the lab geeks two hours later. The few people in the school that could hold an intelligent conversation but it always broke out into who was better. Kirk or Picard. A debate that never had an ending and would always come up. When it was so obviously Kirk. Not only that but they were a bit too...geeky and nerdy for his taste. Always giggiling as girls walked by being as socially awkward as they were. Talking about random science fiction things and the possibility of them and somehow not talking about anything at the same time.
He took off the saftey glasses and lab coat waving farewell to the lab rat, porcupine and pidgeon heading down the hall with his books in paw. He walked past tables, and the furs waved and acknowledged him for the split second he was there and in the next went back to their own lives. A girl flirted as he rounded her table, she batted her eyes and purred making the lion next to her feel even more insignificant but he just waved and passed her by. He couldn't help but wonder if that was the problem. If he were simple straight and hooked up with one of the slutty broads in school... but it slipped from his mind as he came to the table he sat every day of the week.
And there he was now. At the jock table. A little off center from the cafeteria's but it was the perfect spot. Close enough to the food but still close enough to the cheerleaders. He slapped paws as he walked around, nudged the collie and fist bumped his team as they talk about nothing. Ranging from nothing, to more nothing. And sometimes they'd pass across nothing and rarely on a blue moon...more nothing. Cars, woman, the team, school, girls, homework, gym, weights, milfs, and cheerleaders. Couldn't forget about them of course as they giggled as their names came up more than once.
He laughed and joked along with them, hiding behind his mask. Every word that left his lips as fake as the smile he wore. Everybody loved him. Everybody excepted him. And he knew as long as he wore that mask they always would.
It was a strange thing being popular. No matter what he did everyone either loved it or thought he was joking, even if they didn't get it not wanting to stand out. During art class he painted a replica of michelangelo but instead of the stoney form of a bull, he did one of an akita. Round shoulders, large canine head, bulking arms and bursting thighs, a truly chizzeled chest and a small fig leaf covering him but only enough to leave an air of mystery around it. He was rather proud of the work in front of him and as the others around him saw it; for a split second their faces fell and for the first time he wanted to see that they were disappointed in him. That their view of him failed and that he could let his true self show for once. But a second later they burst out laughing, slapping him on the back.
One of the subsitutes took the photo over to an akita that looked all too identical and showed it too him. He could've been his twin. The akita looked over at him, and he tried not meeting those rustic ashened gray eyes. Doug just stared at the painting before looking back, and a large canine grinned broke from that cold exterior and he laughed a booming laughter that sunk a knife right into the dalmation. Then again it was better than the akita walking over and decking him in the face. He might as well have, though. The pain he felt was just as real. Then again he had only meant to test the waters but instead dove head first, only to realize they were as shallowed as he feared.
He grinned foolishly and laughed along with them, shrugging his shoulders and saying something or other as his mask slipped right back on. Neatly, tightly over his face hiding the tears staining his eyes and the pain seeping from his broken heart.
It was strange. Even as the kicker he was the most popular guy on the team. He didn't even really do anything. Just every now and then he'd make his apperance and the crowd would roar like a rabid mob. Then he'd be off and sitting on the bench with the subs, just watching and cheering along with them. And after the game they all grouped up around him and they'd cheer if they won. Or curse and shout blaiming the ref for their loss.
And he'd turn and look over his shoulder to see his parents. Both in their suits. Proper as always. His dad would nod at him and he'd have to give him a nod, a smile or wave before looking back at the field in front of him with misty eyes as he sunk further into the world he had perfected and crafted for himself.
And it was after their first game, as he walked amongst the empty bleachers would he have any real alone time. The seats beneath each step would echo as he walked along them with padded paws. A deft silence falling whenever he stopped. Able to hear every heart beat and breath he made. And he'd be left alone with his thoughts. Waying that coin flip in his head as he so did every so often.
Heads he would tell. He would come out and deal with whatever ramification came with it. Stop pretending to be the perfect boy everyone else saw him to be.
Tails he'd remain as he was. With that mask. As long as he needed it. As long as he didn't feel safe in this world.
And each time that coin would spin another sight flashed in his mind. Of red. Of blood. And the limp body of someone he had called a friend in front of him. Unmoving. Not breathing. Cold as stone. To think that he made it was but a miracle in itself. And as the images flashed before his tired eyes another took its place. Of him standing in front of the battered body in the dark hospital room, staring at the fur in front of him hooked up to at least one of every machine in the place. And the words that slipped out of his lips, "its not your fault."
He hugged himself tightly against the cold chill that ran down his spine, tears staining his cheeks. But it was. It was his fault. He was the one that did it. He did it too. Hate me, curse me, spit on me, tell me you never want to see me again...just don't console the very man that put him there. He cried silently in the winter night air, amongst the bleachers all alone.
He cursed. He shouted into the empty stands. Into the night air, biting his lips. Tasting that purtid taste in his mouth, as the red liquid ran down his chin. He wanted to crumble to the ground, to slam his fist against the bleachers and scream but he wasn't that guy. No words truly left his lips. Just the thoughts of them. Even as the mask crumbled with no one around. He wasn't that furson. He didn't even know who he was anymore, living a lie his entire life. All he knew was that he hadn't the gul, the balls to do what his friend had done. He was a coward, a weak pathetic coward that could only ever cry for himself here in the snow of nothingness.