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He was a shy kid. The type that kept
to himself and wanted nothing to do with the outside world other than
walking on the same ground as it. It wasn’t that he disliked the people
that lived in the little district made up of railways and deserted land
and dry road signs that was known as Casper, in fact he rather liked
that everything and everyone around him was gray. It made him feel like he fit in for
once. It was merely that he preferred to be in isolation rather than
involve himself in group activities. Ever since he was a small child he
had been this way, despite his mother’s constant attempts to persuade
him to ‘talk to the other kids for once’.
He was a high school boy, fifteen years old, though he could probably
pass for eighteen. His name was Robbie Moreyne. Robbie was anything but
normal. There was something dark about him that no one, not even his
mother could figure out. Though none of this showed on the outside. He
was quiet, and only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. He thought
nothing of himself, as if he were a spec of dust or perhaps the last
cart in a rusted train wreck. This could have been the fault of his
mother, who went out of her way to make sure he knew he was just like
everyone else, and never paid much attention to him other than when she
wanted to take out her own stresses and frustrations.
He never knew his father, but everyone told him he had his exact eyes
growing up. Ever since his father’s death Robbie’s mother had nothing
and no one, not even her own son, she believed, even though he was
beside her all the while attempting to offer her the little comfort he
could give. She shut him out, like she did everyone, and would cry
herself to sleep countless times. Over the years she had grown bitter, a
different woman from whom Robbie knew as a child. She was cold and
emotionless, and had become a stranger to everyone around her. She lost
contact with her old friends and family members, and kept Robbie from
doing a lot of things ‘normal’ kids do. She had even overdosed on
prescribed drugs, an attempt at suicide. Robbie came home from school to
find her sprawled on her stomach on the carpeting of her shabby bedroom,
her legs in a tangle and one arm underneath her, clutching her chest. He
had panicked and dialed 9-1-1. The doctors had pumped her stomach clean
and she had been saved. But since then nothing changed inside her. She
was still the same heartless woman, ashamed of her own existence, and
unable to provide her son with anything he needed. When times were
desperate they would show up in the back alley of Bosco’s Italian
restaurant, which was a few blocks from their house, and dig through the
scraps left behind from the paying customers. Robbie never enjoyed doing
this. He had said he’d rather starve once, and his mother whipped a cold
hand across his cheek and said it was all he was going to get for the
next week.
Of course, he had grown up and become able to fend for himself. Now at
fifteen he even had a job of his own, which was more than he could say
for his mother, even if it was just as a factory-worker unloading boxes
filled to the brim with various canned goods: spaghetti, meatballs,
beans, peas, sauces. This work couldn’t be harder for Robbie, and it
wasn’t just because he was the smallest person in the entire factory, or
because if he made the slightest error he wouldn’t hear the end of it,
but it was something different. Something that had taunted him
throughout his childhood and that was still lingering beneath his skin
now. He had an illness. But not just your everyday flu or asthma kind of
illness. He was sick with an unknown virus. Not one doctor could
pinpoint it and give him a straight up answer. Because if this illness
he had spent more than half his life in the grip of a hospital bed. His
mother was rarely there to see him. In fact, the constant IV in his arm
had become more of a mother to him than she.
Doctors had said he might have a strange case of leukemia, some said it
was anemia, or some had even mentioned a brain tumor. The fact was that
Robbie didn’t want to believe any of it. It didn’t feel right when a
doctor would put a new label on his symptoms, as if by doing this they
were somehow making everything okay, making him seem normal. But the
truth of the matter was that he wasn’t normal. And apparently he was the
only one who could feel it.
• • •
Now Robbie found himself in a very familiar white room. It could have
been his bedroom from how many times he was there. The sunlight was
seeping through behind closed cream-colored drapes. He had a pencil in
his hand and it was moving, creating an image on a white piece of paper,
one of many in a thick sketchbook of his. He was having trouble guiding
the pencil where he wanted since the IV was in his left arm, his drawing
hand. He didn’t really know what he was drawing anyway, he never did. He
just kept the pencil dancing between his fingers, letting his thoughts
take superiority over his hand.
There was a quiet knock at the door and a heart-shaped brunette nurse
entered the door backwards, pulling a push-trolley in with her. She was
in her late twenties.
“Hello, Robbie. Good to see you up and at em’! I brought you some
breakfast.”
Robbie looked up and only paused for a second before he continued on
with his art piece. “Thanks, Mary-Lynne.”
He practically knew all the nurses on a first name basis. Since this was
the only hospital in the small town of Casper, it was the only one he
ever went to when he had his health troubles.
“What are you drawing today, Robbie?” She pushed the trolley with his
breakfast beside him, then peered over around his sketchbook to get a
glimpse of what was on the paper.
“I don’t know, I just…” He often left his sentences unfinished. Looking
at it now, he could see the drawing had ended up being a mass of lines
that made up a bed, just like the one he was in, and a man, sleeping
perhaps, on top of it. There were about twenty hands in the picture
coming from everywhere and nowhere. Climbing up the bed, grasping at his
clothes, desperately trying to lift him up and carry him away.
“Wow, very interesting.” Mary-Lynne commented. “You know something? And
I’m not making this up—”
Robbie looked up at her through anxious eyes. He was half expecting
criticism.
“You are quite possibly the best artist I know.”
He could feel his face getting hot with embarrassment. “No, I don’t
think so.”
“It’s true!” She ruffled his hair. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
He shook his head and smiled.
“Now eat up, you need your strength.”
Hospital food wasn’t his favorite, but it beat being stuck at home
having leftover pasta from the week before. He would go back to school
in the morning, and from there he would continue on in this game called
life until something else happened to him. It was the same everyday for
him. The same food, the same clothes, the same people, nothing thrilled
him anymore. In fact he hadn’t had any real fun for a good couple of
years, and even then it wasn’t anything too special (or so it would seem
to the average outsider).
He had been eleven years old at the time, and things were finally
starting to lighten up, or so he thought. His mother had found herself a
new boyfriend; one that Robbie really connected with. When this man came
into the picture, everything had changed. His mother seemed almost
happy, which was a first since the death of her husband. This new man,
Lewis Straider, was hardly her age but seemed to enjoy her company well
enough. He was in his late twenties, which Robbie found odd. Why would
someone that young want to be with his mother? But he didn’t ask
questions. What mattered was that his mother was humming while she
cooked again.
At first Robbie found it hard to open up to this new man. He had
difficulty trusting anyone, really. So he shut him out until Lewis found
Robbie in his room drawing one day. They talked and talked about nothing
in particular. Art, music, places to visit. Almost instantly they hit it
off, and Robbie began to wonder why he ever mistrusted Lewis. As the
weeks passed he had begun to want to be with Lewis everyday, even over
his own mother. Lewis did things with him that his mother never did. He
took him out, to eat, to buy new things, and never asked for anything in
return.
One day after school Robbie came home to his mother arguing with Lewis.
They were bickering back and forth about Robbie’s spending too much time
with Lewis.
“He prefers you over his own mother!” Claire Moreyne spat.
“Well maybe that should tell you something, Claire! He needs a
father-figure in his life. Hell, he even needs a goddamn mother-figure!
Because you certainly aren’t doing the job!” The yelling was so loud
Robbie had to cover his ears even though they were in the kitchen and
hadn’t noticed him come in. He ran and took cover on the stairs, leaning
against the railing listening to the two go at it.
“Oh? And what are you doing that’s so fatherly, huh?!”
“I take him places. I buy him clothes for god’s sake!”
“That’s not necessities; he already has clothes!”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. If they fought, they would surely split.
And his mother had it all wrong. Lewis was telling the truth and Robbie
was glad it was finally coming out. He had to stop them before things
got too far, before they separated and Robbie would never get to see
Lewis again.
“Stop!” He had burst into the room despite his growing hesitation and
fright.
They both seemed to pause in their speech. His mother’s eyes were like
daggers, Lewis’ seemed concerned.
“Mom, Lewis is right.”
She repeated what he said. “Lewis is right. What do you mean Lewis is
right? I am your mother for crying out loud, I’ll say what’s right
here!”
Robbie couldn’t find the strength to continue. There was only silence
after that. Silence that was so muted yet so deafening.
Robbie never understood why Lewis left then and there. Was it because
Robbie hadn’t said anything further? He hadn’t stood up for himself and
that bothered Lewis? Whatever it was, he was gone. He left, and neither
Robbie nor his mom ever heard from him again. It was almost as if he
disappeared off the face of the planet, without any trace of himself
left behind. Claire had told him it was Lewis who had started the fight,
and that he was planning on leaving her that day anyway.
Everything went back to normal after that, Claire went back to crying
herself to sleep, and Robbie went back to being alone. It was as if
nothing had ever happened.
Now Robbie passed through wooden doors with tiny glass windows embedded
in the middle of them. Everything was so white. The uniforms, the walls,
the seats. His jet black hair was probably the darkest thing in the
room. He passed a woman at the reception desk and waved a hand her way.
“Goodbye, Robbie. See you next time,” the woman said as he brushed
passed nurses and sick patients to the main door to exit. Next time…
What next time? The next time his heart went into sudden cardiac arrest?
The next time the unusual rashes showed up again all over his body?
These ‘next times’ seemed closer away than the next time he would laugh
or perhaps eat a large meal. But this was the way his life went. And he
was more than used to it by now.
• • •
Allen Linden high school was just off the main road, surrounded by rows
of houses that appeared as though they were vacant for a good few years,
although they were very much lived in. The houses were all the same
beige color, as though they had been dyed that way by the sun and the
owners had no choice. But the truth was that everything in Casper
blended in, and even the school could barely be seen amongst the miles
of dull-colored houses. Allen Linden was one of those buildings that did
nothing. It just sat there, giving the drivers-by something to look at
that was bigger than the houses to the left. It was the most remote high
school in the city, and perhaps the state, and looked as though a kid
picked it up and plopped it here to go and play with his other toys,
like perhaps the city hall.
Robbie approached the two painted wooden doors to his high school like
he did everyday. He wore a black t-shirt, a tattered grey sweatshirt and
jeans and carried a dull olive-colored backpack. He only owned a few
articles of clothing, so it was never hard getting dressed in the
morning. It was the middle of spring, so he didn’t need to dress in
layers like he did when it was chilly out.
He was usually the one of the first students in the building; he was
never late for anything, so school was no exception. He didn’t enjoy
school, but he didn’t mind it either. He sort of looked at it as
something that just needed to be done.
Robbie watched the hallways slowly fill up with students, each one at
his or her locker, some chatting with friends. The bell always rang at
half past eight. His locker was directly beneath the clock which now had
the big hand positioned straight down, almost like a finger pointing at
him. He grabbed the books he needed for science class, which is always
what he had first on Wednesdays, and locked his locker. The clock
hanging above watched him make his way down the corridor and out of
sight.
“Hello class. I just thought I should let you know that Mr. Dennis won’t
be attending class until April twenty-ninth, due to his back injury some
of you may have heard about.” Mrs. Jones, the vice principle of Allen
Linden high, had entered the class to make this speech to the students
who were impatiently awaiting their teacher’s arrival. A few students
now whistled their contentment, a few asked questions aloud. Mrs. Jones
raised a hand to silence them all.
“Your replacement teacher, Mr. Creevy will be here shortly. He has
called us to let us know he will be somewhat late, due to car troubles
on the freeway. We made sure our decision in picking Mr. Creevy to teach
you for the next three weeks was a wise one. He has worked in other
schools around the state, and has majored in formal, natural and
physical sciences, and he has worked with top experimenters at many
laboratories in Wyoming.”
“So if he’s done all this why does he want to teach a bunch of lousy
students?” Peter Guavo spat. He was the school’s tough kid, the only one
brave enough to talk back to the vice principle of the school, along
with his two sloven cronies of course.
Mrs. Jones seemed taken aback. You would think in such a small school
she would be used to the attitude of Peter Guavo by now.
“Well, you can ask him that when he gets here.” She straightened herself
and left the classroom.
Robbie was drawing. Without even realizing he was beginning to compose a
man clutching an umbrella, only the umbrella was suspended in a tree and
the man was about to be blown away by a gust of vicious wind. The
picture was nowhere near finished but he already hated it. He disliked
anything his hand formulated.
“What have you got there?” All Robbie’s concentration was broken by the
voice of Megan Winehouse, a bubbly blonde in the row beside him. She had
gotten up from her seat to examine Robbie’s man in the tree.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he didn’t want her to see it. He was actually trying
to cover it with his arms inconspicuously.
“Let me see!” She giggled, and Robbie knew his embarrassment was just
beginning. He started to shut the book but Megan’s hands stopped it and
grabbed it out of his grasp.
Her eyes widened as if with terror. “Wow…”
“It’s horrible, I know. I told you I—”
“This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen! How can you say it’s
horrible? You’re crazy!”
She was a sweet girl, the type that wasn’t aware of her own good-nature.
But she was also one of the most popular girls in Allen Linden high, and
rarely spoke to Robbie, except for the time she asked to borrow his
pencil a few months back.
He could feel his cheeks going red like they always did when someone
paid him a compliment, and he tried to look away in hopes Megan wouldn’t
notice. Instead she sat down in the desk directly behind Robbie’s.
“Can you draw me?” Megan asked.
Robbie turned to face her and she was smiling back at him hopefully.
“I’ve never done that before… But I can try.”
She let out a happy yelp and Robbie began sketching her features. Her
lips were full, and she had coated them with a shimmery lip gloss that
sparkled from the sun shining through the window beside them. Her jaw
line was soft and feminine, and she hadn’t one blemish on her rosy
cheeks. Her eyes were like the sea, piercing and alert. Her eyes… Robbie
couldn’t look away. He was drawn to the secrets they possessed, and
suddenly he heard faint whispers… whispers that started to grow. They
escalated into ear-splitting yells and shouts, coming from everywhere
and nowhere. Robbie was abruptly thrown into a pink room with purple
polka-dots on the walls, and he held a folded pillow over his two ears,
trying to block out the screams. There were crashes and clatters, then
more shouting about housework and money. The tension in the room was
only growing. So much anger… so much hate…
“Robbie?” Megan’s voice crashed into Robbie’s skull like a sharp dagger,
though her voice was soft and comforting.
Robbie blinked a few times and took in his surroundings. He was back in
science class, as he was, with the pencil in his hand. He looked down at
his sketch and saw that there was a line running down Megan’s cheek,
streaming from her left eye like a tear.
“Sorry…” Robbie grabbed the eraser and barely pressed it to the paper
when Megan yanked the sketchbook out of his hands. Robbie hesitated. “I
didn’t mean to do that—”
Megan examined it for a few minutes then smiled. “I quite like it.”
Robbie thought he had heard her wrong. “You do?”
She nodded and suddenly Peter Guavo got out of his seat and strolled
over. “What’s that, Megan?”
“Robbie drew me. Isn’t it great?” She held it up to her face to show the
comparison.
“I don’t see the resemblance.” Peter was Megan’s boyfriend. Robbie never
understood why anyone would want to be dating him. But somehow, someway,
the two most popular kids in the school had hooked up and it was no
surprise to the rest of the students. Kind of like something that was
pre-destined.
Peter glared down at Robbie. He often looked at him this way and Robbie
didn’t quite know why. He hadn’t done anything at all to provoke him in
any way. He wasn’t friends with his enemies or anything like that. But
still, Robbie couldn’t help feeling hated for no reason at all.
“Let me see it.” He snatched the drawing out of Megan’s hands and stared
at it for a while before Megan demanded it back. She even got out of her
seat and chased him around the room before Peter tore the sheet from the
rest of the book. Robbie winced but did nothing. He didn’t move from his
seat.
“Peter!” Megan cried. They had somehow made their way back in front of
Robbie’s desk.
Peter imitated Megan’s whine. By now the paper was fully crumpled just
from Peter’s tight grip. “I think it looks more like you like this.”
Peter tore the paper completely in half, a vertical line down the center
of her nose. It was as if the whole class went silent for just that
moment.
“You’re such a jerk!” Megan pounded on Peter’s arms countless times, but
it was as if he were made of stone. He didn’t budge, but merely smiled,
satisfied with himself.
Megan snatched the torn pieces of paper and held them ever so gently, as
if she were caressing a fragile body of a small creature. “Maybe we can
tape them back together…” She turned to Robbie with saddened eyes.
“That’s okay, I can draw you another one, it’s no problem.”
“You won’t be drawing her anything else, you hear me?” Peter commanded.
Robbie stared up from his seat. Peter was like a giant. The sun cascaded
over his whole body, causing shadows under his eyes and nose and lips.
Robbie thought Peter felt threatened, like he would steal Megan away or
something. He was very uncomfortable, and shifted in his seat. His
sketchbook was on his desk and he grabbed it along with his pencil,
standing up as he did so.
“Yeah, okay,” Robbie said, but apparently it wasn’t convincing enough
for Peter because he shoved his body in Robbie, his face only inches
away.
“Do you hear me?” He repeated, louder this time.
“If I didn’t before, I do now.” Robbie hadn’t meant for it to sound as
bad as it did when it came out and he could sense the whole class
staring at him. He had unintentionally spoken back to Peter Guavo.
“What did you say, kid?” Despite their being almost the same age, Peter
always like to shrink the other students.
Robbie didn’t want to take the situation any further so he slid out of
Peter’s way slyly, his books in-hand. He didn’t know exactly where he
was going— maybe to the washroom— but he knew he just had to get out of
there immediately. He didn’t look back to see the stunned face of Peter
Guavo, standing at the far side of the room with his face all twisted.
Robbie was looking down. He just reached the doorway of the classroom
when he looked up and immediately collided with someone— a tall man
holding a ton of books and a fresh coffee from the corner café. Luckily,
nothing spilled. They were both walking at such a fast pace that the
clash took all the breath from Robbie’s lungs. The man struggled for a
moment to get the books back in line but he managed. There was a long
pause and none of them moved. The man’s eyes were hazel, an olive green
mixed with a chocolate brown. It reminded Robbie of the soil outside on
the fields in the springtime. He was young, in his late twenties, slim
and well built. His hair was chestnut and neatly gelled back. His face
was serious and emotionless, his eyes cold. He reminded Robbie of a
military man, or maybe Clark Kent. He couldn’t decide.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” The man said. He had a heavy
English accent that Robbie had not been expecting to hear. Robbie didn’t
answer. It was like he didn’t know how.
The man turned Robbie around to face the class again.
“Don’t think you’re getting away that easily,” he said. He seemed to
automatically demand respect, because the whole class straightened up as
the man entered the class and put down the books he was holding at the
head teacher’s desk. Robbie walked over to his seat again.
“Take your seat, please,” the man told Peter Guavo. Peter gave Robbie a
wicked glare as he passed.
“I am Mr. Creevy. You shall address me as sir. I am going to be your
science teacher for the next few weeks. Your teacher, Mr. Dennis, has
injured his back and is therefore—”
“Yeah, we know. The Vice already told us,” Peter’s loudmouth boomed over
Mr. Creevy’s.
“I will not be interrupted when I am speaking,” Mr. Creevy raised his
voice louder than Peter’s, if it was possible. It echoed throughout the
class. “I could care less about what Mrs. Jones has already discussed
with you. Do you understand me?”
Peter was taken aback. Mr. Dennis never spoke this way with him. He
usually could speak however he wanted.
“I said do you understand me?” Mr. Creevy repeated.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
A few students were awestruck at Mr. Creevy’s behavior. It seems Robbie
had been right. A military man indeed.
As the class progressed Robbie’s attention span was shriveling. He had
begun to draw in his notebook for school, a hand grasping at something.
“Mr. Moreyne,” Mr. Creevy’s voice pierced through Robbie’s ears and his
stomach gave a small leap when the man spoke his name. How had he known
his name? Was there a class list somewhere that Robbie didn’t see?
“Yes? Umm... Sir?” Robbie was fully alert now. He tried to figure out
what it was Mr. Creevy was asking him by looking on the chalkboard at
the head of the class. He just saw a jumble of letters and symbols,
making up different formulas and equations.
“Could you tell me the answer, please?” Even his soft voice was somehow
cold and collected. Robbie took note that he must be from London or
Ipswich. Robbie was stalling. He didn’t know the answer. He hadn’t even
been paying attention to what the man was saying. He had opened his
mouth to speak but nothing came out. There were butterflies— or perhaps
frogs— dancing about in his stomach.
“You don’t know, do you? Because you weren’t paying attention. You were
too busy doodling nonsense in your book.”
Robbie looked down at the hand on his paper and suddenly felt sheepish.
“I’m sorry…”
The whole class waited.
“…Sir.” Robbie remembered at the last second what the man had asked them
to address him as.
“Why don’t you give it a shot anyway?” Mr. Creevy suggested. “What is
the mass of water produced by the combustion of 802 grams of methane?”
Robbie hesitated. The question might as well have been asked in Chinese.
It made no sense to Robbie. Had they even learned this stuff yet? Was it
possible for this problem to even be worked out in his head?
“I… I don’t know, sir.” Robbie twisted the pencil in his hand and
shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mr. Creevy appeared to be sizing him
up. The man’s eyes were like daggers being thrown at him. Robbie felt as
though he had to dodge them.
He didn’t ask anyone else to answer the question, but instead continued
what he was doing on the board. Robbie didn’t know what any of it meant.
It could have just been his lack of understanding in the whole exercise,
but it seemed as though the question Mr. Creevy asked him had nothing to
do with what was being written on the blackboard. |
