Pulse

by Wade, Matthew

  He didn’t turn to look at Professor Brightside. “OK, we sit and wait.”

  Five

  Gavin Clarke was late for school again. He had overslept his alarm and then hooked up with his girlfriend just outside Riverside high school, Fresno.

  Monika was a girl who tried too hard to impress. She grew up in a rougher part of town, and spent most of her childhood believing that the only way to get noticed was to be loud and flamboyant. She hadn’t come across any middle class people or their ethos until her formative years had passed. As a result, she thought that the height of fashion was large gold loopy earrings and fake designer handbags. What she didn’t realise is that it wasn’t her intellect or personality that was holding her back from her peers – it was the fact that she looked like trailer trash.

  Gavin liked her, on the other hand, purely because he thought (wrongly) that she was easy, and also because she was stunning. She chose to wear crop tops and hot pants in the summer, and simply added a fur coat in the winter. Today was a crop top day, and boy did Gavin notice. In fact, he spent the entirety of the conversation watching her chest, and wondering what he could say to persuade her to come back to his place later on that afternoon.

  Monika was a talented artist, but because her parents never really encouraged her talent, or recognised it as a talent at all, she was destined to a life of doodling in her school books, and making party fliers for friends. She would have been spotted as a talent when she reached college by a modern thinking art teacher, who would have taken her under his wing and nurtured a very creative gift. She would have then tried her hand at fashion design, and after a few years’ internship at several high profile design houses, would start making her own designs. She would, at the age of twenty eight, had her first catwalk show in Milan. But like a lot of people in her town, Monika would never realise her potential.

  Of course, neither Gavin or Monika new any of this, or they may have run away as fast as they could. Instead they went about their lives just like any other high school couple.

  “You’se gonna be late for school GC.” said Monika. She had a habit of calling him that, even though no-one else in the world did. “And if Mr Osborne catches you again he’s gonna flunk you’se. Then all you will have is football to get you into East next summer.”

  “I don’t care for no English writing class - you know that. And besides – I’m waiting for Blake to show – he’s got a little something for me.”

  “Jeezus Gavin! Can’t you wait to after school do that? You know they toe the line here on that kind of thing.” She started looking nervously over her shoulder. “You almost got caught last year with that John Stevenson kid and look where it got him. He ended up in military school. And you know it’s even worse now – especially knowing who Blake’s daddy is. I mean, come on GC – can’t you do it somewhere else, at another time? Please? For me?” As she said the last few words, she looked up into his eyes and started playing with the string pull on his hooded sweater. A trick which she was well practiced at to get him to do her will. “We could meet up together. Tonight.”

  Monika well knew how to get her way with Gavin. With any boy in fact. Simple creatures she thought. All I have to do is flirt a little and even the toughest guy is putty in my hands.

  At this point Gavin’s phone rang. “Yeah. I’m here – yeah tell you what, can we meet later, maybe over at my folks’ place? There out of town. You know… no man look I’m not… no I’m not bailing dude. Just Ozzy will be on the prowl soon, and you know my record with… yeah I sure will. Yeah I’ll bring it, don’t worry, you’ll get your money. Just don’t let your old man see you. Later dude.” He clicked off his phone, lit a cigarette and headed up the steps to the school entrance, cocking his head to the side at Monika in a come on sort of way.

  Mr Osborne’s English class was on the first floor of the main block, overlooking the sports fields and behind it, in the distance, the town. Ozzy, as he was sometimes known to his pupils and fellow teachers, was a young, enthusiastic man who the students respected.

  “Good of you to join us Mr Clarke” he said as the door crept open and the two lovers tried their best to sneak in unnoticed.

  “Sorry sir” they said in unison.

  “Hmm – I’m sure you are. Take your seats. And I’m sure you have done your homework?”

  “Yessir.” Again in unison. The class were sniggering.

  “So, Miss Kale – Would you like to go first?” Ozzy knew perfectly well that she wouldn’t have done her assignment, or at least done it half-heartedly. So he was surprised when she accepted his challenge, and pulled a rather fat ream of writing paper from her fake Louis Vuitton bag and cleared her throat.

  It clearly surprised her classmates too, as the sniggering had stopped, and all eyes were on the attractive–but–trashy Miss Monika Kale.

  “Do you want all of it, sir?” (There was an unmistakable note of double entendre in the way she asked the question) “Or just the start?” She stood with one hand on her lowered hip and the other holding the pages out to show how much was there.

  “Let’s have the first couple of pages, shall we?” said the teacher. Refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Stephanie was a 15 year old girl, who was often bored when she was at home” she began. “She spends a lot of time in her bedroom, listening to music, or texting her boyfriend Scott Hammet. Scott was a lot older than her. Scott was 23. He used to come over to her house when her parents were out of town. They used to fool around. One day Scott came over to her house when she was alone again and she asked him in upstairs and then she asked him what he wante… sorry… what he wanted her to do. He said that he wanted to go further in their relationship so how about we start now….”

  By now the class were sniggering again and Ozzy, sensing where this story was to end up, decided as tactfully as he could to put an end to the embarrassment.

  “Thank you, Miss Kale, for that. Class? Does anyone have any criticisms?” He surveyed that class as every pupil avoided eye contact with him. “Anyone? Mr Gibson, what about you?”

  There was a quick shuffling sound as all of the students turned to the back of the class to look at Stuart Gibson, who looked up from Monika’s legs, and into the eyes of his teacher. More sniggering. “I thought it was…nice…erm… maybe a little quick. You know…she could have taken a bit more time over it. I mean, if you wanted to, that is.” By now Gavin had shot Stuart a don’t you dare look.

  “Yes, ok – so what could she do to improve upon the text?” said Ozzy.

  “I don’t know, maybe, add some description on her house, or something?”

  Sniggering.

  “Hmm” said the teacher, now walking down the isle of desks towards Monika. “I suspect you are right, but I also suspect that if she had actually written anything at all, rather than trying to make it up on the spot she would have succeeded in giving us more of a story.” He snatched the paper from Monika’s hand, and studied the drawing of what seemed to be an angel falling from the sky, with its wings on fire. “Miss Kale, do you think I enjoy seeing my students failing? Or do you think that I wish you to succeed?”

  He paused to let the statement sink in.

  “I set homework and assignments to encourage you to learn. Now get to the principal’s office and tell him that you are on detention for the rest of this week!”

  Monika sighed, stood up from her desk, grabbed her brown and gold bag and walked out of the classroom without so much as a murmur of complaint. She knew that she was in the wrong, and that any argument she could present would most likely result in more severe punishment.

  Now Gavin’s pulse was starting to rise, as he could feel the gaze of his teacher falling on him.

  “So, Mr Clarke.” He was standing at the front of the class, holding his ground.

  Gavin started to stare his teacher down, but quickly broke gaze, as the consequences of entering a stare down outweighed the desire in the committee of his mind.

  The per
iod end bell then sounded, signalling a flurry of scraping chairs and collecting papers.

  “Saved by the bell, it would appear Mr Clarke.”

  Gavin gave a wry smile and disappeared from class.

  Outside the room he stood in the corridor, surveying the swarm of students passing him by.

  As Stuart Gibson scurried past, he put a hand on his shoulder and spun him around to face him. “What do think you are doing?” Stuart froze. “Should learn to keep your eyes away from another man’s girl.” He prodded his finger into Stuart’s shoulder as he spoke. Emphasising every syllable with a jab. Stuart’s mouth moved up and down, but no sound came out. He just waited, hoping to ride out the storm.

  “I’ll tell you what the problem is, shall I? It’s you and your little boyfriend that give me the creeps.” By then Gavin’s friends had found him and were watching the sport unfold.

  “In fact, where is that little fucker….”

  Six

  Bobby was in the corridor, taking one set of books out of his locker and putting another set in. The inside door had three pictures, and a sticker. The first picture was the largest. It was a small sized poster of the band My Chemical Romance, who Bobby had discovered a year earlier when he was watching one of the cable music channels in his bedroom, whilst playing video games at the same time. He was playing Dead Space – the game about killing Zombies in space. He had been up there playing for about 3 hours one Friday night, when the TV started playing I’m not OK. Bobby paused the game, and found himself watching the gothic looking band parading around a high school signing about angst, rejection and feelings of desperation. This struck a chord (no pun intended) with him, and he spent the rest of the night illegally downloading their music, videos, and anything else he could find on the group.

  “Music is about the feelings that it gives you” his mother used to say. “When you hear a piece of music, whether it is classical, pop, rock, jazz, or just someone singing, it should take you to another place. Make you feel connected to the artist. Make you feel like they are signing just for you, and that no-one else in the world could understand the bond you share for that moment. Some people respond differently to different music. The music that I like might not appeal to you, and vice versa. But it is what appeals to you that matters.”

  Bobby liked thinking of his mother, but it would eventually bring on feelings of sadness, and video games seemed to offer the emersion he needed to take his mind off his troubles.

  The other two pictures in his locker were of two games – Dead Space 2 and Dead Space 3. They were held in place by an Iron Maiden sticker. Not that he was a big fan, just that it was long enough to pin up the three zombie posters.

  “Hey why don’t you go home and have a wash? – You stink! Fuckin’ makes me feel sick just looking at you.” It was Gavin. He was standing behind him with three of his meathead friends behind him. “How about we see how tough you are.” He laughed and turned to his heavies behind him, who chuckled along at the scene on cue. “And why don’t you tell that boyfriend of yours to stop staring at my girl in class – faggot wouldn’t know what to do with her anyway.” As he finished he pushed Bobby’s head into his locker door, which bounced open wide with a clang. The cronies laughed out loud this time.

  Bobby stood still and stared at the floor, still with his back to them, and waited for them to go away. His Uncle Steve was always telling him “You gotta stand up for yourself, buddy. You know, show some confidence. When I was your age my old man, God rest his soul, would take me outside and teach me how to throw a punch. He had a punch bag in the garage, and we would practice how to take a guy out, if we had to.”

  Steve would then try and get Bobby outside, by suggesting they play baseball, football, or just about anything to get him away from his screen. Steve didn’t understand video games, and thought that being outside, talking to girls, and getting into fights with guys over girls was what teenagers should be doing with their spare time. They should definitely not be playing hockey on a computer.

  “Who are these faggots?” Said Gavin, looking at the inside of the locker. “I got a picture of Pammie at home on my wall if you want to know what a real woman looks like.” More laughter. A small crowd of onlookers was forming behind them. This only served to egg Gavin on further. “Guys shouldn’t be listening to that kind of shit” he said, and grabbed the poster and ripped it off the locker door.

  “Hey that’s mine. Stop it.”

  “Ooh – I’m scared. Why don’t you go crying to mommy. Oh no wait – you can’t! Hahahaha!”

  Bobby could feel the heat of rage and tears building up simultaneously in him. A hot burning sensation was welling up behind his eyes. He could hear uncle Stevie’s words in the back of his head. “You gotta stand up for yourself buddy.” and “You gotta have confidence” or the ever popular “Why don’t you ignore them and just walk away.” Easy for Steve to say. He wasn’t the one cornered by four burly football players. He wanted to punch Gavin hard in the gut, leave him winded and then take out his fellow thugs with a series of well-timed roundhouse kicks and hard punches, just like in Street Fighter or Mortal Kombat. But he didn’t have the ability or the nerve to. Instead he carried on waiting for the ordeal to be over.

  “Aw – poor baby – boo hoo hoo.” Gavin was getting into his stride now. Some of the onlookers were craning their necks to see who the victim of the torment was.

  Bobby lunged forward and tried to grab the poster, but Gavin’s reflexes were just too quick, and rather than taking back what was his, the momentum carried him forward straight into Gavin’s’ path. Gavin took a quick step to the side, leaving his nearside leg where it was, and slapped Bobby on the back of the head as he went past, sending him plunging towards the floor, and landing hard on his chin.

  As the crowd began to laugh, Bobby curled up into a ball, and began to cry. “Please leave me alone.” He was waiting for more to happen. Maybe a kick in the gut, or a stamp on the head. “Just stop hurting me. I just want my poster back.” The laughing was dying down now, as people were bored with the show, or had finished filming / tweeting the episode. Bobby wondered how long it would be before it was on the internet. Probably uploading to YouTube right now.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Come on Bobby – Time to get up” said Mr Osborne. Bobby staggered to his feet, but carried on looking at the floor. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bull. Was it Gavin and his guys again? Or Blake?”

  “No-one – it doesn’t matter.”

  “Listen – you gotta tell me who did this to you. If there are witnesses, we could have them suspended. But you have to tell me who it was.”

  “No, I just want to go.” With that Bobby turned and walked quickly down the corridor. Mr Osborne sighed, turned, and quietly closed the locker door.

  *

  Maggie was waiting on the front steps for Bobby. She had taken out her pony tail, and was fluffing out her hair. She had just seen Gavin and his friends come out of the entrance and she was hoping that Blake might be close behind, or might be waiting to meet them. The door swung open and Maggie performed a very well-practiced swish of her hair to make it look as full and natural as she good get it. She was perched on the wall next to the steps in such a way that showed off her legs to full effect. As she turned to the door with a casual-but-confident glance, she saw Bobby staggering down the steps, blood leaking from his chin.

  “Bob! What the fuck!” She scrambled her things together, jumped off the wall and ran to her brother. As she got close to him ready to help, he stopped her in mid track.

  “Don’t. Let’s just go home.”

  They walked the half an hour back to their Aunt and Uncle’s house in almost silence. The only talking was done by Maggie with phrases like “Why won’t you tell me what happened?” and “If you have problems you should always talk to me about it – maybe I can help.” But all of these were
greeted with a grunt and a shrug of the shoulders, or the occasional mumble which sounded a cross between yeah and I don’t know “Y’Idunno.”

  This carried on until they got close to the front drive of the house and Maggie stopped walking and started rummaging around in her bag. She produced a tissue and turned to Bobby. “We’d better clean the blood off you so Aunt Karen and Uncle Steve don’t freak out.” She proceeded to spit and rub the dried blood off of his chin until there was a faint red smear, but nothing that would be noticed from a distance. The thought crossed her mind that it seemed as though she was looking after a small child, rather than her own twin brother, and that he really oughta think about coming out of his shell in the next year or so, or he might get stuck this way his whole adult life.

  Bobby looked up and spoke. “I miss mum.” he said. Maggie stopped fussing over his shirt that she was trying to clean the blood off of and gave him a hug. “So do I baby Bobby, so do I. I love you Bobby. But you need to move on. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s been six and a half years. She wouldn’t want you to be like this. Please. For me. Why don’t we go out together? Just us and a couple of friends. We could take in a movie, or go bowling. Just get out and meet people.” She was holding his shoulders now, looking at him in the eye. “Come on – for your silly sis.” Bobby laughed. He hadn’t heard that phrase in, well, six and a half years. He smiled through his watery eyes and nodded at her. “Can Stu come too?” She tried not to roll her eyes at him.

  “Yes, sure, why not.” Cause he’s creepy she thought. “It’ll be fun.”

  They walked up to the house on the best mood they had been in all day. As they walked in they both shouted “Hi.” and went upstairs.

  Their Aunt and Uncle came into the hallway to say hi, and to try and start a conversation. But they were learning that trying to start a conversation with two teenagers was as easy as nailing jelly to the ceiling.