by Danielle
"Are you boys here for a fortune?" Her voice was but a wisp of air, like a breeze so quick one couldn’t be sure if the wind had blown at all.
Paul stepped forward eagerly. "Yes, how much?"
The woman waved a wrinkled hand, laden with an assortment of peculiar rings. "Free for Delafontaine students. It’s the least I can do." She sat down in a squashed chair, and a puff of dust rose, sending both Paul and Oliver into coughing fits. The old woman waved her hand, unperturbed, and gestured at the seats in front of her.
When he had caught his breath, Oliver sank down into the chair. His eyes wandered around the store, unable to shake his blatant curiosity. How, he wondered, had Paul found this place. This was a place that he would never have found unless he was looking for it. Paul stuck out his hand, eagerly. The woman's head moved down, as if she were surveying it.
"This is not a palm reading, son." Her voice was soothing in sound, but her tone was unsettling. "I don’t need to see your hand---I need to see you. Sit up boy and let me look at you." Paul suddenly sat at attention. When his back was straighter than a pin, the woman leaned forward and folded back her shawl. Her eyes were brown but milky white too. Try as he might, Oliver couldn't help but stare. Paul opened his mouth to speak again, but was quickly silenced by a sharp tap to the leg. The woman shook her head furiously.
"No, I tell you." She said, slowly. "Delafontaine students. I haven't seen one of you in a while."
Paul chuckled. "Well, this place is pretty hard to find." He rolled his eyes, having evidently caught on to the fact that the old woman couldn’t see well.
"How is it now that the school has changed its ways?" She asked.
"Changed? I think it’s the same it’s always been." Paul said, slowly.
The woman sucked her teeth. "I imagine they wouldn't tell students that."
Oliver sat at attention, the flame of curiosity burning inside of him. "Why wouldn't they?" He asked.
The woman turned, settling her uneven gaze somewhere on Oliver's forehead, and she laughed a raspy laugh. "I suppose it would be bad for business."
"I want to hear my fortune." Paul interrupted, and Oliver twisted his face into a frown in response.
"Ah, I can see you clearer now. Impulsive. Quick with your fingers I've heard." The old woman responded.
"It's not my fault!" Paul protested.
"You should accept responsibility for your actions, young man." The woman responded, simply. "You're holding on to a lot of misconceptions about the world around you. You should ask your friend here."
Paul's eyes shifted over to Oliver, and they narrowed. "I don't think he would understand."
"Oh, I think he understands more than you think."
"What else?" Paul pressed. The old woman set her gaze back on Oliver, and despite the fact that it was Paul who had asked the question, Oliver felt she was speaking to him only.
"You will never graduate from Delafontaine."
"Are you saying I'm going to die? He’s going to die?" Paul's voice was high pitched and laced with fear.
The old woman shifted her gaze back to Paul. "All death is not dying." Oliver stared at the woman.
“What do you mean?” Oliver asked.
The old woman coughed and repeated herself, though her voice had taken on a slight edge. “You will never graduate from Delafontaine.”
“Just me?” Oliver pressed.
The old woman shuddered in response. “Of course not. You are not special.”
The words sent Oliver’s nerves into a frenzy, and when Paul stood up with a quickness that said, undoubtedly, that they would not be staying any longer, Oliver gratefully followed. He gave the old woman a halfhearted wave on the way out, before reminding himself that she probably couldn’t see it anyway. Paul and Oliver walked along the sidewalk in hesitant silence, before Paul spoke up, his voice trembling slightly.
“You don’t believe any of that, do you?” Oliver paused. It was a difficult question. “Oliver?”
“I think she probably says the same thing to everybody.” Oliver said, finally, hoping that he sounded convincing enough. Paul studied him for a long while, as if searching for evidence of the lie on his face.
“She said we’d never graduate from here.” Paul said, his voice so low that Oliver had to strain to hear it. “My mom will never…” Paul’s mumbling was suddenly cut off by a loud chorus of whoops and laughter. A group of boys flooded the sidewalk before them, blocking Oliver and Paul from passing. Oliver felt his stomach drop, and for a moment, in front of him stood Clarence, with his pimple scarred face, sweat-stained polo, and cold, expectant expression that said: You know the drill.
“Delafontaine, huh?” “DelafonSTRANGE!” The sight of Clarence faded from Oliver’s mind, replaced by five greasy boys wearing t-shirts, backpacks, and bad attitudes. The tallest one, a boy with a baby face that would be handsome in time stood in the center, flanked by the four other boys of varying heights.
Oliver met his eyes for a long second before the boy the spoke. “It looks like the freaks arrived back in town already.” His voice stood just on the precipice of puberty, as if it were insecure about the drop ahead. The boys laughed a monotone group laugh, like that of a retired laugh track, sound quality gone dull. The tall boy in the middle smiled smugly, and continued. “What is it this time? You freaks are always getting carted here by the bus load. Blow up a whole school again, did you?” Oliver felt Paul tense besides him.
“We’re here to get an education.” Paul spat.
The tall boy laughed. “I didn’t know they could teach your kind. What’s the word?”
One of the boys flanking him piped up in a high falsetto. “Oh, don’t say it Grant! It’s a bad word! We don’t use that word here! It’s not polite! Young men, I say! Young men!”
Grant looked back and forth between Oliver and Paul. “Criminals?” The boys broke out into riotous laughter. A boy at the back of the group, a fat boy with glasses slapped his hand on his leg and wheezed like a pig on desperate dash away from the butcher.
He couldn’t tell you why he’d done it, of course, but in a flash of red haze, Oliver stepped forward, teeth clenched so hard that his lips began to tremble. “That’s right, I’m a criminal. Do you want to know what I did?” The laughter trickled away, and the boy in the back righted himself to stare curiously at Oliver.
“We don’t want to hear about your delinquent behavior. It’s really nothing to be proud of. We’re just here to skate in this ghost town.” Grant sneered.
“Oh, I’m not telling you because I’m proud. I’m telling you because you have a right to know the kind of people you’re living around. I would want to know who I was talking to, and what I was capable of, if I were you.” The boys leaned forward, and Oliver almost wanted to smile. Almost.
“I killed a man, with my bare hands. I don’t really know how I did it, or why. I guess that means I might do it again. The trouble is, I don’t know who will be next.”
Oliver practically heard the alarm bells ringing in their minds, and before he was done---and really, he had a few more sentences to go----the sidewalk before him was as clear as a summer’s day. “Let’s go, Paul.” He said.
The bravado carried him like a cloud all the way to the end of the street before it began to fade into genuine horror. Had he really just flashed murder as a cheap party trick, and promised to do it again? He looked down at his hands and warm tears began to crowd his vision. Oliver hoped that Paul was looking ahead, to the side, or anywhere but at him. As they walked further through town, Oliver found it more and more difficult to hold a wave of guilty tears. He had really done it. He had outed himself as a criminal, and more disturbingly so, he had felt proud. It was small, but it was there, no doubt. He had stood up to these boys in the way he had only dreamed of standing up to Clarence. And there it was, the pride. They had scattered like a bunch of alley cats after a thunderstorm. And he was that thunderstorm, threatening, dark, and filling the skies with nightmares. And
this newfound pride, his confidence was the result of the blood of another.
Paul and Oliver walked along the forest trail back to Delafontaine. The sun was stretched low across the sky, which had just begun showing the first signs of dusk. "I wonder what she was on about." Paul muttered, the first words either had said since the sidewalk. "Good thing that fortune was free." Oliver looked sideways at Paul to see his eyebrows knitted together and a vein pulsing in his head.
"It was just garbage. You know that." Oliver reached up to pat Paul on the shoulder, but he stepped aside. There was silence for a moment, and Oliver felt as if the forest had suddenly gotten darker.
"You're right. I'm going to graduate from here. I'll do well."
The two walked the remainder of the way without saying a word to each other. Oliver looked over periodically at Paul, whose eyes were fastened straight ahead, the vein in his head still jumping, and his jaw still clenched. He thought about telling Paul that the fortune was probably meant for him, but instead he just walked along in silence, wondering if the fortune teller was a fraud or something more.
Chapter 6
That evening, they sat in the dining hall, not speaking until Malachi joined them. Malachi was wearing his Delafontaine undershirt and khakis. Sweat rings rounded his torso and he collapsed at the table, on the other side of Oliver.
"What's eating you guys?" His big eyes looked from Oliver to Paul, who both picked at their food. When Paul offered no explanation, Oliver found it in himself to speak up.
"School starts officially tomorrow. Just some nervous jitters, I'm guessing." He looked over at Paul, who said nothing and only continued to shove macaroni and cheese into his mouth at an astonishingly fast rate.
"What have you been up to?" Malachi shrugged, and he dug into his charred steak. "Basketball. Exploring. I've noticed some things about the school." He said it casually, but Oliver knew Malachi well enough by now to know that the only thing casual about what he'd discovered was how calmly he'd shared the information.
"I don't want to hear it." Paul piped up, sharply. Oliver cast a wary sideways glance at the nonverbal standoff between Malachi and Paul.
"You don't even know what I'm going to say." Malachi rolled his eyes, his mouth still open, waiting to continue his sentence as if Paul had not said a thing.
"I know it's going to be something paranoid. I don’t want to hear that. You’re putting out bad vibes into the atmosphere. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that before?"
"This is actually important. Listen, I went to the library today." Malachi continued, lowering his voice an octave. Paul slammed his fists down on the table, sending the cafeteria into a shocked silence. All around them, the clatter of forks and knives stopped, casting the dining hall into tense silence. Four hundred wide eyes turned towards Oliver’s table. Paul sat, fists clenched, teeth baring and chest rising up and down faster than a bobbing seagull. Malachi snapped his mouth shut and raised his eyebrows surely as far as they could possibly go.
"I'm tired of you trying to ruin this for me. This is the first good thing I've had my entire life. I have food, a bed to sleep in, and a chance at a future. And you have to come and ruin the best thing that's ever happened to me with your crackpot theories. I can't even eat my freaking dinner." After a shocked silence, the cafeteria bursts into whispers, and Oliver felt acutely aware of the older boys at the usual center table staring in their direction, their expressions that of casual interest.
"I can't even eat anymore. Thanks for ruining everything." In a flash, Paul had stomped away from the table, and disappeared into the hallway. The stares in the cafeteria lingered, however, and before long Malachi too marched out, but not before sending a searing glare around the cafeteria, accompanied by a sharp "What are you looking at?"
Oliver looked down at his full plate and the empty table before him, cheeks burning. He lowered his eyes towards the ham on his plate and shoveled it his mouth, at a loss for what he should do otherwise.
His cheeks were as full as a chipmunks when the sound of several clattering trays close by startled him. He looked up, and was faced with the boys from the center table. The one with side swept light hair sat down at the table, followed by the boy from the shower, Gabriel, and a third student who was shorter, fit, and dark haired.
"It's hard being new here." The boy who’d stood on the table earlier spoke, and as he did he surveyed Oliver with such an intensity that Oliver felt himself compelled to pay attention.
"You certainly didn't make it any easier last night." The third boy, a muscular boy with jet black hair snickered, but withered quickly at a look from whom Oliver presumed was the leader of their circle.
"Owen." The first boy smiled slightly, the type of smile that was born of politeness, not out of genuine happiness.
"Alex." The dark haired boy followed.
"Gabriel. But we’ve met before." The boy from the shower followed up smoothly, and he had a grin that made Oliver shiver. It was an easy grin, personal, and it was most certainly a weapon in the right situations.
"What are you in here for?" Owen looked pointedly at Oliver.
"We haven't had a new student in years, and then we get four.” Alex supplied.
Oliver opened his mouth to respond but hesitated.
"If you'd rather not say, it's fine.” Gabriel suggested. "You don't seem all that troubled anyway. That's what they call us, you know. Reform school is the polite way of course, what it says in the brochure. Troubled is a little more pointed."
"The people here aren't troubled. Different is a better word." Owen noted.
"Pretty sure Alex is troubled. He can't stop cheating." Gabriel said.
Alex's face flushed. "You know that's not true." He said.
Gabriel put up his hands in mock defense. "At least I own mine."
"What did you do?" Oliver found himself asking. "My old principal’s kid. I guess that was the final straw." He leaned back in his chair, not a trace of shame detectable on his face. Owen groaned.
"She was college." Alex said, stifling a laugh.
"Grad school, actually." Gabriel volleyed back.
"What about you?" Oliver gestured at Owen, feeling momentarily emboldened by Gabriel's easy going nature. Owen shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes had darkened.
"I don't like to relive it." He said, simply, although look in his eyes warned Oliver from pressing. "How do you like it here so far?"
"It's better than jail, I suppose." Oliver said.
Alex whistled low. "You're harder than I thought.”
"You go out into town yet? Delafontaine owns pretty much all of it." Alex asked.
"Yeah, I went today. Got my fortune read." Oliver said.
Owen inhaled sharply. "There hasn't been a fortune teller in town since we were freshman. What did she tell you?" The three older boys leaned in. Even Gabriel who exuded nonchalance looked interested.
"She told Paul that he would never graduate from Delafontaine." Oliver relayed the story to the older boys, though leaving out the part about the secret and how it was probably intended for him. At the word "graduate", Oliver registered a change in Owen's eyes. He couldn't be certain, but the look seemed almost like fear. But before he could register what he'd seen, the usual easy, commanding look returned.
"She's a crackpot. She was run out of town a few years back for inciting a riot." Owen said.
“About what?" Oliver asked.
I don't remember, but I’m sure you can imagine. Just look at your friend there". Owen gestured casually in the direction that Paul left, as if he’d seen that same scene nearly a hundred times before.
“You know, it’s a hard adjustment, but there are ways to cope if you’re interested…” Owen looked at Oliver meaningfully, and Oliver stared back in bewilderment.
Owen held up his hands, casually. “It’s no big deal, just let me know if you want to. After class, or whatever.”
“Ya’ll saw the townies?” Alex interrupted and Owen shot him a look of disgust.
“Is that who they were?” Oliver thought back to the boys and cringed at his behavior. Alex laughed, mistaking Oliver’s cringe for disgust.
“I’m not a fan, either. What happened?”
Oliver shrugged as casually as he could. “They got to us after we came from the fortune teller.”
“So, a good old fashioned stand off? And then what happened? Who went first?”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “This is not a movie, Alex. This is real life, you know.” He said, quietly. Alex ignored him and leaned forward, his nose mere inches from Oliver’s own, and eyes wide and expectant.
“We just talked.” To say the very least, Oliver’s inner voice reminded him. “Then, we went on our way. It wasn’t a big deal.” He waved his hand. “Why do they hate us so much?” Owen, Gabriel and Alex exchanged knowing looks, as if taking bets on who wanted to speak first. Alex broke the temporary silence.
“I mean, think about it. Would you want a school housing the criminally insane in your town?”
“There’s no crazy people here.” Olive protested, feeling oddly offended.
Owen studied him. “That depends, really. We’re not all here because of something we did. Some of us are here because of what we believed.”
Oliver opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but at this, bells sounded throughout the cafeteria. Like a choreographed stage play, each table stood up abruptly and began cycling past the dish room. The older boys got up and as they left, Owen mouthed “after class” to him before disappearing into the crowd. He looked at Malachi, who shrugged, and then stood up to follow suit. Matron Charlie appeared at the head of the cafeteria, surveying the lines of students with narrowed eyes.
"First days of classes tomorrow, gentlemen. Everyone please get a good night sleep. Remember our motto here at Delafontaine: "Good boys become good men."
~