Book of Dark #1: Always Stand Up

by Deepak Khanchandani

  ~~~

  The fact that John Atkins High was a mere five minute walk from the church made it all the more shocking just how much the neighborhood changed in so short a distance.

  The crumbling wrecks and morbid structures gave way to half-decent apartment blocks and houses that could even be called pretty. The streets were nicer, too, as cracks on the sidewalks and potholes in the tarmac all but vanished by the time the school was in sight.

  St. Martin’s had, in essence, lucked out as far as school jurisdiction was concerned, having just edged into the geographical area covered by John Atkins High, a well-respected and decently funded state school. The counterpart orphanage for girls had not been as fortunate, though, having been built just a few blocks too far west. So, the orphaned boys at least received a decent education, and for free too.

  Where this raised a problem, though, was with the normal students—the ones whose parents had not said ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to their newborns. These students resented having to share their school with such ‘riff raff’, a sentiment many of the orphans only aggravated with their lack of interest in the education they were receiving.

  The boys from St. Martin’s had their own reasons for this, of course, not least of which was a gaping lack of parents or adult role models (the grumpy Matron most certainly did not count), but this still fostered an ugly student-body divide—that between bullies and victims.

  The main block of the school, which had once been the only block, sat at the front of the campus. It was a two-story slab of redbrick which, in addition to classrooms, housed facilities such as student lockers and administration offices.

  As the student population had grown, more land to the rear had been acquired and more blocks of redbrick had been haphazardly built in a somewhat U-shaped arrangement.

  The area between the blocks had been turned into a quaint little courtyard, complete with areas of luscious grass lined with shrubs and benches for use when the weather co-operated. The tiled pathways which snaked through the courtyard, running from block to block, were separated from the grass by low knee-high walls, also of redbrick.

  The vast area that lay between the school’s front gates and the main block was the parking lot. Given how huge it had now become, one would have been hard-pressed to believe that it had started life as a mere twenty spaces for the use of faculty members only.

  Despite its size, the morning ritual of parents dropping their kids off saw the space full to the brim with vehicles. Some of the students arrived in their own cars and bikes too. The boys from St. Martin’s, unsurprisingly, tended to walk, and Keane and Brok were no exception.

  As they crossed the school’s front gates and made their way through the parking lot, Brok was back to his old chatty self and was droning on about the boys at the orphanage.

  “So that’s where Mike drew the line. And, of course, I backed him because Poops-a-lot—yeah, we’re calling him that now, for reasons of Oh-My-God…”

  Keane was only half listening, though. He had perfected the art of blocking Brok out. He’d nod with timing so well synchronized with Brok’s speech patterns that it looked like he was hanging on to every word when, in actuality, his mind wandered freely. And at that moment, it was mulling over the encounter they’d just had with the homeless man.

  He was just really glad that the man was back. He cursed himself for never remembering to ask his name, but it wasn’t just his bad memory failing him—the topic simply never seemed to come up. Conversation always centered on Keane and his endless issues, for which the man always seemed to have just the right advice ready.

  That is, of course, when he wasn’t lying in a gutter somewhere, drunk off his rocker.

  “So basically,” continued Brok, “Poops really needs to clean his own messes regardless of who’s on roster… once again, because of Oh-My-God.”

  As they got closer to the main block, Keane started scanning for Randy and his fellow bullies, since the second rule of bully survival was to keep tabs on both movement and location of the enemy at all times. This was made easier by the fact that the students of John Atkins High tended to clump together in predefined social groups.

  First up were the Cool Nerds—the students who not only got their homework in on time and scored straight A’s in just about everything, but were somehow also popular enough to get invited to all the parties. These were the kids most likely to climb corporate ladders into management and leadership positions, or to start successful businesses which they would end up selling for many, many millions.

  Keane loathed them. They just made life look so easy, and his own life had been anything but. Besides, given his luck, he just knew he’d wind up having one of them as a boss someday, and that possibility annoyed him to no end.

  Next came the Uncool Nerds—the freaks who studied just for fun and seemed to know everything about everything. Despite their good grades, Keane did not envy this group. They were knowledge monsters, devouring facts and figures just to later be able to laugh in the faces of the unfortunate souls who made any mistakes in their vicinity. They were even hated by the teachers, who, by virtue of being constantly overworked and forever underpaid, were never really in the mood to be corrected by the self-righteous, over-smart, know-it-all so-and-sos.

  Up third was a particularly troublesome bunch—the ‘Girls That Keane Has Crushes On Who Don’t Really Know His Name or That He Even Exists’—imaginatively named by Brok. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t really a ‘bunch’, since they didn’t really hang out together, and often didn’t even know each other very well. In Keane’s head, though, it still counted as a clique, if only because there were just so many of them: Gemma Hayes, Charlotte Porter, Beth Jones, Laura Roberts, Becky Williams… So very many.

  Keane then spotted the ‘A-Listers’—the clichéd corner­stone of every high school. These were the jocks and cheer­leaders who almost every student secretly hated, yet publicly idolized. The A-listers tended to be those students blessed with good looks, or popularity, or money, and more often than not, all three.

  Currently, a bunch of them were gathered around a drop-top sports car that Keane had never before seen at school… or anywhere else, really. Unsurprisingly, cars like that didn’t exactly frequent the orphanage’s neighborhood so much. He did recognize it as a Porsche of some sort, though.

  The car looked stunning in black, with plush, tan leather, and seemed to belong to a tall brunette whom Keane didn’t quite recognize. She had pink-streaks in her hair, which he could see because she had the top down. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, showing off the gadgets inside to the friends that had gathered around her. Keane did recognize the girl sitting in the passenger seat next to the brunette, though.

  It was Michelle Brady, the extra blond, extra rich, extra spoiled little brat at the wheel. She was an island of purple surrounded by a sea of tan. Her clothes, her shoes, and even her hair clip were always some shade of purple or other. The only reason she didn’t get bullied for it, and even managed to pull it off, in fact, was that she was super-gorgeous and super-hot, as were all of her friends—every single one of them way out of his league.

  Michelle, in particular, had become a member of the Girls That Keane Has Crushes On Who Don’t Really Know His Name or That He Even Exists almost the very instant he’d first laid eyes on her. Then, around the middle of the school year, she’d started dating Don, one of Randy’s comrades, who had wasted no time filling her in on exactly how the likes of Keane and Brok and the rest of the orphan scallywags from the west side of town were to be treated. Subsequently, Keane’s crush had rapidly evaporated.

  As he and Brok walked past the crowd, she cast them a look of utter contempt, no doubt wondering how gruel-fed waifs like them even dared to breathe the same air as her and her friends. And with Brok still rattling on about rotas, so lost in his narrative that he missed the look, the car, and the fact that they were even proximate to A-listers, Keane couldn’t help but concede that Michelle may actual
ly have a point.

  He rushed past as quickly as he could without breaking into a run—past the perfect human specimen, past the glistening Porsche and its creamy, tan leather, past the tall flagpoles that adorned the front of the school, and past the boy cellophane-wrapped to one of the poles.

  “But Poops was like, ‘A roster is a roster is a roster. So we have to rotate!’” Brok yammered on. “Do you believe that? Then he wanted to fight Mike! Poops! In a fight! Can you even—?”

  “Eugene?!” said Keane, suddenly stopping.

  “No, Mike,” said Brok, confused. “I said Mike, didn’t I?”

  “No, look!” said Keane, turning Brok around. “Eugene!”

  Together, they gawked at the wiry boy with inch-thick glasses who hung from one of the flagpoles, his entire body cellophane-wrapped to the metal, his feet dangling three feet above the ground, his mouth duct-taped shut. It was Eugene from dorm 7G, alright. There was no doubt about it. Keane and Brok exchanged dumbstruck looks.

  The kid was only twelve and had been deemed worthy of John Atkins High by virtue of being smart enough to pass their entrance exams. But being the smallest and nerdiest boy in school had opened up a world of woe, an endless struggle to adjust socially.

  Considering all the trouble that the boy had already endured, Keane thought it unfair that he now had to tolerate being stuck up a flagpole too. Eugene’s head was hung like he’d lost all hope of a rescue, like he’d resigned himself to just jadedly watch the snickering students pass by.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Keane rushed to help. It was clear to him that kids from the orphanage had to stick together. After all, they had no one else but each other. So, when he saw Brok adamantly standing his ground, he flashed him a look that said ‘Don’t you dare’.

  Brok elected to disregard this look and stubbornly took a step toward the school building. And then another.

  And then he stopped and sighed.

  As Brok joined his side, Keane could hear him mumble curses under his breath, but this only made him smile. He didn’t mind because he knew that the boy would be back to his normal self in no time. Third period tops.

  Brok poked at the cellophane with his bare fingers. Keane went for the duct tape on Eugene’s mouth. He tugged at a corner, expecting to take it off in one swift pull, but it got stuck midway. Eugene screamed in pain.

  “Are you supposed to be helping?” Eugene squealed with only half a mouth.

  “Just hold still!” said Keane, as he repeatedly yanked the tape, his tongue sticking out and off to one side, oblivious to the screams that each tug was inciting from Eugene.

  “Ow! Stop helping! Stop helping!” yelled Eugene when he could take it no longer.

  “Almost!” said Keane, before finally pulling off the last of the tape. Eugene rubbed his mouth with relief.

  “You look like crap,” said Brok, still struggling to have any impact on the clumped layers of cellophane courtesy of his utter lack of upper body strength. “What happened?” he asked, as he finally located a somewhat loose bit and then proceeded to sink his teeth into it.

  “Oh, it’s my own fault!” lamented Eugene.

  “Seriously, Eugene. Tell us everything,” said Keane, ripping open with his fingers the holes that Brok’s teeth were poking into the plastic wrapping.

  “Every day last week,” cried Eugene, “Every single day! They asked for the money. I gave them the money. I was allowed to walk. Walk to my heart’s content. Then I watched… the documentary!”

  Brok recoiled. “The documentary?” Transparent cellulose and saliva fell copiously from his mouth.

  “The documentary!” affirmed Eugene. “They played it last night? In the common room? Remember?”

  Keane and Brok knew the dungeon that the orphanage had the audacity to call a common room only too well, having spent most of the previous summer in there in order to evade the blistering heat outside, only to be bombarded by fuzzy black-and-white images on the miniscule excuse of a television set.

  “Oh, that documentary,” mocked Brok, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Keane as if to ask if he looked like the documentary-watching type.

  “You watched it too?” asked Eugene.

  “No, Eugene!” snapped Brok. “I did not. Why would I give anyone more reasons to pummel me?” Pointing a thumb at Eugene, Brok turned to Keane. “Jeez, believe this guy?”

  “Well, I watched it. ‘Always Stand Up’ it was called. There was a seven step process and everything,” Eugene said, as Keane liberated him from the last of the cellophane. “So today I thought, I’m going to do it. I followed the steps to the tee. To the tee, Brok! Then… Boom!”

  “B-Boom?” asked Brok, a little afraid.

  Keane looked to Brok, then back to Eugene. Boom was not good.

  “Boom!” confirmed Eugene. “Instant zinger wrap.” He twirled his fingers in unnecessary demonstration. “I regret everything!” he said, burying his distraught face into his hands.

  Keane and Brok sympathized silently.

  Brok turned to Keane. “I once regretted everything,” he said. Keane raised a curious eyebrow. Brok patted his stomach. “The day all that microwave popcorn was gonna go bad. Remember?”

  “Ah.” Keane nodded. He did remember. It had, indeed, been a bad day. He, too, had regretted everything that day. As had the orphanage’s microwave.

  “Moral of the story…” Eugene jerked his face back out of his hands. “Don’t watch any documentaries! Ever!” he said with an air of finality, before storming off toward the main entrance, upset only with himself.

  Keane and Brok looked at each other sideways, both quite certain that the boy from dorm 7G had taken away entirely the wrong lesson from this incident.