Date: Wed, 14 Aug 2013 10:29:47 -0400
From: Ronyx <ronyx@woh.rr.com>
Subject: Birds Don't Sing Before a Storm  Chapter 1

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to anyone are purely
coincidental. The story is intended for a mature audience. It may contain
profanity and references to gay sex. If this offends you, please leave and
find something more suitable to read. The author maintains all rights to
the story. Do not copy or use without written permission. Write
ronyx@themustardjar.com with your comments. Ronyx is a prolific Nifty
author. Visit my personal website at www.themustardjar.com for more
stories.

Ronyx is a prolific Nifty author. You have enjoyed his other stories like A
Delicate Situation, Reggie's Journal, It's Not Easy Being a Tree and Door
Number Three, to name just a few. Visit his website: www.themustardjar.com
for other enjoyable stories.

And as always, be sure to donate to the Nifty Archives. I thank them for
hosting my stories to a worldwide audience.


Birds Don't Sing Before a Storm        Chapter 1


If school gets any more boring, I'm going to stand up in class, strip off
my clothes and run naked through the hallways. I'd love to see the look on
Old Man Armstrong's face. He's the principal here at Lakeshore Academy.

I jumped when I heard Mrs. Walker shouted out my name from the front of the
room. "Mr. Barrett," she hollered angrily. "Maybe you would like to tell
everyone why you're smiling and not paying attention in class."

My heart jumped into my throat, and I had to swallow hard to breathe. I
didn't realize that the thought of running naked through the halls had made
me seem so amused. I quickly glanced at the board to see if she had written
anything. I could try to wing it and pretend I had been listening, but she
had erased what she had been on the board. I looked around at the other
students who were staring at me with amused looks upon their faces.

"I wasn't thinking about nothing," I responded timidly.

She strolled down the aisle and stood before my desk. "I wasn't thinking
about nothing," she said mockingly. "You've sat in my English class for a
year, and it's obvious you've learned absolutely nothing. She turned to
address the rest of the class, who were by now giggling at her as if she
were a stand-up comedian. "Can anyone tell me what is wrong with
Mr. Barrett's response?" She looked down and said with a wry smile, "I
wasn't thinking about nothing." Several hands shot up into the air.

Tears of embarrassment formed in my eyes as I looked up and asked, "Why are
you picking on me?"

"Why Mr. Barrett," she replied sarcastically. "I'm not picking on you. This
is an English class and I'm merely using your statement as a learning
experience." I heard several students around me giggle.

She turned and pointed to Kim Lawton, who still had her hand raised. "Miss
Lawton," she asked. "Can you tell Mr. Barrett what is wrong with his
comment, `I wasn't thinking about nothing?'"

"Certainly, Mrs. Walker," she replied with a giggle. "Casey should have
said he wasn't thinking about anything. To say he was thinking about
nothing would indicate he wasn't thinking."

Mrs. Walker clapped her hands together. "Excellent response, Miss Lawton."
I glanced over angrily at her, and she returned a deceitful smile.

Mrs. Walker stood over me once again and said, "Now would you like to
rephrase your answer to my question, Mr. Barrett."

I folded my arms defiantly and replied, "No."

She glared down at me for a few seconds. She then started walking back
toward the front of the room. "Very well," she said as she turned toward
me. "Then you will write five hundred times, I wasn't thinking about
anything." Twenty-five students in the room burst into laughter.

"You're kidding, right?" I shouted. "They write sentences in the second
grade."

"Well," she huffed, "You're acting like a child, so I'll treat you like a
child."

Before I could stop the words from exiting my mouth, I muttered, "And
you're acting like a bitch."

I don't think there is a shade of red on a color chart that would describe
the angry look on her face. Several girls in the room let out a gasp when
it finally sunk in that I had actually called Mrs. Walker a bitch. Well,
actually I hadn't. I said she was acting like one, but I guess there really
isn't a fine line when it comes to this sort of thing.

She raised a hand, pointed angrily at the door and shouted, "Get out!"

Emily Hayes rose from her desk and volunteered, "You want me to go get
Mr. Armstrong?" Mrs. Walker ignored her and approached me. I glanced over
at the door as Emily ran out.

She towered over me and shouted loudly, "Get out of my classroom!"

I looked around the room as everyone turned to stare at me. I rose and
stood defiantly before Mrs. Walker. "I don't know why I have to leave." I
then leaned toward her and said mockingly, "I didn't do nothing." I made
sure to emphasis the word nothing.

I jumped when she raised her hand to slap me. She drew it back before she
did. She folded her hand, glared at me and said, "See what you almost made
me do?"

I smiled bemusedly and replied, "I didn't make you do nothing." Again, I
stressed the word nothing.

Suddenly, Mr. Armstrong shouted out my name as he entered the room. "Casey
Barrett! My office. Now!" As I walked away, I made sure I gently brushed
against Mrs. Walker. I wanted to intimidate her, but I didn't want it to
appear like an assault. As I left the room, I could hear the chatter of
students as they discussed what they had just witnessed.

"I don't care," I muttered to myself as I stormed down the hallway toward
the office. I turned to see if Mr. Armstrong was following me. He wasn't,
so I assumed he had remained in the room to get Mrs. Walker's explanation
of what had occurred.

I considered leaving the building, but I knew if I did, Mr. Armstrong would
call the police and have me arrested. This was my third infraction this
year. He had already suspended me twice before. I was pretty sure I was
looking at a possible expulsion this time.

I'm not a bad kid, honestly. I really try to do the right things. But when
I do, it seems like something happens, like today, that gums up the works.

Today I was really trying to pay attention in class. But it is hard for me
to pay attention because I have this tendency to daydream. Maybe I did
laugh a little when I thought of running naked down the hall. Still, why
did Mrs. Walker have to pick that time to act like a real bitch? I really
didn't do nothing.

I was already struggling in class. I failed last quarter, and I was trying
this quarter. I had passed the last two tests- barely. At least I did study
for them.

However, just like every other time, something happens. Two weeks ago,
Mr. Latham, the chemistry teacher, got on me because I wasn't wearing
goggles in the lab. When he assigned me detention, I told him I wouldn't
serve it. He wrote me up, and Mr. Armstrong suspended me for three
days. Earlier in the year, I was suspended for another three days because I
skipped out on an assembly, and I went outside and smoked a
cigarette. Mr. Dudley, the football coach came around the side of the
building and saw me before I could get rid of it.

I mean, so I forgot to put on my goggles during lab. What's the big deal? I
have seen other students forget, and Latham joked about it. But me, he
assigns detention.

And big deal, I didn't want to go to some boring assembly about drug
abuse. I don't use that stuff, so why should I care? Okay, I smoke, but
that's not really a drug. Right?

I entered the office and plopped down in a chair beside the door to await
Armstrong. The secretary glanced up and rolled her eyes at me. She probably
realized she would have to write a letter of suspension soon. I gave her a
snide smile and brushed back the long, black hair from my forehead. She
shook her head and rolled her eyes again.

Ten minutes later, Armstrong entered the office. He glanced down without
saying a word. I rose and followed him back to his office. It was a trek I
had made several times before. I walked over and dropped into a chair
against the wall. Armstrong left and returned a few minutes later with a
manila folder in his hand. Judging by its thickness, I assumed it was mine.

He thumbed through it, laid it down on his desk and looked over at me. He
sighed and said, "What am I going to do with you, Casey? Your poor mother
is going to be disappointed again."

I sat rigidly and angrily replied, "My mother has nothing to do with
this. Suspend me if you have to, but leave her out of this."

Armstrong rose from his chair, came around the desk and sat atop it. He
looked down and said, "Your mother is one of my top educators. She's
admired by everyone." He sighed and added, "But you..."

I stood, and at 6'2" I towered over him. He shrunk away from me. "But me,
what?"

He nervously jumped from his desk, walked around to his chair, and sat
down. He fiddled with my folder, and then he said, "You're so rebellious. I
don't know how your mother handles you."

He jumped when I slammed my hand down on his desk. "I told you to leave my
mother out of this!" I walked to the door and opened it. Turning, I asked,
"Am I suspended?"

He looked sadly at me and announced, "Yes."

"Fine," I replied. "See you then." I slammed the door, headed down the hall
and left the school grounds. I noticed one of the school resource officers
watching me from the steps as I walked through the parking lot. I guess he
was watching to see if I would vandalize someone's automobile. If I knew
what kind of car Mrs. Walker drove, I probably would have.

* * * * * *

When I heard the front door slam, I knew Mom had arrived home. I was in my
bedroom playing a video game. School is out at 3:30, but she usually
doesn't get home until an hour later. Either she works with students after
school, or she has to attend faculty meetings. When I was in grade school,
she made me wait for her at the elementary school I attended. Now, we lived
about a mile and a half from Lakeshore Academy, so I walk home. I enjoy the
walks because it gives me time to clear my head from all the bullshit I
have endured during the day.

It's not easy being a teacher's son, especially when your mom teaches at
the same school you attend. It doesn't help either, that she is a very
popular teacher. You would think it would make me popular, but it
hasn't. I'm just not one of those people who want to be popular. In fact,
I'm happier when people just leave me alone. I guess I send out this vibe
that other students can read quickly.

Girls used to come on to me all the time. I don't want to sound egotistical
or anything, but I am graced with some good looks. Mom and Dad are both
attractive, so I guess I inherited some good genes. Mom looks like Winona
Ryder. She thinks it's really cool when kids tell her that. Dad looks like
an over-aged baseball player. In fact, he did play baseball in high school
and college. He tried to get me to play little league when I was younger,
but I found standing in a field waiting for some skinny batter to hit me a
ball boring. I tried for two weeks to like it, but I finally told him I
didn't want to play anymore. He moped around the house for a few days, and
he refused to talk to me. But that was a long time ago, and he's not even
around anymore.

"Casey!" I jumped when she hollered out my name at the bottom of the
steps. "Get down here now!"

It doesn't bother me. I'm used to her little tirades by now. She's always
screaming at me about something. I don't think I'm a bad kid, it's just
that I can't get into the program she wants me to be in.

We have this barrier between us. She screams at me, and I just shut her
off. She hates that. I used to scream back, but then I realized she enjoyed
the confrontation. Being a teacher, she had a lot of experience at it. We
weren't on a level playing field, and she would win all the arguments. If I
sit and listen to her and don't respond, I can watch her go from angry to
frustrated in about ten minutes. She still thinks she has won, but I don't
give her the satisfaction of letting her prove it.

I slowly walked into the den and plopped down in a Lazy Boy recliner. It
was her favorite chair, so it was my way of showing her that her little
exhibition of power wasn't going to bother me. By now, I already knew the
script.

She began immediately. "What is going on inside your thick head?" I
silently muttered the words before they left her mouth. "Don't I do
everything I can to provide you a decent living?" Wait a minute. She
changed the script. This usually follows, "I work hard everyday."

"I work hard everyday," she continued to rant. Ah, yes. There it is.

I mumbled, "But you don't appreciate anything I do."

She walked over, stood before me and shouted angrily, "You smart ass! You
think this is cute, don't you?"

I looked away and mumbled as innocently as possible, "No, Mother."

"Well it isn't!" she shouted. She continued to pace around the room and
inform me how rude and disrespectful a child I was. As usual, she compared
me to every student she's ever had, or will probably ever have in the
future.

Then came the rant, "You're just like your father." For the next fifteen
minutes, I had to listen to how he was the cause of their marriage going
into the crapper. I believe she was probably the cause if he had to endure
hours of her endless raging about his personality disorders.

Six years ago, when I was eleven, he left. I woke up one morning, and he
was simply gone. Vanished without even a goodbye. I get cards on my
birthday and Christmas. I don't even bother to read what he writes. I just
pull out the twenty-dollar bills he stuffs inside them, and then I discard
them into the wastebasket. What do I care? He couldn't even tell me he was
leaving. In one of her rages at me, she once mentioned that he was living
with a new wife in North Carolina. That's all I know, and even that is more
than I care to know.

"Mrs. Walker is a dear friend of mine," she exclaimed. I had to endure a
lecture for ten minutes about how my behavior had embarrassed
her. "Mr. Armstrong called me into his office after school." Another ten
minutes how her good friend, the principal, was bending over backwards to
keep me in school. Then it was another ten minutes relating how other
students were talking about how rude and disrespectful my behavior was.

She stood before me and hollered down, "What made you think you could call
a teacher a bitch?"

I was going to say, "Because she is," but I knew that would give her the
opening to continue another half hour rant. I just wanted it to end so I
could go back to the peace of my room.

She walked over to the window and peered out. She folded her arms and said
quietly, "I should have gotten you counseling after that incident with
Rollie Patterson."

For the first time I spoke. "Leave him out of this! He has nothing to do
with it!" She turned, and I saw tears in her eyes.

"You've never been the same since that afternoon," she cried softly.

I turned my head and looked into the kitchen. "You've never been the same,"
I replied bitterly.

It was a hot, summer afternoon three years ago. Rollie and I had been best
friends since kindergarten. We were fourteen, and we had just returned from
the community swimming pool a few blocks away. We went to my bedroom to
change out of our swimming trunks. We had seen each other naked many times,
so it didn't bother me to pull off my trunks and stand naked in front of
him. That day, however, was different. As I grabbed for my underwear,
Rollie grabbed my hand.

"Don't get dressed yet." His voice was heavy and quivered nervously.

"Why?" I asked, but I already knew. For months, we had been playing a
flirtatious game. What had started out as playful shoving and pushing when
we were together, had escalated into wild romps in our bedrooms where we
would end up wrestling with our bodies grinding sensuously into one
another.

Rollie put his hands on my hips and pulled me towards him. I didn't resist
when his lips touched mine. We both knew what we wanted, and it was time to
end the game. He led me over to my bed, and for an hour we kissed and
caressed. We lovingly explored every inch of each other's body. It was more
intense than I had ever imagined it would be. That hot, summer afternoon I
became aware of who I was, and what I was. There was no shame or
remorse. What we felt was pure and innocent.

Until my mother walked into the bedroom.

She was supposed to have been attending a conference all day. That morning
she told me that she wouldn't be home until after seven, and that I should
make dinner for myself. However, one of the presenters didn't show, so she
left early.

She caught Rollie and I naked in bed. We were on our knees, and I was
kissing his neck as I penetrated him. Neither of us saw her enter until she
shrieked. We pulled away, and covered our nakedness with a sheet. Her eyes
were wide, and they had a wild look. I'd never seen that expression on her
face before. Not even when she was arguing with Dad.

She cleared her throat, and calmly told us to get dressed. We didn't say
anything as we put on our clothing. Our innocence had been replaced with
fear. Before he left my bedroom, I gave him a quick kiss, making sure that
my mother was not standing outside in the hallway.

As I opened the front door for him, my mother approached and said, "I've
called your father, Rollie. I thought he should know what you've done."

I never saw him after that day. His parents barred him from seeing me ever
again. Before the start of school, they moved. To this day, I don't know
where he is. I keep checking Facebook and My Space, hoping that he will
appear, but he hasn't. I have an account, just in case he wants to contact
me- but he hasn't. I want us to talk about what happened. It was special to
me, and I feel there hasn't been any closure.

My mother and I have never really talked about what happened. I know she
hates me, but she won't say it. I keep hoping that in one of her rages,
she'll yell it out. Then I would know. But she hasn't.

Occasionally, like tonight, she'll bring it up. Usually, it's because she
feels guilty because she didn't get me counseling. But I don't need the
counseling- she does. I'm okay being gay. I regretted that she saw us, but
I have never felt guilty about what I did that day with Rollie. I learned
things about myself. For several years, I had felt this uneasiness and
tension. I knew what caused it, but I held back, hoping that maybe the
feelings and thoughts would go away.

That afternoon with Rollie was a revelation. It was as if all my fears and
uncertainties vanished with his kiss. I miss him. I want him to know what
we did wasn't wrong. I want him to feel free like me. However, it bothers
me to think that he may be somewhere lost in a world of uncertainty and
guilt. I whispered that day in his ear before my mother entered, "I love
you." I want him to know I meant it.

* * * * * *

I was sitting on the patio watching the sunset. I could see storm clouds
off in the distant, and occasionally, I could hear a faint rumble of
thunder. I didn't turn when I heard the patio door slide open. I figured it
was my mother checking to make sure I hadn't left home.

It's ironic that she grounds me when I get in trouble at school. I never go
anywhere, but I guess it satisfies her parental authority. If she really
wanted to punish me, she would take away my video games. She tried it once,
so I spent the entire two weeks sitting across from her in the den glaring
at her. She squirmed in her Lazy Boy chair, and she would occasionally ask
me if I had anything better to do. I would say, "Nope. You took my games
away, remember?" Since then, she's never removed them from my room.

I looked over when someone sat down and said, "Hey, Casey. You okay?" It
was Terry Moller. Terry is probably the closest person I can call a
friend. He lives next door. He is a sophomore at my school, and
occasionally we walk home from school together. He usually talks, and I
pretend to listen.

He is also gay. I know he has had a crush on me since they moved in two
years ago. I have never told him I am, because I only tell people on a need
to know basis. So I have told no one, not even Terry. He's cute, but I have
no interest in having a boyfriend right now.

I don't encourage him to come over, but I also don't discourage him. I know
it makes Mom nervous when he does appear at the door. She knows he's gay,
the whole school does. I get amused watching her parade past my bedroom
every ten minutes. She pretends not to look, but I can see her peek in the
room as she goes by. I guess she's seeing if I'm having mad, passionate sex
with Terry. I would close the door and make her really worried, but I'm
afraid Terry would take it as an invitation.

I hurt his feelings last year when he looked into my eyes and said
lovingly, "You have the bluest eyes. I just want to swim in them every time
I look into your face." I know he was testing me to see how I would
react. He didn't appreciate it when I fell back on the bed and laughed
hysterically. He left the room in a huff, and he wouldn't speak to me for
weeks. I felt so bad, I approached him in school and apologized. Of course,
now he thinks I'm interested in him, so his visits have become more
frequent.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky in the distance, and seconds later a
rumble of thunder could be heard. Terry looked over and asked worriedly,
"Did you get suspended? I heard what happened at school?"

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "Dunno. Probably. Mom didn't say."

"She seemed pretty mad when I came to the door," he said. "I didn't think
she was going to let me in."

"She'll get over it," I remarked. "She always does."

He looked over and stared. "I just don't get it, Casey," he said. "Your
mother is so cool." He looked into my eyes. "And you're a cool guy. I don't
know why you can't get along."

I laughed slightly and replied, "Life, I guess. It just happens."

I reached for the cigarette pack, pulled a cigarette out, placed it in my
lips and lit it. I inhaled deeply, and then blew circles out through my
pursed lips. Terry stared at the rings as they floated out of my mouth.

"You really shouldn't smoke," he said. "It's going to kill you some day."

"Yeah, well," I replied as I blew a few more smoke rings into the air. "You
gotta die someday." Terry looked worriedly at me.

Just then, another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed soon by a
rumble of thunder. I looked over at Terry and asked, "Hear that?"

He listened a few seconds before replying, "I don't hear anything."

"That's it," I said. "Hear how quiet it is?"

Terry nodded and responded, "Yeah."

"It's like that," I continued, "because birds don't sing before a storm."

"No," he said, "but they'll sing again when the storm is over."

I shook my head and asked, "What if the storm never ends?" He looked up at
the darkening sky and didn't answer.

* * * * * *

This story is updated weekly at my website: www.themustardjar.com

Send comments to: ronyx@themustardjar.com