Date: Sat, 27 Jun 2009 15:02:44 +1000
From: mcooke0@postoffice.utas.edu.au
Subject: The Things You Fear The Most - Chapter Four

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the
property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are
the property of the author.  The author is in no way associated with the
owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise.  No copyright
infringement is intended.

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"Roses?" Detective Holden asked, looking completely baffled by the end of
the kid's last statement. "What do you mean 'she smelt like roses'?"

"She smelt like roses," Will repeated, his face carrying none of the
confusion expressed by Detective Holden. "I turned around and that was what
I smelt."

"You mean, literally?" the Detective asked, tossing the last of his
takeaway in the garbage before standing up and moving toward the coffee
machine. "As in, flowers?"

"Yes, roses," Will repeated, frustration evident in his features as he too
discarded the cardboard container in his hand.

"But what do 'roses' have to do with anything?" he asked, checking the
machine's levels before refilling it with jerky movements. "They're
just... roses."

"Come on, you're the Detective, you figure it out."

"Don't get smart," the Detective snapped, regretting the action as he
watched the kid fold his arms across his chest. "I'm sorry kid, but it's
late. I've got another twelve-hour shift tomorrow and I can't do anything
for you if you keep messing me around."

"Ok," the kid said, his voice softening a little despite the retention of
his defensive stance. "I'm gonna say this once - roses."

"Roses."

"Think about it," he said, watching the Detective brew his fourth cup of
the evening. "Roses."

Roses. He was sure he'd missed something along the way. Leaning against the
counter, he racked his brain, trying to think of what the kid could
possibly mean.

She smelt like roses. She smelt like roses...

Suddenly, it clicked. "Wait, you mean she smelt like..."

"Exactly."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Just think about what I've said, ok.

The words echoed around my head, heightening my agitation as I closed the
office door and moved into the hallway.

Just think about what I've said.

Looking down the mostly empty corridor, I could see I was already seriously
late for lunch, a fact that did nothing to improve my worsening mood as I
began to move away from the door. Stopping to toss some textbooks in my
locker, I found myself staring at the cold grey metal, wondering just what
the hell I was supposed to be thinking about.

Just think about it.

Think about what? It seemed the whole thing had already been spelt out for
me.

Think about it.

NO. Slamming the door and twisting the lock, I decided I was done
thinking. Grabbing my backpack and moving through the hallway door, I
resolved to switch my brain off and just enjoy the next half hour for what
it was...

Time out.

"Oi! Hathaway, over here!"

The voice came booming across the schoolyard, its owner looking every inch
the basketball player as he stood under the hoop holding an orange
ball. Standing almost 6'5" on the old scale, he had all the tools to excel
in the sport; but his inaction did little to disguise a crippling
handicap...

Basically, Stick Man was retarded.

We'd first met 'Stick Man' Webster at the beginning of fifth grade, when
he'd appeared at the doorway to our classroom with a comb-over and a Hey
Arnold backpack on his shoulder. Standing out straight away in our little
fifth grade world, he was almost as tall as the teacher at the front of the
room; standing at least three inches taller than the next tallest kid in
the class. Someone had forgotten to tell his tailor, though. Wearing a
blazer that practically swallowed him whole, he was the most
awkward-looking kid I'd ever seen; a first impression set in stone when he
tripped on a thread and nearly tumbled face-first into the dusty carpet.

"Ah, you must be David," the teacher greeted, looking him up and down as
she tried to ignore his clumsiness.  Pausing at the trousers that bunched
around his ankles, she shook her head with wry smile; gesturing to the
twenty or so desks that spread in perfect symmetry across the classroom
floor. "Please, take a seat."

Watching him straighten himself up, we saw him look around at the proffered
seats; a thoughtful look on his face as he considered the multitude of
options before him. Option one was in the front row, in a seat next to
Michael 'Snotty' Dunlop. Although it was possible to rise above the front
row stigma, a liaison with 'Snotty' and his cat hair-covered pants was
almost certain social suicide. Seeming to instantly recognize this fact,
David turned his attention to the free seat two rows further back,
alongside Jodie Crawford and her peanut butter-dotted braces. Appearing to
seriously consider this seat for a moment, his attention suddenly turned to
'Picker' Walters, and the disgusting habit that resulted in the free seat
next to him.

The look on his face said it all, really.

Turning to Scott and motioning toward the free seat next to us, I initiated
a quick negotiation; weighing up all the pros and cons of inviting the new
kid to sit with us. Clearly, the kid needed to be saved from himself. I
mean, he liked Hey Arnold for God's sake. Nobody likes Hey Arnold. Not even
Arnold likes Hey Arnold. And let's not forget the mummy's boy haircut. The
kid was a walking disaster. But did we really want a big kid like him as an
enemy?

"Hey, Stick Man!"

Probably not.

"Back here!" Scott called, watching as Dave's head snapped around in
recognition.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

"So where the fuck were you this morning?" Dave asked, still staring at the
basketball in his hand as if it might explode.

"Around."

"Around where?" he asked, watching with dark eyes as I tossed down my
backpack and joined him on the court. "Scott said you'd done a runner when
I saw him earlier."

"Oh you know, I get around," I assured him, winking as he tossed me the
ball and watched me knock down a jump shot. "Speaking of, just had a date
with McMahon."

"Again?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Well," I said. "You're not gonna believe this, but she's put me in
ADVANCED English."

"You're shitting me?" he said, grabbing the ball and putting up his own
shot. It missed. "What are you doing in that pansy class to start with,
anyway?"

"What pansy class?" Scott interjected, lobbing in late as he threw down his
own backpack and joined in the game.

"English Literature."

"Big words, Sticky," he laughed, stealing the ball from Dave and dribbling
it away.

"Fuck you, homo," Dave said, lunging.

"Come on boys, play nice."

"Yeah David," Scott teased, easily sidestepping him.

"What are you, my mother?" he said, lunging again.

"Do I look like I have herpes?"

"Ooh, shut down," I said, pretending to take a closer look. "But then
again, Scotty, your mouth does look kinda scabby..."

"That's a cold sore, you fuckwit."

"Sure it is," I nodded.

"You'd know," he said, pulling out his crossover move as he blew by Dave
and threw down a dunk. "Go fetch, Sticky."

"God, you're such a fag when you want to be," Dave muttered, chasing the
ball as it trickled away.

"Speak for yourself," Scott laughed. "I'm not the one who listens to Fall
Out Boy."

"Hey, you leave Fall Out Boy out of this," I said, hoping Dave would take
the opening and regain some lost ground...

"Yeah, Scott!"

He didn't.

"Oh, guess what?" I said, turning to Scott as Dave missed another jump shot
and chased the ball again.

"What?"

"Apparently my folks are heading out of town next weekend."

"Meaning?"

"Party at my place," I said, grinning.

"You're still game after what happened last time?" Scott asked, giving me a
bit of an incredulous look.

"Last time?" Dave asked, returning with the ball.

"Party," I told him. "My place."

"When?"

"Next Saturday."

"Where?"

"I just told you that, idiot."

"Oh yeah," he said, bouncing an eighteen footer off the rim. "Who's
coming?"

"Dunno, haven't decided yet."

"Not as many as last time?" he asked, grinning.

"Haha, probably not."

The last time I'd thrown a party at my house, things had gotten a little
bit out of hand. It had all started out innocently enough - a bit of
cheese, a few biscuits, a little small talk... Ok, so I'd bought myself a
keg and invited the whole grade. But when the cops got there around
midnight, there were 200 people I didn't know on my front lawn! By the time
my father got home the next evening, we'd built a beer can wall over eight
feet high. Needless to say, there'd been hell to pay afterward.

"I still can't believe your parents are game to leave you home for the
weekend," Dave said, feeding Scott a bounce pass as he missed a ten-footer.

"I don't think my dad cares what I do, frankly," I told him, watching as he
collected the rebound.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Now can we talk about something else?" I asked, breaking the awkward
silence as I caught Dave's pass and put up an unsuccessful shot.

"Yeah, like Fall Out Boy," Scott offered, laughing as Dave rebounded the
ball again and threw it at his head.

"Haha, good call," I said, grateful for the opening as I watched Scott
chase after the ball.

"Don't you start," Dave said, suddenly turning to me.

"Or what?"

He didn't say anything to that, simply shaking his head as he stared off
into the distance.

"Cheer up, Sticky," I told him, watching as he fiddled with the pocket on
his pants. "Plenty of retards live normal, fulfilling lives."

"What?"

"Don't worry," I told him, laughing as I reached for my backpack. "You know
what, I'm sensing a time out."

"Soft," Dave said, watching as Scott came back with the ball and joined me
on the sidelines.

"Get over yourself."

"Soft," Dave repeated, shaking his head as he grabbed the ball and shot an
air ball.

"Sure you don't need a compass?" I called after him, watching as the ball
bounced off a retaining wall and started rolling across the courtyard.

Pausing to take a drink from my water bottle, I sat and watched as Dave
continued to chase the ball, running past many of the different groups that
made up the schoolyard. By now, the last of the students had straggled out
from the main building, and everyone had begun to segregate into their
little social groups. To our left, an impromptu game of kick-to-kick had
sprung up, with lots of yelling and cheering as the Aussie Rules boys flew
high in a marking contest. About thirty metres to their right, a much more
civilised game of kick-to-kick was underway, a few of the soccer boys
quietly kicking a ball around as they plotted how to dispose of their
Aussie Rules counterparts. In front of both groups sat the school's most
popular girls, cheering and clapping as they discussed what they'd done and
what they wanted to do with the boys parading in front of them. And to
their left sat a group of less-pretty clones. Apart from that, every other
student had broken off into some sort of group, sitting and talking as they
discussed whatever common interest had brought them all together.

It was organised chaos to its finest point, the whole student body working
in perfect sync as they unconsciously took their position on the totem
pole. Nobody challenged the social order, and they all knew their exact
place. All... except for one. Somehow, removed from the entire scene was a
lonely blond-haired figure, sitting on the fringes beneath a pine tree as
he tapped his foot to the beat of his iPod...

"Dude, is that Justin Riley?" Dave asked, returning again as what he'd been
staring at earlier became clear.

"Mmmhmm," I muttered, noncommittally; pretending not to notice the distant
smile as Justin closed his eyes and began to air-drum along with the beat.

"What's that faggot doing here?" Dave asked, still watching me.

"No idea," I told him, tearing my gaze away as I tossed my water bottle
aside.

"Yeah, we don't talk about that," Scott told him, tossing his own water
bottle aside as he raised an eyebrow in Dave's direction.

"Fair enough," Dave said, letting the matter drop as he threw up another
awkward jump shot. "Let's talk about something else, then."

And until the lunch bell rang fifteen minutes later, that's exactly what we
did.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I was seven, there was only one thing I ever wanted to do in life...

Visit Disneyland.

Disneyland. Disneyland. Disneyland.

Disneyland.

Reading every book I could find on the subject, I'd set my heart on seeing
Mickey Mouse, and I had zero issues telling my mum whenever we jumped in
the car to visit every place in the world not named Disneyland.

"Are we going? Are we going?" I'd always ask when she strapped me into the
back seat. "Are we going to go to Disneyland?"

"One day," she'd always tell me, offering a wistful smile to match my
hopeful expression. "One day we'll go to Disneyland."

And then she'd jump in the driver's seat and take me to the dentist
instead. The disappointment would always linger, but the entire Disneyland
experience had been forgotten by the time I was eight and setting my heart
on visiting Endor instead.

"Are we going? Are we going?"

"No, Will," she'd say. "We're not going to visit the Ewoks today."

And soon, that dream was crushed as well.

Over the next couple of years, I dreamed of time travel in a DeLorean, of
eating pizza with Ninja Turtles, of throwing curveballs with Rick
Vaughn. But by the time I was twelve and the winter holidays rolled around,
I was told 'you're far too old' and all those dreams were long
forgotten. Or at least, long forgotten until a cold and wet Wednesday
afternoon in June...

"Hello boys," my mum began, looking down at our third game of Monopoly as
she walked into the kitchen with her hands behind her back. "What would you
say if I could bring you Disneyland?"

I think my jaw was somewhere near the floor. "Disneyland?!"

"Disneyland," she repeated, bringing her hands into view as she dropped a
cardboard box on the Blackwood table. "All 1500 pieces of it."

"Disneyland." I stared down at the jigsaw puzzle sitting in front of
me. "Um, that wasn't quite what I meant."

"I know," she said, winking at both of us. "Knock yourselves out anyway."

And with that, she disappeared back out the front door, moving to collect
her remaining shopping from the car. Turning back toward our board game, I
looked across the kitchen table at Justin, the unspoken question met with
an ambivalent shrug of the shoulders. "You wanna?"

He didn't say anything right away, instead turning attention to the
panorama printed across the front of the cardboard. "Can if you want."

I looked down at my losing effort on the Monopoly board. "I always wanted
to visit Disneyland."

"Me too," he said, with a smile.

And with that, we were on our way. Taking the box and our bag of corn chips
into the lounge room, we began the epic task of putting the puzzle
together, starting with the tedious outside edges. Spanning almost four
square feet, it was easily the biggest challenge we'd ever undertaken - a
task that would take over four days and an immeasurable amount of sugar
hits. Sitting on the floor day after day, we'd talked about anything and
everything we could think of - school, sports, cartoons; everything from
our hopes and dreams to the composition of our perfect comic book hero. He
thought he needed a Batmobile to get around in, but I thought he needed to
fly. He thought he should be a millionaire playboy by day, but I thought he
should report for the Daily Planet. We could both agree he didn't need a
lame horse like The Phantom, though.

"Almost there," I wearily grinned, as we took a break near the end of the
fourth evening. "Can't be long to go now."

"I know," he said, tossing an arm around my shoulder. "Pretty awesome,
isn't it?"

We both took a step back to admire our handiwork. Taking a pile of
cardboard pieces, we'd worked together and recreated one of the world's
most breathtaking images - a timeless testament to man's imagination. But
despite the beauty of the image before us, it was nothing compared to the
way his eyes lit up as he looked down at what we'd achieved. He'd never
bothered with the indifference most kids projected to the world, but the
look on his face was worth every one of those 1500 pieces.

Letting my arm slip from his warm grip, I knelt down next to the remaining
pile of pieces, signalling that I was ready to finish the job. Reading the
unspoken signal, he slowly joined me back down on the carpeted floor,
beginning to search again for the pieces that would complete the Sleeping
Beauty castle.

"Hey dude, can you see the pointy bit anywhere?" he eventually asked, after
he'd been through all the remaining pieces. "I can't find it."

"Nope," I told him, grinning with satisfaction as I fitted the final piece
from my pile. The final piece of the entire puzzle it would have seemed, if
not for the gap at the top of the turret. "Why, have you lost it?"

"Haha, no," he said, giving me a gentle shove as he began to look around
the floor. "It isn't lost, I just can't find it."

"Uhuh," I nodded, teasing him as he began to search on his hands and
knees. "It isn't lost, you just can't find it."

"Shut up," he said, poking me in the side. "Help me look."

"But it isn't lost," I said, continuing to tease him. But in spite of the
mocking tone, I joined him there anyway; crawling across the woollen carpet
as we began to search for the missing piece. When we still couldn't find
anything twenty minutes later, we'd called my mum into the room and got her
down on her hands and knees as well. But after covering every square inch
of the lounge room, it still wasn't to be found.

The puzzle still remains unfinished to this day.

"Dude, get over it."

"Huh?" I looked down to where Scott now sat on my bedroom floor.

"I said, 'get over it,'" he repeated, watching as I moved away from the
window and sat down on the bed. "You shouldn't let him get to you."

"Who?"

"You know who," he said, not even bothering to look up.

"Whatever," I said, giving him the finger as he grinned at the predictable
gesture. "Remind me why I let you follow me home, again?"

"Because I'm the only one who puts up with your shit," he said, laughing as
he juggled a bag of Doritos with the Xbox controller in his
hand. "Seriously, get over it."

"Get over what, exactly?" I said, watching as he un-paused and resumed his
game of NBA Live. "We were friends, he left. Big deal."

"Exactly," he said, tossing the corn chips at me as he sunk a free
throw. "So get over it."

"Whatever," I said, watching him sink the second free throw.

"Who's coming to this party of yours, anyway?" he said, changing the
subject as he reached again for the corn chips.

"Dunno," I said, grabbing a handful of my own. "The usual crowd, I
guess. Might invite a few girls from St. Michael's as well."

"Nice," he said, winking as he again reached for the bag. "I'm sure they'll
keep you occupied."

"For sure," I said, reaching for the second controller. "Let's get some
multi-player action going, anyway."

And with that he exited the game, re-setting the system as we began to
select teams for our own game of one-on-one. The next few minutes passed in
relative quiet, with the silence only broken by the occasional heckle while
the other player was at the foul line. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence,
though, and the corn chips were almost gone by the time a slamming door
alerted us to another presence downstairs.

"WILLIAM, GET DOWN HERE NOW!"

No prizes for guessing who it was.

"Coming!" I yelled, pausing the game as I looked over at a bewildered
Scott. "Coming?"

He didn't say anything to that, sitting there with a what the fuck? look on
his face as I stood up and tossed the Xbox controller aside.

"Coming?" I repeated, moving toward the door. "Could be a while,
otherwise."

"Yeah, whatever," he said, rising to his feet as he followed me out the
door. Walking slowly down the stairs, I listened to see if anyone else was
around. When the only sound was a set of thumping footsteps, I took the
liberty of assuming we were home alone. I followed their lead into the
kitchen.

"Would you care to tell me why I got another call from your Principal this
afternoon?" he demanded, throwing his briefcase on the table as I walked in
the door behind him.

"Not really, no." I didn't say anything after that, simply folding my arms
as I watched him stomp around; hoping he'd take enough rope to hang himself
in the process. He was too smart to fall into that trap, though. Noting my
muted reaction, he turned around.

"Oh, you have company," he said, watching as Scott walked through the
kitchen door behind me.

"Yeah," I said, in a flat tone. "Company."

"And how are you, Scott?" he asked, his entire demeanour changing as he
moved across the kitchen and began to fill the kettle.

"Um, good," Scott said, shooting me a confused look. "Yeah, really good."

"That's good," my father replied. "Coffee?"

"Nah, thanks," Scott said, still looking uncomfortable. "We've already got
stuff upstairs."

"That's ok," my father nodded, grabbing out a cup for himself
anyway. "How's the basketball going, anyway?"

"Yeah, really good," he said, watching as he added two sugars. "Got state
championships coming up, so that's cool."

"Ah yes," my father nodded, setting the sugar back on the counter as he
waited for the kettle to boil. "I've been meaning to get along to one of
Will's games, actually."

"Oh ok, cool."

"How's your dad, anyway?" my father asked, looking for all the world to be
a concerned parent.

"Um, yeah, good."

"That's good," he said, nodding as he reached into the drawer for a
spoon. "How's he doing with the tyre business, anyway?"

"Yeah, good," Scott said, watching as he closed the drawer again with one
fluid motion. "Been really busy lately, so I guess he's doing ok."

"That's good," my father nodded, watching the kettle boil before beginning
to fill his cup. "Sure you don't want coffee?"

"Nah, it's cool."

"Ok, I'll leave you boys to it then," he said, leaning back against the
counter as he stirred the beverage with a smooth motion.

"Thanks," Scott said, removing his hands from his pockets as he began to
turn around and retrace his steps. "Guess I'll see you around,
Mr. Hathaway."

"Please, call me Bill," he said, dismissing the formal title with a wave of
his hand.

"Um, sure Bill. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

And with that, we departed the kitchen; taking the stairs two at a time on
the way back up to my bedroom.

"Dude, what the hell just happened?" Scott asked, as soon as I'd closed my
bedroom door. "That was fucken weird, man."

"Trust me," I told him. "You don't want to know."

And that was all we had to say about that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Coffee?" the Detective asked, flicking the 'off' switch as the machine
finished brewing.

"Um, yeah, thanks," the kid said, shifting to get more comfortable. "Black,
two sugars."

The Detective raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, adding the sweetener as he began to stir. "Nothing
whatsoever."

"Good," the kid said, choosing to ignore whatever Detective Holden was
insinuating. "Now where were we?"

"Roses," the Detective said, passing the kid his cup as he moved to retake
his seat. "We were talking about roses."

"Ah yes," the kid replied, taking a sip from the steaming cup. "She smelt
like roses."

"That must have come as a surprise," the Detective said, placing his own
cup on the desk as he began to move things up a gear.

"Not really," the kid said. "I'd figured most of it out already."

"Tell me, then," the Detective said, retrieving his notepad as he began to
scribble down some more details. "Exactly when did you figure out that your
father was having an affair?"

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Author's Note: Hope that makes up for Chapter Three haha. Email me at
mcooke0@utas.edu.au or MSN at pluginmatty@hotmail.com.