Eye to Eye

Soft blue chimes gently pull Isaac from his deep sleep. He opens his eyes to find that he is back in his bed, and Vin has somehow scrunched his blankets up and is lying on the floor next to them, facing the other wall.

Isaac takes a moment, chimes ringing slightly louder with each passing second, to assess how things changed so dramatically. He’s never ended up on a different spot while asleep, at least not on his own; his mother has moved him off the couch and into his bed before, or from her bed to his own, but he couldn’t imagine that his mom came in to — 

He sighs and slides off the bed, carefully stepping over Vin to shut his phone up. It’s a nice sound, but it can get annoying. Going back to his bed, he continues his train of thought. _What if Mom actually did come in? What if she saw me sleep hugging? A bristling fear forces him to get up and slowly check the hallway; he can hear his mom’s multiple fans still blowing, so either she somehow woke up, came in, and moved him…​or she’s still asleep and there’s another reason. A short battle rages through his mind between his anxieties and pure logic, eventually settling on the "still asleep" theory. Besides, he knows that if she found out, she’d have something to say, so he’d know soon enough.

Wait, he thinks. Was it just a dream? Did I dream that I was down there? Try as he might, he cannot come up with convincing proof that he actually went down there, other than that it doesn’t "feel" like it was a dream, and he has issues with believing things that aren’t directly provable.

After arguing with himself and racking his brains for proof, he spends a minute watching Vin, looking for any possible signs of him sleeping uncomfortably or having bad dreams. The knot of emotions rises up within him, though he recognizes most of it as concern and warmth, with a smattering of other connected feelings. For his part, Vin breathes slowly, not moving any other muscles.

Annoyed with himself but satisfied that Vin is doing well, Isaac starts up his morning routine, putting a few extra steps in to avoid Vin and his sleeping stuff in the middle of the floor. Once dressed, he finds his way into the living room and turns on the TV, putting the morning cartoons on (they’re not as good as the Saturday ones, but they’re still good enough to watch). He barely gets into them before he hears some sort of muffled words coming from his bedroom. Instantly concerned that Vin might be having another nightmare (assuming he actually had one during the night), Isaac springs off the bed and hurries to his room, where he finds Vin holding his phone, squinting and blinking.

"Bu' Mom, I went last week," Vin mumbles, taking a moment to pick a bit of sleep crust out of his eyes. "…​Why din' ya tell me we wuh goin' t’church?" he responds to the unintelligible voice on the other side of the line. "…​A’right, a’right, I’m movin'. …​YES, I’ll do my hair, geez." The last, annoyed line comes out much more clearly than his previous dialogue. "A’right, bye." He puts his phone away and sighs deeply. "I swear," he says, shaking his head slowly. "Warn me if you need me to get up 'n go to church, don’t just expect me to know." He looks up at a silent Isaac. "Gotta head out pretty quick; Mom wants me in church today for some important ceremony thing she forgot to tell me about. Sorry 'bout that."

"It’s okay, Vin," Isaac says with poorly-masked disappointment. It isn’t Vin’s fault, though, so it’s okay as far as that’s concerned.

Vin sits up, blinking and looking around the room for a moment longer. He apparently doesn’t wake up very quickly, Isaac notes. Vin is suddenly seized by a jaw-stretching yawn, which Isaac quickly catches, as contagious as they are. Vin finally stands up, his dick swinging in the last vestiges of a morning erection as he searches the floor. "You know where my boxer briefs went?"

Isaac spies a hint of dark red underneath the rumpled mess of bedding; he tugs the underwear out and hands it to Vin, who slips it on quickly. Isaac finds it peculiar that someone would wear the same underwear two days in a row, especially since he changes every piece of clothing out every day, but it doesn’t register any more on his radar than that. "Thanks, man," Vin says, grabbing his chinos from the floor as well. "Well, I’m not gonna be pretty, but this is her fault," he shrugs, putting the wrinkled pants on.

Isaac watches Vin get dressed, spellbound as always when watching Vin do just about anything. Between watching his muscles move, noting the differences between Vin’s and Isaac’s styles of doing things, and generally enjoying watching Vin, Isaac could always find a reason.

Vin looks around the floor once again, locking onto a spot near Isaac’s feet. "Hey, could you toss me my shirt?"

Isaac bends down to grab it, but pauses when he feels its texture. Rubbing it between his fingers, he says with astonishment, "Your shirt is really soft, Vin." He takes a distracted moment to feel the lightweight, smooth fabric.

"Oh, heh," Vin says with a baggy-eyed smile, "it’s modal. The fabric, I mean; it’s called 'modal.' Super soft, feels great. My boxer briefs are made from it too," he adds with a grin. A moment later, he stammers, "So…​you, uh, gonna gimme my shirt?"

"Oh! I’m sorry, Vin!" Isaac responds with a quick walk over to hand him the shirt. "I’m sorry!"

Vin chuckles and slides his shirt over his head. "It’s fine, just wanna be ready when Mom shows up. She doesn’t like to have to wait."

Vin finishes dressing and packing his stuff up; Isaac carries the pillow and the keyboard stand out front, while Vin handles the keyboard itself. On the porch, Vin says, "All right, I’m just gonna wait out here."

Isaac leans the stand against the wall near the keyboard. "I can wait with you, Vin." With that, he heads over to the porch swing and hops on.

"Oh yeah," Vin says with his head cocked slightly, "totally forgot about that. Saw it twice, too." He walks over and sits on the bench as well, though with some space between them.

They swing slowly and silently for a few moments, Isaac feeling mostly content with the moment. For the most part, he understands why Vin doesn’t want to be boyfriends, especially since he doesn’t want to make his parents angry. He just wishes Vin would talk about why he thinks he’s a "terrible person."

The empty spot in Isaac’s knowledge finally burns enough that he asks, "Vin."

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me why you, um, think th-that you are…​" He wants to quote him as having said "an asshole," but he feels too uncomfortable saying the word. "…​why you think th-that you are a bad person? …​Please."

"You just aren’t gonna let me go on that one, are ya?" he says, shaking his head slowly. "I’ll tell ya, but you gotta promise me one thing."

"What do I have to promise?"

"That you won’t be afraid of me or hate me."

"I don’t hate you!" Isaac cries, somewhat indignantly.

"Then you promise not to?"

"I promise not to…​I promise not to hate you, or, or be afraid of you."

Vin looks down at one of his knuckles and idly plays with it, stretching the skin and rolling it around his knucklebone. "So, back in New York, I was…​well, I was pretty good at baseball, but nobody really cares if you’re a Little League player. You’re just, well, some kid. So I wasn’t tall yet — I actually hit a huge growth spurt after I got here — and I didn’t do anything popular, so I was just some kid. They tried to pick on me for bein' short, but then I knocked a kid clear out in one hit, so people started respectin' me.

"So I started hanging with the wrong crowd, the kinda people that respect you for havin' a good left hook." He falls silent for a moment; when Isaac doesn’t respond, he adds, "I was a bully, Isaac."

Isaac’s eyes fly open wide. It’s true! he thinks in shock. Vin was a bully! This sets off a paralyzing cascade of thoughts in Isaac’s mind: Vin hurt people — he was mean — why was he mean — Christian is going to want to hit him now — maybe that’s what Brandon meant — I guess a bully can _change — why did he change? — Is he bullying the bullies now? Is that a thing? — Wait. "People like me."

Vin asks, "Isaac? Everything okay?"

"Vin…​"

"Yeah?"

"Did you bully…​different people?"

"I mean, I bullied — well, we all kinda ganged up…​it was pretty screwed up — but we bullied lots of people, not just, like, the same one all the time."

"No, Vin," Isaac says with a hint of irritation at being misunderstood, "Did you bully people…​like me?"

Vin stays silent a moment. The swinging bench becomes uncomfortably still. "That’s what Brandon told you, innit."

Isaac stays silent.

Vin takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I did. I was stupid. I didn’t know…​I didn’t understand what kinds of differences people could have. Like autism an' all that; I just thought they were acting weird or goofy on purpose. I didn’t mean…​uh…​well, yeah."

While Isaac takes a long moment to process everything, Vin swallows hard before continuing his explanation. "So yeah, I bullied the special-ed kids and people who acted, well, different. I’m really not proud of it, I want you to know that. I’ve been trying to make up for it for years now."

Isaac ponders the meaning of "make up for it." Is he being punished? Is it like community service? What is he doing to make up for it? He’s not sure any of those are good questions to ask, so he keeps them to himself.

"So…​" Vin quietly stammers, "izzat, y’know…​are you okay with that? I-I promise, when I realized, uh, how bad I could, or how bad it could make people feel, I stopped. I’ll never bully anyone ever again. I try to stop bullies wherever I see 'em, now."

Another long, agonizing pause. Vin sighs, "I…​I really don’t wanna lose…​our friendship, just 'cuz I was stupid long ago. Please say you’ll still hang with me."

"I’ll still hang with you," Isaac responds, though the words feel hollow. It’s not that he’s lying — half of him still thinks that’s a great idea — but the rest of him is furiously processing the information he’s just received, trying to readjust the image of Vin that he’s built up, putting out the fires of fear and anxiety that keep cropping up about Vin being a bully.

"Good," Vin says with another sigh, this time of relief. He smiles softly as he looks over at Isaac. "'Cuz I really wanna see you more."

Those words burn the numbness out of Isaac, replacing it with that nearly-uncomfortable giddy euphoria, the kind that sits right at the top of the chest and kickstarts Isaac’s lungs. He looks over to Vin, feeling his emotions intermixed with connection, belonging, relief, and the dregs of stress being slowly washed away. "I really wanna see you more, too, Vin," Isaac replies with a surge of that excited feeling of connection.

The conversation dies down, but there are only a few minutes before Vin’s mom shows up in a pristine white SUV. Isaac helps Vin get his stuff into the vehicle; Isaac notices that only the parents are inside, not Brandon.

Vin notices quickly, as well. "Where’s Brandon?"

"He’s staying home," his mom replies curtly from the front passenger seat.

"So why do I have to go?"

"Because this is the time that we’re going to be out driving," she snaps, raising her voice, "and church is where the car is headed. Stop arguing and get in the car."

Isaac can hear the sharpness in her voice; he isn’t sure how angry she is, but she definitely sounds angry.

Vin clenches his teeth for a moment before looking back at Isaac, sending a short but intense tidal wave of frustration and annoyance to him. "A’right," he says with a smile that doesn’t at all match his emotions, "I’ll see ya later, Isaac."

As Vin hops in the car, Isaac responds, "I’ll see ya later, Vin."

Vin looks one last time at Isaac before he closes the door. The feeling Isaac is left with is a tightly-bound knot of emotions, all wrapped up and strangled by frustration and longing.

Isaac walks back inside to find his mom making coffee. "Good morning, Isaac," she says without looking away from the coffee machine.

"Good morning, Mom."

"Did Vin have to leave early?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"That’s a shame. I guess he’ll miss out on pancakes."

Isaac gasps, "You’re gonna make pancakes?!"

"After my coffee. Don’t want to burn the coffee and the pancakes."

After a perfectly divided breakfast of nine bites of pancake and a tall glass of milk (enjoyed in three large swigs), a satisfied Isaac starts to head to his room. However, his mom announces, "Isaac, we need to have that talk."

Isaac freezes in place. "What talk?" he asks, though he knows perfectly what she’s talking about.

"You know which one. Come have a seat."

Isaac slumps and turns around slowly. "Yes, ma’am," he says, trying to mask his dejection. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation. At all. He sits across the couch from his mom and stares at the space between them.

"Don’t worry, I’m not mad or anything. This isn’t a punishment."

Isaac doesn’t respond, physically or verbally, but he is a little relieved. He looks up briefly to see her smiling at him, with warmth, caring, and a slowly growing prickly feeling, like the moment he first considered dressing out in the locker room this year. The feeling is quite uncomfortable, though, so he goes back to examining the worn-down navy blue velvet fabric of the couch. He drags his finger one way to darken the color, and smoothes it out to lighten it again.

"So," she begins. "About what happened yesterday. You spoke back to me multiple times, you raised your voice to me, and you acted petty and childish."

Just as Isaac begins to wonder if she lied about this not being a punishment, she continues, "However…​yesterday was also the first time that you have expressed a desire to…​have that kind of independence. I want you to be honest with me. Do you feel like I often treat you like you are still a small child?"

Isaac hesitates for a long while. "…​Yes, ma’am." He looks up just enough to see that she nods in response.

"That’s fair," she says, a little more softly. "So I realize that you are officially a teenager now, at least for a couple of months so far, and I agree that it’s time to give you some more freedom. BUT." She holds up a finger in the 'wait a minute' gesture. "That means I will expect some more responsibility from you."

Isaac stays silent, but his mother seems to understand his confusion. She points out, "For example, when it’s time to get a haircut, you always take as long as you can to stall for time before we go. I want you to be prepared and ready to go, and I want you to speak up if you’re uncomfortable. Don’t just flail around and make noise; use words to describe what’s wrong."

"Yes, ma’am."

"Also, if you want me to treat you like a young man, you have to start pitching in more around the house. A young man would help his mother with the dishes, the housecleaning, and the yard."

Isaac begins to wonder if it’s not just a better idea to get bossed around and talked over, instead. "Yes, ma’am."

"Note that I said 'help'; you won’t be responsible for all of them alone. I’ll show you how I want things done, and we can do them together. How does that sound?"

Isaac seriously contemplates it. On one hand, Isaac immediately considers the ways that he could mess up, causing broken plates, spills, or even injuries. On the other, if his mom is there to help, he would feel more confident about it. That, and even if he wants to be able to speak for himself and be trusted more, he still does enjoy his mother’s company. She’s always been there, more than any other person in his life. "That sounds good, Mom," he says with an affirmative nod, smoothing over the random design he’s been doodling into the couch fabric.

"Great." She stays silent a moment, prompting Isaac to catch a glimpse of her face to look for reasons. They meet gazes, and Isaac feels that prickly, uncomfortable feeling again. "Isaac," she says with a small smile, "I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world. You are my world. …​Sorry, that’s an expression. It means that you are the most important thing in my life."

At Isaac’s silence, she continues, "When your father died, I was worried, more than anything else, that I wouldn’t be able to give you the life you deserve, alone. I’ve worked as hard as I can to make sure that you have every chance to grow up into the wonderful person that I know you are, and that you will become.

"I just want you to know that it’s very hard for me to make this change, to start treating you like a young man. Every instinct I have is to protect you and do everything for you, but that’s not fair to you; you’ll never learn to do things on your own if I always do them for you." She pauses again. "I know you never knew him, but your father would be so very, very proud of who you have become, my little hero." She holds out her hands.

Isaac looks up and sees tears in her eyes again. He really wishes that she would stop crying so often; she never used to cry nearly this often, and it makes him feel like he’s done something wrong. He accepts her hug, complete with light swinging back and forth. It’s not the same as when they’re standing, but it’s still comforting.

He sits back down and monitors his mother closely to make sure she doesn’t continue crying. When he feels confident that she’s emotionally stable, he asks a question that has been on his mind ever since the conversation about synesthesia: "Mom. What was my father like?"

She wipes her eyes with a tissue from her purse and smiles a bit. "Doodlebug, I only have enough in me for one major conversation at a time. That one will have to wait for a later date." She gets up and takes her cold mug of coffee to the microwave. "After lunch, how about we start with the dishes, and we’ll talk about yard work possibly next weekend. Does that work for you?"

Isaac has momentary regrets about his decision to grow up. "That works for me, Mom."

"Good. Now go have fun until then."

Monday morning starts well. Isaac manages to get completely ready in record time, even considering the sunglasses, which he carefully puts in his case in the backpack. When they get in the car, she mentions, "Are you going to wear your sunglasses today?"

"No, ma’am."

"…​Why not?"

"I’m not wearing them today because Vin told me that I don’t need them."

"I see." Isaac sneaks a peek at her face to see the barest curl of a smile on her face. "You wouldn’t listen to me when I said the same thing, but when Vin says it, it makes sense? You must really like Vin."

Isaac’s eyes go wide, though his mouth stays shut. Does she know? Moms know everything; maybe she knows! Maybe I didn’t hide it, or she came in last night, or, or — or she just knows in that same way she always knows everything! Why can’t I figure that out?! What do I say? Do I say anything? I --

His mother interrupts his runaway thought train. "Hm. Maybe I’ll invite Vin over more often, if that’s all I have to do to convince you to do things. Granted, you get fussy and argumentative, but I’m beginning to wonder if that’s not worth the price."

Isaac stares ahead, but he points an air vent directly at his face.

"Regardless, I’m glad you’ve found a good friend like him. I knew he was a good kid, but after Saturday, he proved to be a fine, upstanding young man. Just like you’re becoming."

Isaac fidgets in his seat, unable to find a comfortable position. He aims another vent at his face. Thankfully, his mother leaves it at that for a while, and he eventually moves the air vents to point their normal directions.

As they arrive at the school, she turns to Isaac and says in a lower tone than usual, "I’m only saying this because I don’t want you to set yourself up for disappointment, okay?"

"…​Okay, Mom…​" he says slowly, not sure where she’s going with this.

"I want you to try to make a few other friends, as well. If you place all your eggs in one basket…​"

Isaac stares blankly, baffled as to why one would put eggs in a basket in the first place, and even more so why the topic was changed so rapidly.

His mom sighs and shakes her head. "Sorry. What I mean is…​Vin has other friends and does other things. I just don’t want you to be disappointed if he doesn’t hang out with you as often as you want him to."

Black tendrils constrict his chest as he replies, "I know, Mom."

"Okay, well, I’m going to go get some coffee, and I’ll be back up in just a bit."

Isaac frowns. "But why, Mom?"

"Today is your ARD meeting, and I need to be there as well."

A pit settles in Isaac’s stomach; he was certain this was going to be a good day. Everything had gone right. He wonders for a brief moment if he put his socks on in the wrong order. "Oh," he says.

"Everything will be fine, Doodlebug. Just answer the questions they ask you."

"Yes, ma’am."

"I promise it’ll be okay. Now come here." She leans over and kisses him on the cheek, and he shuffles out of the car.

Breakfast is French toast sticks, of which Isaac eats three (the fourth one wouldn’t have tasted as good). He eats the bacon (three halves of bacon so that the fourth half could join the lone toast stick), enjoys the milk, and discards his trash just before the bell rings.

In the Living Room, Christian is arguing with Mrs. Jimenez over one of his privileges being taken away, while Mr. Coleman tries his best as usual to calm David down. Isaac thinks back to the images he saw — that he felt — the other time, and a mix of curiosity and aversion fight their way to dominance in his mind. It felt so strange seeing a memory that he never had, like a first-person-perspective movie, but completely real, down to the feeling of the boy’s fist in his abs. He absently places a hand there while processing the thought.

Another screech, definitely one that sounds very much to Isaac like "Rehhh," jolts Isaac out of his thoughts. He watches David try somehow to push himself into the corner even more than he already is, his lanky legs and old sneakers sliding on the tile floor uselessly.

"I don’t know what’s happened recently," Mr. Coleman says to Mrs. Jimenez, "but David is getting harder to calm down. Can you get the weighted blanket? It might help."

She walks off to the closet, her high heels clacking on the floor on the way. Isaac walks up to Mr. Coleman and David; Mr. Coleman requests, "Please leave us alone. David is not calm yet."

Isaac chews on the inside of his lip a moment. "Can I try t-to help?" he says, almost loudly enough to be a yell.

Mr. Coleman responds, "I really don’t think this is a good time."

Mrs. Jimenez comes over with a heavy blanket, one that Isaac has seen them use to occasionally calm others down or make them feel safer. She drapes it over David, who doesn’t resist in any way, though his eyes remain wild and he continues wheezing from exertion and screaming.

Isaac sneaks over to align himself a little better, and waits for David to see him. Once their eyes lock, Isaac again sees the same nightmare play itself out; Isaac tries everything he can to move the "camera," to get a glimpse of the assailant. He feels the punch, grunting from the impact; he finds himself clutching his stomach with both hands.

"Isaac, are you okay?" Mrs. Jimenez asks in her musical voice. He glances up to see that she is looking at him with her eyebrows down, and is not smiling.

"Yes, ma’am," he replies, looking down. "Sorry, ma’am."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Okay. Was it just a hiccup or something?"

"…​Yes, ma’am," he responds, his skin prickling.

"Well, the bell’s about to ring, so go get prepared for the day, okay?"

"Yes, ma’am." He looks one last time to David, who looks back with very slightly less panicked eyes. Isaac sees an image of the boy walking away; though he cannot see his face, there is something familiar about him that Isaac cannot place.

The bell rings, leaving him with no more time to contemplate it. David, at least, finally calms down; Isaac is glad that David at least has a good bit of the day where he is not panicking. Isaac heads over to reading class, distracted by the image of that boy, but somewhat proud that he helped David calm down a bit.

At the door, though, he is greeted by Mr. Guthrie. "Good morning, Isaac. Are you ready for your ARD meeting?"

Isaac sighs. Somewhere deep in his mind, he had hoped that somehow, if he forgot about the meeting, maybe everyone else would, too. Since that hasn’t ever worked with anything else before, he considers the 'silent' technique, but he knows that one is just as effective, especially with mr. Guthrie. "Yes, sir," he finally mumbles.

He follows Mr. Guthrie down the halls to another room halfway down the school. He opens the door and invites Isaac into a small room just large enough for a long table and a few bookcases against one wall. He wonders if this is what is behind every normally-closed door in the building. At the table, he sees his math teacher Mr. Crawford, a young-looking woman with tightly-bunned brown hair that he has seen talking with Mr. Coleman on occasion, and his mother. She smiles, her eyes projecting serenity, love, and encouragement.

Isaac sits in the vacant chair next to his mother and folds himself up tightly, burying his face up to his nose behind his knees. The chair slowly swivels away; he tries to re-right himself, but the chair lists to the right again. Mr. Guthrie takes his spot on Isaac’s other side.

"You need to put your feet down to make the chair stop," his mother points out.

Gritting his teeth, he puts his feet down and slowly begins to rock back and forth. Being around this many important adults, including some he’s unfamiliar with, is intensely uncomfortable for him.

The other adults hold small-talk conversation with each other for a moment. Just as Isaac asks himself if the meeting will ever start, Mr. Coleman walks into the room, taking the seat nearest the door. "Sorry for the lateness," he says, "but one of our kids was having more of an issue than normal."

"It’s just fine," Bun-Lady says with a tight-lipped smile. Normally, Isaac cannot tell much about a person’s face; however, hers almost seemed to him like someone tried to smile to show happiness, but forgot how to do it right.

Bun-Lady starts up the meeting by setting a small device out on the table and pushing a button. She then announces that the meeting is "an annual review for Isaac Alexander Brooks, as pursuant to…​" where she begins listing a combination of letters, numbers, and words like "code" and "act"; Isaac can already tell that most of this is going to be easy to tune out.

"I am LeeAnn Montgomery, LSSP," the lady announces.

"Earl Crawford, general education," his math teacher states.

"Brian Coleman, behavioral specialist."

"Jeff Guthrie, educational specialist."

Everyone’s eyes land on Isaac, who freezes in place. His mother gently leans over and whispers, "Say who you are."

Isaac whispers back, "Is this being recorded?"

"Yes," she nods. "Go ahead; nobody’s going to listen to it or make fun of you."

In a wavering voice, Isaac stammers, "I-Isaac Brooks."

After another short pause, Ms. Montgomery prompts, "State your grade and where you go to school."

"Eight — Eighth, um, grader at Ophelia Adler Intermediate." He can feel his face turning the same color as Vin’s shiny new shoes.

His mother states clearly, "Eileen Brooks, parent."

Bun-Lady — Ms. Montgomery, remember her name, he berates himself — starts announcing more things with numbers and the like. He already knows that none of it is mathematical in nature, so he immediately tunes it out with no other reason to listen. He rocks back and forth, noting various details in the room: eight pens in the coffee mug on the table, a lightly beige humming from Ms. Montgomery’s laptop fan, the faint smell of hazelnut from his mom’s store-bought coffee in an off-white paper cup with a black lid. Mr. Crawford begins to speak of Isaac’s high-level achievements in his class. Isaac tunes back out, uncaring of the praise.

He deliberately chose his seat to be the least uncomfortable with the situation, but his lingering unease about Mr. Guthrie slowly corrodes the shell of safety he has left. He leans over to his mother and whispers, "Can Mr. Coleman sit next to me, please?"

"Ask him," she replies. Isaac looks at her, eyes wide, but she whispers, "You said you can advocate for yourself. Show me."

Isaac huffs, but he catches himself when his mom raises one eyebrow. He’s learned that usually means either she’s confused about something or that she’s trying to warn Isaac about his behavior, and he knows she doesn’t have anything to be confused about. As Mr. Crawford finishes speaking, Isaac raises his hand. Mr. Coleman opens his mouth and barely makes a sound before Ms. Montgomery talks over him. "Isaac has a question," she says with a gesture toward him. "Yes, Isaac?" she asks.

Isaac freezes. Everyone continues to look in his direction, so he stares at the pens as he fights his paralysis. I can do this. I just need to ask. Not a single person moves or makes a sound; all eyes stay on Isaac until he takes a deep breath and asks, "Can Mr. Coleman…​sit next to me, please?" He shrinks inward, afraid of the incoming backlash.

Mr. Guthrie and Mr. Coleman look at each other for a quick moment and then wordlessly exchange places, leaving Isaac flanked by the two people in the room whom he trusts the most. One more second of tense anxiety quickly makes way for relief; he feels multiple muscles relax that he had no idea he was even tensing.

Mr. Guthrie nods and rumbles, "Mr. Guthrie speaking…​" and he goes into some details about "IEPs" and "BIPs," and other special education-related acronyms that fly over Isaac’s head.

Mr. Coleman mentions that Isaac is very helpful and considerate of others, more so by far than many of his peers; as he says this, Ms. Brooks reaches over and rubs Isaac’s back a few times with a smile on her face. Mr. Coleman wraps up his bit by noting that Isaac has had fewer meltdowns this year than last year, and seems to adjust more quickly to changes in routine. Meanwhile, Isaac still can’t remember if he put the right sock on before the left on accident. It would explain a lot, he thinks.

Ms. Montgomery takes the floor. "Speaking of changes in routine, this is the year in which Isaac not only gets to attend his own ARD, but it’s the year we begin thinking of careers." Turning to him, she says, "Isaac, do you know what you want to have as a career once you graduate high school?"

Isaac stares at the same boring spot on the pen-filled mug. "No, ma’am," he replies quietly. He had considered things when he was younger, like being an astronaut or firefighter, but it was always because that’s what he was watching, or at least temporarily obsessed with. It always passed. Now, when finally asked for real, he realizes he’s never actually put any thought toward it.

"It’s time to start thinking about those things, because you are going to be choosing a career pathway in high school that will lead to your career," she says. "What are some of the things you enjoy?"

Isaac remains silent, suddenly feeling highly vulnerable and unprepared for this moment. He rocks a bit in place, trying to organize a thought about the question in his brain, but coming up with nothing.

"Isaac." His mother puts her hand over his on the arm of the chair. "This is just another part of growing up, of being a young man. You said you were ready for this, and I think you are." She squeezes his hand comfortingly. "So what are some of the things you like, that you would like to earn money by doing?"

Another uncomfortable silence drapes itself over the room. Isaac spends the first bit calming himself, and the rest of it preparing a response. When he finally replies, "I like to draw…​and I like to play p-piano," it feels like a huge letdown to him.

After he shrinks into his chair, making it obvious he has nothing else to say, Mr. Crawford takes the lead. "Isaac, you are literally a genius in mathematics. A prodigy. You’re quite ahead of everyone else, and I have a feeling you’ll be ready for geometry by January."

Ms. Montgomery looks to Isaac. "Do you enjoy math?"

Isaac perks up, wondering why he didn’t mention that. "Yes, ma’am."

"Well, someone as talented as you at math could easily become an engineer, or even work in astronomy, robotics, all kinds of fields. Have you considered being an engineer?"

"No, ma’am."

"Do you know what an engineer does?"

"…​No, ma’am."

"Engineers design systems and items for all sorts of uses. If you’ve seen the massive refineries out in the fields along the highway, those were all designed by engineers. They create plans and blueprints, and design the system to work perfectly. Does that sound interesting?"

Isaac considers the possibility. He does like math, a lot, and designing blueprints sounds a little bit like art…​and he really likes when something works perfectly, like a fresh Newton’s Cradle. "I think so, ma’am."

"Then for now, let’s consider putting you in the classes necessary to become an engineer. I think that sounds like a great fit for you." She shuffles some papers in front of her and clicks a few times on her laptop. "Final object in the agenda: potential transition from the Special Education program." Isaac sits up, suddenly keenly interested in the conversation. She continues, "According to our records, Isaac has shown a clear improvement in the areas of academic concern, with all classes at an average or higher level except for reading, which has shown growth. Isaac’s behavior and social skills have also improved, with fewer meltdowns and almost no conflicts over the past year."

Isaac is reminded of the way he was before he exited therapy: defensive, frustrated, unable to cope with his emotions. In short, volatile; he desperately wanted to be a kid that didn’t cause problems, but before he had learned coping strategies, it was the hardest thing in the world at times just to stay calm.

"While we cannot recommend a full exit from the program due to the gap in reading comprehension," Ms. Montgomery announces, "it is likely that we will be able to extend his gen-ed inclusion to homeroom as well; if by the end of this year he continues to show improvement in emotional regulation, we may only need a reading specialist next year."

"Do you understand what that means, Isaac?" his mom says, her voice more animated than usual. "You can graduate to a gen-ed homeroom for high school! I know you told me last year that you wanted that."

It is true that Isaac occasionally mentioned that he wanted to be in a regular homeroom instead of the Living Room. Every time he walked in there, he could feel the eyes of everyone else in the hallways watching him go in there, noticing that he’s one of the different ones. However, he has a strong connection to the room; it is a source of comfort, a safe haven from everything else, even himself. He isn’t immediately keen on the idea of losing that safety net.

Isaac takes a deep breath. "I…​I like the Living Room."

"You’ll stay there for this year," the LSSP reminds him, "but next year you’d go to a different one, anyway; the high school ones aren’t quite the same as the intermediate ones." Without waiting for a response, she picks up and taps her papers on the table a few times to straighten them, saying, "That is all on the agenda for this annual meeting; are there any last comments or requests?" Nobody says anything for a moment, so she adds, "Isaac? Is there anything you’d like to ask us, or tell us?"

There is another thick, ringing silence as Isaac puts his thoughts together and gathers his confidence. This is something he’s wanted since last year, but was always afraid to ask; he finally steels his resolve and requests, "I would like to be put in a remedial ream — remedial r-reading class."

Multiple faces twist into different emotions; he avoids looking at his mother’s face entirely. She says in a softer voice, "Isaac, honey, no — that’s a bad idea. We fought specifically to keep you in regular reading classes. You can do it."

"No," he says, staring at the space in the dead center of the table. "You fought specifically to keep me in regular r-reading classes. I never wanted to, to be in them. I don’t understand the lessons, or — or the 'theme' or 'inferences'…​"

"You’re doing fine so far this year, according to Mr. Guthrie."

He finally looks up at his mom, where he feels a flush of frustration and protective "mama-bear" that he often gets from her in these kinds of situations, along with a feeling like…​like how Isaac felt when his mother first offered to get him velcro shoes, before he gave up laces in a fit of wall-scuffing frustration. His own determination, anxiety, and anger rise up and greet him through her, as well. "Mom. I never do the lessons in Mrs. Stone’s class. I only work w-with Mr. Guthrie. It’s, it’s like I’m not there."

She takes a deep breath and sighs. "Isaac. Darling. If they change your class, you won’t have the same schedule. You might end up with all different classes, with different people in them. You might not be with your friends anymore."

This gives Isaac pause. He didn’t consider at all the fact that if he changes schedules, he may not end up with the same gym class, the only place he has any real friends other than Christian. No Vin, no Juan. After school, sure, but gym is the only way he can be sure he’ll see them every day. Do I have to put up with reading class to stay with Vin in gym? he considers with dread.

"Wouldn’t it be better to stay with what you already know?" his mother asks. "You know how stressful routine and environmental changes can be. How about we talk about changing your class to remedial when you go to 9th grade — how does that sound?"

"…​Yes, ma’am," he mutters, barely moving his lips.

The LSSP wraps up the meeting with a summary of the discussed points, minutes on what Isaac said and chose, and a reminder that the next meeting won’t be until next year unless Isaac begins failing a class.

His mother stands up as Isaac does. "Thank you for understanding," she coos in a low voice to him, mussing the top of his hair as she runs her nails across the top of his scalp. The feeling isn’t as intense as the bristly short hairs by a long shot, but it has always been a comforting feeling to him. She rests one hand on his shoulder, smiles at him, and says, "Have a good day, Isaac."

"Have a good day, Mom," he says without a return smile. Everyone else leaves the room, then his mother, and finally Isaac, who follows Mr. Guthrie back to class.

With very little time left in reading, Isaac just takes the time to organize his binder a bit and toss a few older papers. When the bell rings, he heads to his favorite moment of the day, when he gets to see two of his best friends, and in various states of undress, no less.

He makes it into the locker room decently early, where he waits for Vin to show up before he starts changing out. The other boys start arriving, mostly the mass of kids he’s never bothered to learn names for, then Charlie and Dalla, then more unknown kids, and then Grease-Hair. Still no Vin.

Grease-Hair goes to his locker and gets his clothes out, unlacing his shoes and going about his business at first; Isaac ignores him to keep waiting for Vin, but time is slowly running out.

"You lookin' for your guardian angel?" Grease-Hair says without looking up from his shoe.

Isaac looks at him, unsure if Grease-Hair intended that for him.

"Yeah, you, Voodoo Boy," the boy says, lifting his head a bit and glancing in Isaac’s direction. "Too bad your protector ain’t here anymore."

Isaac continues to stare, but inside, his mind is racing. What does he mean, that my protector isn’t here? Is that Vin? Where is Vin? Did he move? Is Grease-Hair lying? I bet he’s lying. He’s the kind of person that would do that. Why does he want to lie to me, though? I never did anything to him!

Grease-Hair looks up after slipping his shoes off and smiles a slow grin, tooth by tooth revealed in an incomprehensible expression that somehow still makes Isaac uncomfortable. "You do know that athletics started up today, right? He ain’t here anymore."

"You’re lying," Isaac manages to say in what he hopes is a confident voice.

"Am I lying?" the boy asks the locker room.

A couple of people shake their heads. One says, "Nah, they was out runnin' this mornin' already."

Isaac’s heart hits the floor. "What…​wh-why didn’t…​" He can’t form any other coherent thought.

"Aw, what, he didn’t tell you? Maybe he just wanted away from you, freak." A couple of the other boys in the room laugh.

Isaac is surprised to hear Juan’s voice from behind him say, "Dude, chill out." Isaac never saw him come in; he must have sneaked in with the crowd.

"Shut the fuck up, Shrimp," Grease-Hair snaps before taking his shirt off and pulling his gym shirt over his head. "I’m just glad I got to be the one to say it: Vin left his little fag behind."

Isaac clenches his teeth. "I’m not a fag."

Grease-Hair laughs. "Yeah y’are, fag. And so is Vin. Why else he hangin' around fags like you so much?"

Isaac is used to being bullied and insulted, but at this moment, stressed by the news, surrounded, insulted, and now hearing this kid call Vin a "fag," something snaps in Isaac. "Vin…​is…​not…​a…​fag, Grease-Hair!" he growls, his voice cracking on a few of the words.

The other boy stops, one leg in his gym shorts. "What the fuck did you just call me?"

Isaac suddenly realizes that he’s never known this boy’s name. But what he said seemed to bother the boy, so he repeats, "Grease-Hair."

The other boy narrows his eyes, but suddenly busts into laughter. "Oh my God, the Fag grew a pair of balls alla sudden! First off, the name’s Jason. Call me Grease-Hair again and I’ll cut those balls you just grew right the fuck off. But your little pussy-ass ain’t gonna do shit about what I call you or your fag boyfriend. Pussy-ass fag."

Isaac’s adrenaline rises with every insult the boy throws at him, but at "fag boyfriend," Isaac screams and clambers across the bench toward Jason, intent on choking the life out of him, or scratching his eyes out, or whatever he could possibly do. He manages to dig his nails into the boy’s cheek, leaving quickly-reddening marks across his face.

As the crowd of boys erupts into shouting, Jason reacts with remarkable speed, shoving Isaac back hard against the lockers. Isaac smashes against the lockers with a loud rattle; a sharp pain shoots through his ribs underneath his right shoulder blade as the breath is knocked out of him, sending him down to the ground, sitting with knees bent. The pain is focused almost entirely in that one spot, though it’s enough to leave him temporarily stunned.

Isaac tries to catch his breath as Jason stalks over. They meet eyes just as Jason says, "Little bitch down in one shove? That all you --"; as they meet gazes, Jason suddenly stops talking, his right side tensing up as his jaw gapes open. Isaac, wincing in pain and a thread away from crying, feels the shock and confusion in Jason as their diaphragms both seize up. Suddenly, he looks down at the prime target on a boy and swings his foot up, connecting perfectly with Jason’s nuts.

Jason makes a strangled grunt as Isaac scrambles out from underneath him amid a chorus of hoots from the other boys. Isaac stands up, finally able to breathe, and stares at Jason trying to recover from the kick. When he stands up, he sees Juan for a quick moment; from Juan’s wide eyes he feels a quick surge of intense emotions, including exhilaration, concern, fear, and something like encouragement. Juan yells over the others, "Get him!!"

As Isaac turns back to his opponent, Jason locks eyes again with Isaac, who then feels exactly how sharp of a pain getting kicked in the balls feels like. But his adrenaline, his determination, and a long history of injuring himself all add up to a blinding cocktail of rage. Isaac puts his left wrist in his mouth and chomps down hard, staring daggers at Jason the entire time. The pain shoots through his wrist, but he’s done exactly this before in different meltdowns; his wrist will probably lock up, but he’s right-handed anyway.

Jason’s eyes fly wide as he picks up his wrist. "What the fuck, you crazy shit! Fucking --"

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!" bellows the coach from the doorway. "BROWN! BROOKS! MY OFFICE, NOW!"

The boys are forced to sit silently, not looking at each other, while the coach calls the principal. They are led by a school police officer from the gym to the principal’s office, where the principal is already making phone calls to the parents. "No, ma’am, I’m just relaying what I’ve been told. They’ve just arrived in my office now; we’d like to hold an immediate parent conference if you are available." A moment later, after some angry-sounding voices issue from the principal’s phone, they suddenly go silent, and the principal hangs up. Without even looking at the boys, he picks the phone back up, reads something off his computer monitor, and punches in another phone number. "Hello, this is Jim Miller, principal of Ophelia Adler Intermediate. Is this Eileen Brooks, mother of Isaac Brooks?"

Even through Isaac’s still-seething anger, the thought of his mother finding out about this brings tears to his eyes. He squints, bundling himself up in the chair and rocking, trying everything he can not to start bawling.

"…​Yes, the coach is certain that Isaac was involved in the fight. We don’t know yet who caused it, but both are guilty of fighting. …​Okay. Thank you for agreeing on short notice. See you soon." After he hangs up, he takes a look at both boys sitting across his desk. "So what caused this?" he asks in a low tone.

Jason immediately responds in a slow, calm voice, "Sir, he called me 'Grease-Hair' twice and attacked me."

Isaac’s face freezes in complete astonishment. "Y-you called me a — the f-word! And then, and then you called Vin the f-word!!"

"First off," the principal states with a flat expression, "none of that sounds like a reason to fight. Secondly," he looks at Jason, "drop the act, boy. This is the fifth time I’ve seen you in the span of a single year, and it’s not even the first time this year. It’s not even October." Principal Miller shakes his head and inhales deeply. "Both of you can wait here silently until both sets of parents arrive. We’ll have the full discussion then. If I hear a word out of either of you, I’ll add it to your punishment time."

The boys acquiesce. Ms. Brooks shows up first, at which point they move to a meeting room to better accommodate them. She sits next to Isaac, but she takes her laptop out of her large purse and begins to work on some type of document. Isaac glances at her face, but she never looks at him directly.

A little less than ten minutes later, a taller woman with shoulder-length, wild, wavy hair finds her way into the room, her stiletto heels making muffled tup-tup sounds as she strides in. She sits down two chairs from Jason, clasping her hands together, her long, sparkling crimson nails glittering in the fluorescent light. To Isaac, her face seems utterly devoid of emotional cues, but she definitely does not seem pleasant at all.

As she walks in, Ms. Brooks closes her laptop and puts it away. The principal states, "Good morning, Ms. Brooks, Mrs. Brown. Your sons were involved in a fight about 25 minutes ago. I wanted you here to hear the testimony from each, as well as to have a chance to have input on the situation."

"I’m not surprised in the least," Mrs. Brown says in quick, sharp words. "That’s my input."

Principal Miller nods to her, and then looks at Isaac. "Isaac, we’ll hear your side of the story first. What happened that led up to the fight? I want you to be as detailed as possible, including the language that was used."

Isaac swallows and takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm his nerves one bit. "I got to the locker room, and then when I was w-waiting for Vin to, to show up, he said, 'You lookin' for your guardian angel?' I didn’t know that he was talking t-to me so I waited, and then he called me 'Voodoo Boy.' He said that athletics started today so Vin wouldn’t be in gym any—​anymore, and--"

Isaac’s valiant attempt at maintaining calm breaks; his lip quivers and he begins to sniffle between words. "I thought he was—​was lying, but he wa—​wasn’t, and then he s—​said Vin wanted away from me and then he called me 'freak,' and then—​and then Juan told him to—​to chill but he told him to 'shut the—​the fuck up, Shrimp,' and then he said 'V—​Vin left his little fag behind' and I g—​got mad…​I said I—​I wasn’t a fag and Vin wasn—​wasn’t a fag and I called him Grea—​Grease-Hair be—​because I didn’t know hi—​his name, and he said he would—​cut my balls off and then he called Vin a—​a fag and then he called—​called me a 'pussy-ass f—​a pussy-ass fag.' And then…​and then I scratched his face, and…​and then we—​we got in a fight." By the end, Isaac’s face and nose are both streaming; when his anger no longer enveloped his entire being, the stress and fear of the fight hit him full-force. He manages not to whine or sob, but the tears, snot, and sniffles continue unabated. His mother silently hands him a tissue to wipe his face, which he uses somewhat ineffectively.

Mr. Miller finishes typing something on his laptop before looking to Jason. "Do you disagree with anything Isaac has said? Do you have anything to add?"

"Mr. Principal," Jason starts, "first, I did not start this fight. You heard him. Second, he kicked me in the privates. Also, it was really weird, but he bit himself in the fight, and I--"

"Okay, just STOP," his mother says, rolling her eyes hard enough to take her head with them. "You make shit up every single time this happens, but you’re seriously going to try to tell me that he bit himself in the fight? Come on, Jason. Cut the shit and take your punishment already, because it’s gonna be ten times worse at home."

"HE DID!" Jason practically screams. "He bit himself! Didn’t you?!" He points at Isaac at the last bit.

Ms. Brooks glances over and sees Isaac’s wrist, which is quite inflamed by this point. "Isaac! Your wrist is swollen! Mr. Miller, please have the nurse bring an ice pack; this is already inflamed."

"Cindy?" Mr. Miller calls through the open door.

"Yes, Mr. Miller?"

"Please get an ice pack from the nurse."

"On the way."

As the principal sets that up, Ms. Brooks delicately holds up Isaac’s wrist. "…​Did you do this?" she asks softly.

Isaac remains silent for a moment, but answers, "Yes, ma’am."

"But…​why? Were you having a meltdown?"

"…​No, ma’am."

"So why did you do it?"

This time, Isaac remains silent.

After a pregnant pause, Jason says, "See? He needs mental help!"

Principal Miller’s face changes perceptibly, but Isaac cannot tell precisely what little things changed. He speaks more quietly, though, saying, "Jason, Isaac is one of our children with special needs. Not only did you instigate this encounter with your insults and provocation, but you drove a special needs child to harm themselves. If there’s a single shred of shame in your entire body, I hope you feel it now; that’s one of the lowest possible things you can do."

"Jason," his mother says in a weird tone, "you beat up an autistic kid?!"

"HE attacked ME!" Jason cries. "And you don’t know how weird he is! He does some kinda voodoo shit to people!"

"Jason — really?" she snaps over him. "That’s where we’re going now? Do you even hear yourself? I do everything I can to help raise you the right way, to be an upstanding citizen unlike your father, and this is how you repay me? By making up fantasy-world lies to justify beating up an autistic kid? Is this what we’ve come to now?"

As Jason’s mom rips into him, a darker-skinned woman with thick, curly brown hair and curiously red lips (who Isaac assumes is "Cindy") enters the room silently with a cold gel pack; Ms. Brooks intercepts it and wraps it around Isaac’s wrist, mouthing "thank you" to her before she leaves.

Jason opens his mouth, but she raises her hand and speaks through her teeth, "Say one more word, so help me God, and I’ll slap that mouth right off your face." Isaac cannot see Jason’s face, but he does stop talking. Turning to Principal Miller, she says, "What is his punishment, and when? I need to know so I can schedule a drug test and a psychiatric evaluation. I’m tired of losing time to parent meetings, I’m tired of watching him ruin his own life by ruining others', and now I have to deal with him raving like a lunatic about 'voodoo.'"

Principal Miller clicks a few times on his laptop and responds, "He will be suspended for three days, following the procedure outlined in his behavioral contract; furthermore, since this counts as bullying, he has one more chance to behave appropriately here before he is transferred to a different campus, likely the Alternative Education campus with his current record."

"Great. That will give us plenty of time to get his act together. I’m taking him out of school right now to make sure the drug test is accurate. Jason, get moving." She stands and watches as Jason stands up, kicking the chair out of the way and practically stomping out of the room. He turns to Isaac and stares at him for a second; within that second, Isaac feels hatred at a level he could not even fathom, a level that, for a brief moment, made Isaac feel like lunging right back at Jason, regardless of the consequences. As they leave the room, Mrs. Brown can be heard down the hallway, saying, "If you make me have to drive you to a new campus, I’m taking it out on your…​" before the sound of another door shuts off the rest of the sentence.

Isaac notices that the principal’s face and shoulders change position as Jason and his mother finally move out of earshot. He turns to Isaac and his mother and says, "As for Isaac, considering this is the first time he’s been involved in any disciplinary issue, it will be one day of in-school suspension, to instill in him that these actions have consequences. I think we can both agree that this episode of misconduct is not related to Isaac’s disability."

"No," she responds, "but it is yet another episode of bullying at this campus. Speaking of which, Isaac, are you hurt anywhere else?"

Isaac considers the slowly-dulling pain in his back. He knows that if he doesn’t tell his mother and she finds out later, it’ll only make things worse. "My back," he admits quietly.

"Lean over," she commands. He does so, and she lifts his shirt. "God, Isaac!" she gasps. "What happened?!"

"He pushed me into the lockers."

She sighs heavily through her nose. "We need to take you to the doctor to make sure nothing’s broken."

"I’ll be okay, Mom."

"There is already a major bruise forming there, and the skin is broken in one spot. You’re bleeding, Isaac. This isn’t 'okay.'"

"I’m not — nothing’s broken, Mom!"

"Can you take a deep breath?"

Isaac rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. It does start to get painful near the end, but nothing about it is more than he can handle. "See?" he says through gritted teeth, though more due to frustration than pain. "Nothing’s broken."

"I understand your concern, Ms. Brooks," the principal interrupts, "but we have a low rate of bullying incidents at this campus."

"You have a low rate of reported bullying incidents," she emphasizes while putting Isaac’s shirt down. "My son has been called many names on different occasions, was ridiculed for slipping on the concrete outside during the rain — which is another matter entirely — and has gotten physical with two separate people this year alone, which is two more times than he ever has. You can’t tell me that the bullying is under control here. What are you currently doing to eliminate bullying from this school?"

The principal nods slowly. "We have a 'See Something, Say Something' initiative, where we teach the students to report anything they think seems suspicious. We also have all the legally-mandated professional development and student education regarding bullying, and we go a step further by having an assembly dedicated to anti-bullying."

"Clearly, this is insufficient, as the problem is pervasive."

"Ma’am," the principal says with a slightly different inflection, his Southern accent becoming more pronounced, "we happen to have one of the lowest incidences of bullying, reported or not, in the district. Considering the populations the district services, this is an accomplishment, not a deficit." He stands, picking up his laptop. "If you would like to discuss this more, we can set up a proper meeting for it at another date --"

"Excuse me, sir, but you called me out of work to have a discussion about my son getting in a fight with someone who directly and seriously bullied him. I think now is a fantastic time to have this discussion, while it’s fresh in our minds, and in my son’s injuries."

"Then, other than the fact that we already take extra steps above and beyond what state law requires, what would you have us do to solve what is a deeply cultural problem?"

"You could start with a zero-tolerance policy and go from there. Bullies should not be allowed near other children, unless you want to invite further incidents and poison the learning environment."

He shakes his head. "As much as I know you love your child and wish to protect him, we serve every child we teach here. Zero-tolerance policies have been shown in multiple studies to seriously hinder a child’s chances at success after school. No matter how you feel about Jason, he is a child under our tutelage, in both senses of the word, and we must take his future into mind when making decisions in this regard. Rehabilitation is our goal, not abandonment. Surely, if Jason were your child, you would want him to have a chance. Multiple chances, as many people often need."

"If he were my child," she says in a lower inflection, "he wouldn’t have ended up a combative miscreant."

"And now you see the additional issues we face, here," the principal sighs. "We struggle uphill against parents who model these behaviors for their children. As far as those two go," he remarks, rolling his eyes a bit, "they rank high on my list of 'Least Favorite Tasks of my Job.'" He pauses a moment. "Ms. Brooks. I admire your dedication to raising a fine, upstanding son, even with the special challenges you certainly have faced. But as we serve students from mixed socioeconomic backgrounds, the challenges faced by many of them are qualitatively different yet no less serious. Yes, there are more bullies than there should be, as even one is an issue, but we are doing everything we can to help them overcome their learned hostility and be able to better contribute to society, rather than to the problem."

"Well," his mother says after a pause, "if it happens again, we’re going to have a very serious problem."

"If it happens again, that very serious problem will no longer go here," the principal reminds her.

"It better not." She looks at Isaac, who catches a glimpse of that same aggression he felt before he attacked Jason, though he is not sure to whom this aggression is directed. It quickly fades, though, replaced by a smile and a feeling of comfort and warmth.

"Isaac," the principal asks, "do you know that what you did was wrong?"

"Yes, sir," Isaac says, his hiccups and sniffles gone.

"What should you have done?"

"I should have talked to the coach about it, sir."

"That is correct. You do not take matters into your own hands; that is the job of your teachers and administrators. Today after this meeting, you will go back to classes. However, you will have in-school suspension tomorrow as punishment. You will work on your classwork silently in the ISS room for the entire day. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Isaac considers the prospect of an entire day of silence. He does not find it particularly scary, or even negative.

"Do you have any questions?"

"…​Will I still have lunch?"

Principal Miller smiles. "Yes, Isaac, you will still have lunch. I would never starve any of my students, much less one of the nicest students I’ve met. However, it will be Silent Lunch at the wall of the cafeteria, since it is still part of your punishment."

"Yes, sir." Still doesn’t seem that bad to Isaac.

Cindy appears at the door to the conference room. "Mr. Miller, it’s time for your call with the superintendent."

"Thank you, Cindy." He holds out his hand to Isaac’s mom, who accepts it and shakes it firmly. He smiles and says, "I appreciate your concerns and the wonderful, challenging job you do. Isaac is a fine young man, both a gentleman and a scholar, and I expect great things from him."

"Thank you for your time. Have a good day." And with that, Ms. Brooks walks out of the room. Before she is out of sight, though, she turns to Isaac. "Behave yourself today. We’ll talk more about this directly after school, since you’re grounded."

Isaac’s jaw drops, but he has nothing to say in return. He huffs, clenching his jaw as the adults abandon him in the conference room.

Isaac looks around the hallway outside the conference room; though he’s been here before, it feels uncomfortable to him without any reason to be here. He tries to pick up his backpack, but a shooting pain through his left wrist reminds him of the error of his ways. He thinks about it for a moment, finally settling on the long way: he stands his backpack up, sits down with his back to it, slides both arms through the straps, and stands up. He wanders out of the office and decides to head to the Living Room for the remainder of gym class. He definitely doesn’t want to talk to anyone in that class right now, not after what happened.

He knocks on the door, and Mr. Coleman opens it. As he sees Isaac, his eyes lock onto the cold pack on which Isaac is resting his wrist, and Mr. Coleman’s facial expression changes perceptibly. He asks, "Isaac? Is everything okay?"

"I got in a fight," he admits.

"Come sit down."

They sit on the microfiber couch, facing toward the door. Isaac rests the cold pack on the arm of the couch, putting his wrist on top of it as he relates most of the important details, including the meeting. After he’s finished, Mr. Coleman points out, "You’ve never started a fight before. What made you angry enough to start one this time? If it wasn’t anger, what was it?"

"Grease-H — I mean, Jason called Vin a 'fag.'"

"So it wasn’t what he called you that made you so mad, it was what he called Vin, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you feel that way?"

Just thinking about it makes Isaac’s hands begins to clench. "Vin isn’t a fag."

"Let’s stop using that language for now. Can we find a different term?"

"Yes, sir. Vin isn’t …​ that thing."

Mr. Coleman shrugs a little. "That’ll work. So, Vin isn’t that, but then, neither are you, right?"

"Right, Mr. Coleman."

"So why did it bother you so much that he was called that, when it didn’t bother you if you were called that?"

Isaac pauses to contemplate that for a moment. When he hears the insults aimed at him, they barely feel like anything at all anymore. If he wasn’t thrown off guard by the news about athletics, he probably would have just ignored Jason and gone on with his business. But when Jason brought Vin into it, Isaac felt…​protective. "I…​it bothered me because Vin doesn’t d-deserve to be called names. I don’t care anymore when they call me names, but Vin…​didn’t deserve it."

"You don’t think that you deserve to be called names, do you?"

Isaac remains silent.

"Isaac, nobody deserves to be made fun of, called names, or bullied. You, especially. Do you know that nearly every one of the adults I’ve talked to says that you’re one of their favorite students?"

This takes Isaac by surprise almost as much as the news in gym. "Really?"

"Of course! You’re a wonderful person. You’re very polite, you’re nice to everyone by default, you follow the rules and stay out of trouble — most of the time, anyway — and you saved another kid’s life. God, imagine how things would be if everyone was like you! You’re a role model, Isaac. Nobody deserves to be ridiculed, but you definitely don’t."

Isaac smiles silently. The thought of all of the adults liking him makes him feel a bit like he’s doing things right. He doesn’t care as much if the other kids like him, much less understand him, but the adults have mostly always been there for him. It’s nice to have friends, but to Isaac, it’s better to have support.

A shuffling sound brings Isaac’s attention to David, who is at a nearby table, drawing something. Isaac asks, "Mr. Coleman. May I see what David is drawing?"

"Yes, Isaac, but don’t bother him, please. He’s having a good day, and I don’t want him to have a mid-day meltdown. Once a morning is bad enough."

Isaac gets up and sits next to David, whose long, dark hair covers most of his face as he looks down at the paper; his spindly legs and arms make him look a bit like a spider to Isaac. He makes no indication that he recognizes Isaac’s presence at all, so Isaac peers closer to see what he’s drawing: an elegant, beautifully-shaded picture of an anime-style girl, holding two fingers up with those upward-curving closed eyes that Isaac recognizes as "happy eyes." Isaac feels that he himself is okay at making art, though he wishes he were better; what David is drawing makes him feel like his own art is trash. Isaac is certain that David could draw for a professional anime series and do just as well as the pros.

He sits there, watching David intently as he slowly and steadily draws the portrait, occasionally putting the pencil down to very carefully and deliberately shade a line or adjust the paper to work on a different spot. Sadly, the bell rings, and Isaac knows he cannot just skip his classes to watch David work. "I’m going to math class now, Mr. Coleman," he announces, and excuses himself from the room.

On the way to class, Isaac’s mind is a dense jumble of processing: the fight, the pain in his back, the meeting, the dread of being grounded, David’s art, that strange figure from when he looked in David’s eyes, Vin being gone from gym…​ That last one sends a desperate feeling through Isaac, a feeling like falling, like showing up at school without your homework, like standing up for a presentation that you didn’t prepare for. Naked, vulnerable. It’s not about the fact that he would miss Vin — though he will absolutely miss him in the class — but Isaac needed Vin. From the first day in the bathroom stall when they met, Vin has been there to be his guardian, to talk back to the jerks who picked on him, to be there to dress out next to him so that…​so that Isaac could feel safe. Now there’s nobody to stop the mob of kids from stealing his clothes, or to stop Grease-Hair from picking fights.

Well, nobody except for Isaac. Even trying to remember that moment fills his body with adrenaline. Yes, he got in trouble for it, but he stood up to someone for the first time — even stood up for someone. He protected Vin’s name, and he fought someone to do it. That thought alone fills Isaac with a weird sense of pride he hasn’t ever felt before: the pride of having done the right thing, even though it broke multiple rules in the process. It feels…​exhilarating.

"Good morning, Isaac."

Stopping in his tracks at the mention of his name, he smiles at the floor, realizing that his legs have brought him to Mrs. Davis while he was distracted. "Good morning. Mrs. Davis."

"Are you having a good day — oh! What happened to your wrist?"

"I bit it," he responds.

"Oh," she responds in a weird tone of voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, ma’am." He’s definitely done worse to himself.

"Okay. Well, I’m glad you’re…​okay. Have a good day, Isaac."

"Have a good day, Mrs. Davis." Her responses seemed different than normal, Isaac considers. He wonders why she threw off the typical routine.

Other than a few side glances in math class, nobody even looks at Isaac, which is fine for him. He can use his left hand to steady the paper while he writes, so other than the dull ache and occasional sharper pain from moving his wrist, he’s not bothered by his self-inflicted injury.

Lunch proves a little more painful, since Isaac has no skill carrying a tray with one hand. He finds that if he keeps his wrist mostly straight, though, it’s tolerable. He takes his seat and rests his wrist on the now-squishy and only-somewhat-cool cold pack, staring lukewarmly at his grilled cheese sandwich. It seems easy enough to eat in six bites, but the side is a salad; not only is salad generally just gross, but how in the world is Isaac supposed to split it up into manageable chunks? There’s always slivers of carrot of shreds of lettuce left, and it’s just unsatisfying, not to mention the difficulty of using a flimsy plastic spork to eat a salad. At least the chocolate pudding is somewhat decent.

"Oh no!" comes a cry from behind Isaac, startling him slightly. "What happened to your wrist?!" Christian sits across from him at their corner table and stares wide-eyed at the cold pack and Isaac’s puffy wrist.

"I bit it," Isaac replies before taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Oh," Christian replies. "That’s why there are teeth marks in it, huh."

After swallowing, Isaac says, "Yes, Christian."

"Why di' you bie yoh writht, though?" he asks with a mouth full of nearly half a grilled cheese.

"I told you to stop talking with your mouth full, Christian," Isaac demands impatiently. "It makes me sick."

"Oh, thowwy." Christian closes his mouth and chews laboriously for a few moments, finally managing to swallow the chunk. "I said, 'Why did you bite your wrist?'"

Isaac considers the salad, but ends up shunning it. "I got in a fight."

"WHAT?!" Christian screeches. "With who? Did you win? What happened? Did you punch him?"

"Stop!" Isaac snaps. "Stop…​asking so much!"

Undeterred, Christian reiterates, "Who did you get in a fight with?!"

Isaac figures there’s no way it’s going to stay a secret, so he admits, "Jason, um, Brown."

"Who’s Jason Brown?"

"He’s a boy with hair that does this," he demonstrates a wave with his right hand, "that always looks greasy. His h-hair, I mean. He’s really mean and then he called me a f—​I mean, the f-word."

Christian whispers, loudly enough for neighboring tables to hear, "He called you a fuck?"

Rolling his eyes, Isaac groans, "No, Christian! The other one! F-A-G."

Back to normal volume, he remarks, "Oh! 'Fag.' He called you a fag?"

Isaac sighs. "Yes, Christian. Also don’t say that word."

"Did he start the fight? Is he a bully?!" he asks insistently, back to his normal volume.

"Ye—​um, no. Grr. Okay. He is a bully. I started the fight."

"YOU started it?!" Christian gasps.

"Yes, Christian."

"Did…​did you win?!"

Taking another bite, Isaac thinks about whether what he did counted as a 'win.' He shrugs. "The coach stopped the fight, and then we went to the principal. Um, I have to go to ISS tomorrow, and then, but he got suspended for three days because he fights a lot."

Christian stares at Isaac with mouth agape and eyes wide; as Isaac looks into his eyes, he is hit with the feeling he had when he was six years old and met Superman in a shopping mall at a comics event. Christian breathes, "You got in a fight with a bully! That’s sooooo cool! What did you do? How did you win?!"

"I scratched his face, um, and then he pushed me into the lockers and then I fell, and then I kicked his testicles and, um…​and then I bit my wrist…​um. And then, the, the coach stopped the fight." Isaac remembers too late into the description that he has no legitimate explanation for the wrist; he could lie about it, but even explaining why and how he did it would be just as bad.

As Isaac explains it, Christian makes weird faces and squirms in his chair at each description. "Duuuuude, Isaac, you’re like a fighter! Oh my God that’s so cool!"

Isaac sighs, taking the penultimate bite of his sandwich. "I don’t want to be a fighter, Christian."

"Well, but, but…​why did you fight him, then?"

Isaac’s blood boils slightly every time he remembers Jason’s words. "He called me a, the f-word, but, and then he called Vin the f-word and I got mad."

"Oh, he insulted your boyfriend. Big oof." Isaac had heard multiple kids saying that weird phrase recently, but he liked it just about as much as he understood it.

"Vin is not my boyfriend." Isaac emphasizes the words.

"Oh yeah, I’m sorry," he replies, shrinking into his seat a bit and looking around the room. "I forgot that, that you were just gay and that maybe he is and that, um, maybe you like him that—​oh wait, I’m not supposed to say that."

Isaac throws his head back and growls out a frustrated sigh. "Christian. Stop talking about it."

"Okay, sorry," he says, looking down at his tray. Suddenly, his chocolate pudding catches his eye and he digs in.

Isaac’s other classes are mostly uneventful, with a few exceptions. For example, his science teacher — a thicker-bodied man with a similarly thick beard — asks, "What, no sunglasses?"

Isaac replies, "No, sir."

The teacher shrugs and goes back to calling roll. No other mention is made.

As the final bell rings, Isaac finds his way to the front of the building, on the way to the car pick-up line. As he’s going there, he sees Vin already headed to the piano rooms. "VIN!" he cries out.

Vin whirls around to see him, and his face lights up. Isaac looks into his eyes to see the typical blend of emotions, though embarrassment is a major contender for first place, along with the burning sort of feeling Isaac gets when he butchers a sentence or messes something up. "Isaac!" he calls back, dodging the crowd to get to him. "Hey, man!" he says with a grin, holding out his hand.

Isaac accepts the typical greeting, though he doesn’t feel as excited about it as he normally does. Before he can say anything, though, Vin says, "Dude, I am so sorry I didn’t tell you about athletics. I mean to say something Sunday morning, but Mom distracted me with the stupid phone call, and I completely forgot. Did everything go okay?"

"I got in a fight," Isaac says plainly.

"…​What?" Vin says, his eyes narrowing a bit. Isaac goes through the story, relating the details, even down to the wrist. After he finishes, Vin takes a slow, deep breath. "I swear to God, if I see him again…​" he mutters through his teeth.

"He’s suspended for three days, Vin," Isaac relates. "I have ISS tomorrow."

He sighs, shaking his head with his eyes closed. "Man, I am so sorry." After a short pause, he adds, "But…​did you say you scratched him because he called me a fag?"

Isaac, smiling a bit for reasons he cannot quite place, responds, "Yes, Vin."

Vin looks down and his face slowly twists into a weird smile and chuckle. "I’ve…​never been defended before like that. Wow. And you…​did you bite your wrist to hurt..him?"

His smile turns into a grin as he nods. "Yes, Vin."

"What the hell," he says with a straight inflection; it doesn’t sound like a question to Isaac. "Lemme see your wrist."

Isaac extends his hand. Vin leans in to look at it, very delicately touching it with a finger. "A little puffy, but not too bad," he remarks. "I’ve landed on my wrist and done worse than that. Still…​biting your own wrist to hurt him? Holy shit, you’re crazy," Vin laughs. "Remind me never to get in a fight with you. No, I don’t actually ever plan to do that." He winks at Isaac.

Isaac, momentarily afraid of the idea of fighting Vin (for many reasons), sees the playfulness in Vin’s eyes and laughs away the nervous energy. Just then, though, he hears the jingle of his mom calling and realizes that he’s probably been keeping her waiting. "I have to go, Vin!"

As Isaac turns around, he feels a hand envelop his shoulder. "Hey, you wanna hang out tomorrow maybe?" Vin asks from behind him.

Isaac turns around with a grin. "Yes, Vin! Um…​if I’m not grounded."

"Right. Well, hopefully I’ll see ya soon?"

"See ya soon, Vin!"

They break off to go their separate ways, though Isaac watches Vin for a few moments before heading out, himself.

He meets his mother out front and they head home. On the way, she sees that Isaac still has the gel pack, which has long since equalized temperature. "How does your wrist feel?" she asks.

"It hurts," he replies matter-of-factly.

"Can you move it still?"

Isaac tries; he has more movement than he expects to have, though it’s all still painful. "Some, Mom."

"I still don’t understand why you did that," she sighs. At Isaac’s silent response, she shakes her head. "We’ll talk more at home. I still need time to think."

At home, Isaac’s mom puts the gel pack in the freezer and invites him to sit with her in the living room. After a few moments, she breaks the silence. "Isaac. You tell me it’s time for you to start growing up. I tell you that I agree, and that I’ll start treating you more like a young man. And then one day later you start a fight. That is not acting maturely at all. That is childish. Do you want me to treat you like a child again?"

Isaac is filled with a mix of fear and indignant anger. "No, ma’am."

"Then never start a fight again. That is not the way we handle conflicts, and you know it."

"I know, Mom, but I got angry at him."

"I get angry at people all the time and I don’t start fights. You have to deal with anger in a more constructive way than just scratching someone. That doesn’t solve any problems."

"But he called Vin a fag." Isaac knows the reason is insufficient, but he is determined to defend himself with whatever ammo he has remaining.

"…​I thought this was because he was calling you names," she says hesitantly.

Isaac thinks about it again. Mr. Coleman was right in that Isaac shouldn’t consider himself in such a manner that he feels he deserves to be insulted, but still, having been insulted for years has left him inured to the sting of those words. "No, Mom, it was because he called Vin names."

His mother stays quiet for a long while, long enough for Isaac to look up and check for clues on her face. She doesn’t look at him, but he sees her looking in various places around the room and chewing her lip a little bit. Finally, she replies, "Look…​defending someone’s reputation or name still isn’t a sufficient reason to start a fight, okay?" She looks like she is going to add to it, but instead, she just sighs. "I swear, you’ve changed so much over just these last few weeks. It’s like you just popped out of a cocoon and are a completely different person. I’m not ready for this."

Isaac’s defensive posture melts away as he sees his mother pinch her nose. He knows that gesture is one that she does when she is stressed out, and he knows that he’s the cause. "I’m sorry, Mom," he says quietly. "I’m sorry."

She opens her eyes and puts her hand on his thigh. "No, Doodlebug, it’s fine. I’m…​it’s hard to explain, but even though you got into a fight today, I’m still proud of you for the reason that you did. You didn’t choose the right way to handle the situation, but you had a good reason to want to do it. Does that make sense?"

"I think so, Mom."

"Now." She stands up. "I did say you were going to be grounded, and I mean it — we don’t get to make rash decisions like that without consequences. So you are grounded from your phone and friends for the rest of the week."

"But Mom, Vin wants to hang out tomorrow with his friends!"

"And you started a fight at school."

Isaac thinks desperately for a second. "Can, can I go and then you can ground me all weekend maybe? Please?!"

"No. Now hand me your phone."

Isaac does so, and she messes with it for a minute or so. She hands it back to him and says, "There."

Isaac frowns. "I thought you were going to keep it."

"I still need to be able to get in contact with you, so you can keep your phone for phone calls. I just locked it with my own pattern so you can’t open it up otherwise."

Isaac’s eyes slowly widen as he realizes the trick his mother pulled. He checks his phone, but instead of automatically opening up to the main screen as it always does, a grid of nine dots shows up. He gapes in astonishment and outrage at his mother. "That’s not fair!" he snaps at her.

She blinks, furrowing her brows. "You’re grounded from your phone, so you can’t use it. I need to call you at school, though, so you can still use it for that. Why is that not fair? You’re grounded."

"But, but Mom!"

"How would it have been any different if I took it from you? You weren’t going to argue then, so why are you now? I don’t get it."

Isaac stares at his mother, feeling frustration, confusion, irritation, love, and the sort of feeling Isaac gets when he goes to get a haircut: he knows he has to do it, and he loves the results afterward, but it doesn’t make it any easier to want to do it. He realizes, though, that she has a solid point, but somehow, holding the phone and not being able to use it makes everything that much worse to Isaac. Now he has a constant reminder of his punishment, and it stings so much worse. Gripping his phone tightly, he storms off to his room and shuts the door.

He spends the remainder of the evening brooding about the fact that he’s being punished for something his mother literally said she was proud of, even if his method wasn’t the best choice. He alternates between doing random math problems and reading his science book, for lack of a better idea of what to do. The part that frustrates him even more is the fact that, normally, math problems would be entertaining to him. Now, while grounded, they seem inadequate, boring.

When the interest in all of those activities dries up, he tries different patterns to see if he can somehow unlock his phone; the phone stops letting him try after twenty attempts, instead asking for a login and password. He chucks the phone at the floor in frustration, only then realizing that he could have damaged the phone with his impulsivity, which only makes him feel worse about it.

He comes out for dinner, puffy-eyed from crying multiple times, and sits down at the table, defeated. To make matters worse, dinner is grilled chicken and broccoli, one of his least favorite meals (though one he’ll still eat). Afterward, he takes a petulant bath, watches TV dejectedly, and heads to bed early, out of boredom.

End of Chapter 11

Aw, poor Isaac! He doesn’t take punishment well, does he? …​Boys, am I right?

Anyway, thank you as always for continuing to read and enjoy my work, and as always, feel free to contact me at PhillipBontemps@gmail.com with comments, questions, critiques, compliments, commiseration, or camaraderie. Until next time! <3 XPud