FM July Post II
With a bump like Ms. Wendy has hidden under her lavender pullover, she has to be pregnant or self-conscious.
It's only just there, a little pooch jutting out over the top of her khakis, nearly disguised by the creative way her hands fold in front of her white camisole, but it's the sweater that gives her away. Bulky cotton fibers were not the way to go, and they cling to ever curve of hers, unforgiving. The half-eaten muffin and the drained Starbucks make you think she's not experiencing morning sickness. The born and raised Catholic in you eyes her empty ring finger and know she's got to just be wishing she could fit into that size four again.
So, she notes. A dry, worthless remark.
She shifts in her chair, budging forward and tapping some papers against the table until they're all in a remotely methodical fashion, shielding your line of sight with the edge of the table. Distraction lost. Besides, she's just fat. You're adjusting your pile of text books on her desk, making sure each line lays parallel to the next one, that all of the books are in a neatened stack. You can't walk down the halls unless your books are in size order, and neatly organized. Even your standard, yellow, number two, perfectly sharpened pencil lays in accordance to the books, pointy tip aimed straight for Ms. Wendy's ticker.
Thwack. Thwack.
Two more smacks of the papers against the table, your eye twitches at the sound, and she finally sets them down, evenly, by the side of the desk. Thank God. You let your eyes flicker downward, grimacing at the sight of your pencil knocked askew in light of the commotion. You set it back into its geometrically correct place and shoot this intruder a death glare worthy of gods.
Gabriel, she says, immune, and you flinch.
Gabriel. What a name. The Archangel. You remember being remotely proud of it at some point because of that - damn, you were the Angel of Death; who wouldn't think that was cool? But they ruined it. What had been a strong, powerful name became laughable. Gabriel Gray? The kid with the slicked hair and the dweeby, horn-rimmed glasses? The angel of death? The irony made sense in your head, at least, after they'd pointed it out with ruthless laughing galore.
Don't even get you started on the surname. Gray. What name better for a boy who aspires to stick out, to differentiate from the rest of the world, and really impress, than the most aesthetically monochromatic color on the palate? Gray. Wherever God is, you have a feeling He's an extremely sarcastic sort of man.
Ms. Wendy, you parry right back, nonetheless, as if this is a duel. Your voice is nothing but politeness and pure precision, maybe an edge of mockery buried underneath all those layers of manners and obsessive compulsive to keep everything in its right place. Ms. Wendy. What kind of self-respecting teacher, albeit her being a guidance counselor, still condescends her students like that, having them revert to referring to her as Ms. First Name? Ms. Wendy, she insists, though, because 'Wendy' means 'friend', and she lives to be your friend.
Friend, she says it means, but you can only think of Neverland and pirates and flying right out of this godforsaken school.
Gabriel, she repeats, and it's on then that you realize you'd kind of been ignoring the pitiful woman. Had she been talking? You hadn't noticed. Are you even listening? she asks.
Yes, ma'am, you assure her, and a little white lie never hurt anyone.
Good, she prompts back with barely a beat to spare, because she wants to talk with you about grief.
Grief, she says. As if she knows how the word amounts to something so much more than those soap operas she watches during her lunch break. Grief, she says, as if she can even fathom anything you're going through with all six-hundred and sixty-six of her pearly whites flashing from behind mauve lips. It's almost some celebrity's smile, you think, it looks so plastic. If it hadn't been for the Think Pink Revlon lipstick smeared across that first tooth, you might have taken her for a B-movie star. Perhaps some has-been who doesn't quite fit into the Vera Wang gown anymore, you add to yourself, thinking back to the belly bump.
She starts talking again, about how you were all friends here - after all, her name's still Wendy - and friends talk. You almost snap at the poor woman (she's baiting you, she's baiting you, God fucking dammit) even though, in actuality, you know a guidance counselor wouldn't be picking on a kid for not having any friends.
You can't help that. You've tried. You've talked to other kids, only to be shot down shortly afterward. Nobody wants to be friends with the kid whose mother still dresses him in sweater vests. Nobody wants to be friends with Gabey the Baby and the tuna he chokes down everyday at lunch even though he hates fish. Nobody wants to be friends with the guy who's not even cool enough to be a member of the chess club.
You're not very popular, are you Gabriel? she asks in her pitying voice.
No duh, you want to seethe, but instead you shake your head and agree, No, ma'am.
Do you have any friends, Gabriel? she adds, and every time your name passes through those overly pink-caked lips, you want to scream. But you don't want to give her the satisfaction. Guidance counselors are set into schools to make children cry. You won't feed her addiction. You won't even tell her that the only time you had anything remotely resembling a friend was the time Mike Mitchum and his friends invited you to their table to mock your eagerness and your tuna fish (other than Boris the invisible pink monkey from third grade), because you bet she could run on angst and false promises too. Like some kind of robot. Crazy cyborg guidance counselor.
Do you ever think that maybe you're lonely because of your grief right now, Gabriel? she croons, trying to coax free those tears, and you really want to tell her that your name's Steve or Gregory or something, just so she'll stop confusing you with something heavenly. You don't even want to answer her, at this juncture.
You're not happy, Gabriel, she says softly.
That's because my dad's pushing up daisies, you snipe right back, rather matter-of-factually.
You're opening your mouth to add more, but, damn, she got that little bit out of you, making you repeat information she already knows, just for her own little sick sort of satisfaction. The real goods are still clinging to the end of your tongue, dangling over your lips. What does she want to hear? The details of how his father's heart finally kicked? How your mother pretends there's nothing wrong, even when she accidentally sets three places at the table and looks at you with disappointment when only two people show up to the table?
Yes, your father is dead, Gabriel, she agrees quietly, and her tone is mocking to your ears. Rubbing the information in your face, like, Ha ha, I have a daddy and you don't, ha ha ha.
Maybe you should just cry and give her the sustenance she craves. Maybe she'll leave you alone.
She's asking you another question. You don't hear it over the infuriated roaring in your ears, but you're fairly certain she ended it in 'Gabriel', just to spike some rage. Why does she keep doing that? Doesn't she know it would be so easy to send that same sharpened pencil of his pinging across the table, straight into her chest cavity?
I wish I had powers, you prompt then, after what had to have been a good twenty seconds of silence.
Powers, she repeats, as though you have extra chromosomes.
Powers, you punctuate, picking up the clock on her desk and rattling it a little in your hand. You don't have the heart to tell her that it's running three minutes slow. Or maybe you just have a small sort of satisfaction in knowing she's going to be momentarily late for everything. Like... like imagine if someone could fly, you add, and it's the most excited you've sounded since you've stepped foot into this room. Imagine if someone could manipulate objects with their mind or instantaneously regenerate.
She opens her mouth, maybe to tell you that people with such powers don't exist, but you don't give her the chance.
I wish I was special, you finalize then, in a small sort of voice, lopsided grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.
You are special, Gabriel, she reassures you then, and she's back to using the 'Gabriel' again but you smile anyways, because it means so much when somebody tells you that, especially when she's sounding like she might actually agree with your theory. You are so very special, she adds in a coo of a voice. Just like everybody else.
You've never remembered your smile going sour so very quickly.
'Just like everybody else' is not the sort of phrase you want to hear, and you clap her clock onto her desk a little harder than you meant to.
I need to get to class, you inform her in a flat sort of voice, scooping up your books and your pencil and her heart gets to live another day, not punctured by pencils. I have a history test, you excuse yourself, and throw her a dirty glare.
Your clock is running five minutes fast, you say, poison in your voice.
Be eight minutes late to everything instead, bitch.
Prompt: therapy
Muse: Gabriel "Sylar" Gray
Fandom: Heroes
Words: 1593