General Relativity (173-174/?)
anonymous
January 1 2011, 17:43:09 UTC
CSLXXXIII. An Attenuated Swarm of Fixed Stars
Matthew thought that his voice would quiver when he lied. It didn’t. He thought maybe his cheeks would redden when questioned by even the most well-meaning student. They barely colored. He was worried that, the first time someone hooted at him on the stairwell, he’d snap and ram them up against the cement-block walls. Instead, he looked them in the eyes when he said that’s bogus, he wrinkled his nose as if the idea disgusting him, he rolled his eyes and flipped off anyone who dared to whistle.
“What, Yong Soo said that?” he remarked, disbelieving.
“You know how he exaggerates.”
And when that didn’t work, “He’s such a damn liar. You can’t believe anything he says anymore. I don’t know where my friend’s gone.”
(He refused to feel guilty-everyone knew Yong Soo made mountains out of molehills, anyway. It was Yong Soo’s own fault for his reputation. His own fault!)
But most students were silent, affixing their gaze on him as he passed them in the hall or on the stairs, watchful and disbelieving, a hungry glean and desire to know not strong enough to break some social taboo of asking another person their business. In a way, that was even worse. Matthew didn’t know how to stop them, how to blurt out his secrets and his deceptions without appearing insane or desperate. He had to let them go. He let them go believing he was banging Mr. Jones.
Every inch of Matthew, down to the molecular level, wanted to hide away in his room. Even with Kiku’s disappointed gaze, it was better than being out there with the others, who recoiled from touching or brushing shoulders with him, who gave him knowing grins, who clapped Matthew on the shoulder and whispered hey, heard you got some one-on-one lessons, baby, who looked disgusted with the “teacher’s pet” but kept their poison in their tongues, who gave him sad, uncertain smiles, who all acted like they knew everything when they knew nothing about Matthew and the painstaking way he had to reassemble Alfred all weekend.
One woman asked if this meant Mr. Jones was off the market and gay.
Matthew told her to go fuck herself.
Matthew barely had time to text Alfred before collapsing into bed: So far, no bloodbath. Just minor skirmishes. Talk to Dean?
It took several minutes for Alfred to respond. left a message. stay safe.
Matthew fit the cell phone against his eye socket, cool plastic against his skin. He let it rest there, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. He felt the distance between them keenly-it was both too far and too close for comfort.
CSLXXXIV. The Group-Density of the Stars Should Diminish
Waking up Monday morning was surreal.
He went to his lessons.
It only took until the third for someone to say, “Watch out, Matthew likes ‘em old, sir.” He met Mr. Väinämöinen’s startled expression with a grim smile, as if to say, Well, there you have it. The class tittered nervously. It wasn’t funny because it might be true, and Mr. Väinämöinen’s bafflement, worn pleasantly with his art smock, only added to the heavy and pervading atmosphere of awkwardness.
For someone that didn’t like to be in the limelight, this was hell.
(But even so, Matthew was starting to think it might blow over after all. Whatever their opinions, the student body was keeping their claws sheathed and a few even found the time to tell Matthew to hang in there, hang on.)
Matthew thought that his voice would quiver when he lied. It didn’t. He thought maybe his cheeks would redden when questioned by even the most well-meaning student. They barely colored. He was worried that, the first time someone hooted at him on the stairwell, he’d snap and ram them up against the cement-block walls. Instead, he looked them in the eyes when he said that’s bogus, he wrinkled his nose as if the idea disgusting him, he rolled his eyes and flipped off anyone who dared to whistle.
“What, Yong Soo said that?” he remarked, disbelieving.
“You know how he exaggerates.”
And when that didn’t work, “He’s such a damn liar. You can’t believe anything he says anymore. I don’t know where my friend’s gone.”
(He refused to feel guilty-everyone knew Yong Soo made mountains out of molehills, anyway. It was Yong Soo’s own fault for his reputation. His own fault!)
But most students were silent, affixing their gaze on him as he passed them in the hall or on the stairs, watchful and disbelieving, a hungry glean and desire to know not strong enough to break some social taboo of asking another person their business. In a way, that was even worse. Matthew didn’t know how to stop them, how to blurt out his secrets and his deceptions without appearing insane or desperate. He had to let them go. He let them go believing he was banging Mr. Jones.
Every inch of Matthew, down to the molecular level, wanted to hide away in his room. Even with Kiku’s disappointed gaze, it was better than being out there with the others, who recoiled from touching or brushing shoulders with him, who gave him knowing grins, who clapped Matthew on the shoulder and whispered hey, heard you got some one-on-one lessons, baby, who looked disgusted with the “teacher’s pet” but kept their poison in their tongues, who gave him sad, uncertain smiles, who all acted like they knew everything when they knew nothing about Matthew and the painstaking way he had to reassemble Alfred all weekend.
One woman asked if this meant Mr. Jones was off the market and gay.
Matthew told her to go fuck herself.
Matthew barely had time to text Alfred before collapsing into bed: So far, no bloodbath. Just minor skirmishes. Talk to Dean?
It took several minutes for Alfred to respond. left a message. stay safe.
Matthew fit the cell phone against his eye socket, cool plastic against his skin. He let it rest there, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. He felt the distance between them keenly-it was both too far and too close for comfort.
CSLXXXIV. The Group-Density of the Stars Should Diminish
Waking up Monday morning was surreal.
He went to his lessons.
It only took until the third for someone to say, “Watch out, Matthew likes ‘em old, sir.” He met Mr. Väinämöinen’s startled expression with a grim smile, as if to say, Well, there you have it. The class tittered nervously. It wasn’t funny because it might be true, and Mr. Väinämöinen’s bafflement, worn pleasantly with his art smock, only added to the heavy and pervading atmosphere of awkwardness.
For someone that didn’t like to be in the limelight, this was hell.
(But even so, Matthew was starting to think it might blow over after all. Whatever their opinions, the student body was keeping their claws sheathed and a few even found the time to tell Matthew to hang in there, hang on.)
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