Fic: Unrest of Obsession
Title: Unrest of Obsession
Author: totallystellar
Genre: Drama/minimal Angst
Summary: One-shot, mainly Jimmy POV, Richie-centric. Jimmy Osgood comes back to Dakota Union High for Senior year. He can't get over what he did to Richie. Confrontation eventually occurs. Better than it sounds.
Spoilers: Up to "Jimmy", at least.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Static Shock.
Note: I wrote this a while ago and posted it on fanfiction.net, but never got around to posting it here. I hope you enjoy. Also: The cafeteria betting scene was inspired from a scene in Poolhall Junkies, just to clarify. I thought it would be neat to show Richie being a little "bad." XD He never really struck me as the gambling type but it just seemed like he needed to do something fun with that super brain of his and I think I made it work.
Unrest of Obsession
It was early in the school day. He'd gotten there early, just to be safe. No need to cause extra attention. Everything would go right this year; he’d made sure of that. He'd gone to five different stores the previous week, making sure he had everything he needed for school. It was a task that he relished. He'd scoured the isles for the perfect brand of ballpoint pen, for the exact type of college-rule paper he would need. He went home, did an amateur study over which brand of pen wrote best over which brand of paper. He retested. Went back and bought more pens and paper.
He'd gone through the Back-To-School section in the local Wal-Mart the day it had opened. He literally waited for the saleswoman to put the last box of Crayola onto the shelf and announce that the display was open. She had been a ditzy blonde who was chewing her bubblegum lazily, giving him odd looks as he fidgeted in anticipation, hopping nervously from foot to foot. When she’d climbed off the ladder, he'd asked quietly, “Is it open?”
She had nodded yes, collecting the ladder and walking away, glancing behind her with a strange expression at his stranger behavior.
He'd practically jumped on the rows and rows of scholastic materials, picking and choosing and debating over which would prove most useful, be most durable, have the better effect. He’d bought a beautiful pencil case for his twelve point-seven lead mechanical pencils and eraser replacements, and he’d gotten an expensive set of math and drafting tools. He spent extra on a fine compass and a one-foot tri-ruler. One of the rulers where, if you looked at them sideways, you could see the three lines that each side made stuck out in a triangle. He’d received a ridiculous thrill of delight when he’d realized there were six sides of measurement that he could use.
His parents had just been happy to see him so excited for his Senior year at Dakota Union High. They'd given him the money, unhappy about letting him shop on his own (they were overprotective, in his opinion) but pleased that he was showing such interest in the coming school year. He had spent over one hundred and fifty dollars on his school supplies alone. His reasoning to his parents for the use of this large sum of money for what was supposed to be only a few binders, writing utensils, and paper was that he was just trying to work to his best as a student, and that meant the best materials. And besides, he had added, the backpack he’d bought was the main cost.
Oh, the backpack. He loved the backpack. It was dark blue, with two large pockets for his main schoolbooks and papers, and two mesh cup holders on either side of it. There were three other outer pockets on the bag for smaller things, like his pencil case with his twelve point-seven lead mechanical pencils and eraser replacements. There were neatly knotted loops coming out from every one of the zippers for easy access. He had stared at those knotted loops for a full fifteen minutes the first time he had seen his backpack. The thin cord was almost the exact same shade as the dark blue material of his backpack, but with random specks of almost sky blue dotted here and there through the braid. The fuzzy sing of the zipper opening his bookbag was just made sweeter by the knotted loops.
He had stopped seeing a psychologist a week or two ago. He'd been deemed perfectly sane from the start but had continued the weekly sessions on request of the state to make sure he had been not only mentally but also emotionally sound. He'd been let go and supposed he passed whatever test they were giving him. The psychologist said he had a slight tendency to obsess, but had assured his parents would pass with time. It would bring no harm.
He shifted the same backpack on his shoulders nervously as he stared at himself in the boy’s bathroom mirror. The comfortable padding slid as the weight in the bag resettled itself. He still had his messy brown hair, but he washed it more now. He didn’t slouch as much, he noticed. That was good, that was good. He was wearing khaki pants and a plain white shirt. Nothing conspicuous. Nobody would probably notice, not even bullies. He was a changed man. Good. He exhaled and flattened his hair back with his palms. Good.
He checked his wristwatch. It was a regular, normal-guy watch. Not a tech-geek sort of watch that someone could make fun of. It was a few minutes until 7:10 am, when the bell would ring and signal the five minute time period during which students could either high tail it to class or pay the price when 7:15 am rolled around and they found themselves in detention or late class.
He pushed the boy’s bathroom door open and saw that the halls were filling up. The busses had arrived. People were chatting congenially, grabbing things from their lockers or hastily shoving a poptart or something into their mouths for a quick breakfast. He saw a pretty girl coyly press her hand to a grinning jock’s chest as he leaned over her, one hand supporting himself on the girl’s locker and the other on his hip, flirting. A heavyset girl was behind them, across the hall just out of sight. Her eyes were watery and she hugged her books to her stomach as if pressing them tighter could make her stomach flatter, resulting in it being her coyly pressing her hand against the jock's chest instead of the other girl.
His knees felt weak and he almost went back into the bathroom after he saw that. It reminded him of before, when he was left out, when he was stuck away from it all because of stupid little things. He almost shrunk back into the shadows and decided to hide in the handicapped stall all day lest he face the students of Dakota Union High.
But then he heard a familiar laugh.
Richie Foley was laughing with his friends.
His eyes widened and he followed the sound until he locked onto the source. There, next to the water fountain, was Richie Foley. The blonde was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded against his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, chuckling as the dark boy in front of him gestured wildly, talking in a loud voice that didn’t quite reach the boy’s bathroom. Richie’s backpack was resting beside him.
He noticed that it was blue. Like his. His throat went dry.
He stared. He couldn’t help it. He watched Richie as Frieda, the girl of his dreams, leaned over and whispered something conspiratorially in his ear. He saw the grin spread slowly across Richie’s face and saw the way his eyes sparkled with humor. He watched as Virgil paused mid-rant as the two friends began to laugh, presumably at whatever Frieda had said. He watched when Richie unfolded his arms and leaned on Frieda as he shook with laughter. Virgil smacked Richie’s shoulder in mock anger.
The nervous butterflies attacked his stomach and he knew he’d have to face him some day. He wanted to watch him walk though. Wanted to make sure. Needed to.
With a deep breath he summed up all his courage and walked purposely toward the trio. Frieda noticed him first.
“Hi,” She said happily to him, her laughter still evident on her face and in the giggly undertone of her voice as she untangled herself from Richie. The blonde had apparently calmed down except for the sudden staccato giggles that would burst from him every now and then. “Are you new?”
“Oh,” He said, a bit lamely. He pulled his bookbag tighter. “I used to go here about two years back… I’m back for Senior year.”
“Cool,” Virgil said good-naturedly. Then he leaned forward, eyeing him closely. “You do look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Yeah,” Frieda said thoughtfully. She bit her lip and pulled her red hair away from her face in the way that always made his heart lurch. “You do seem awfully familiar. What’s your name?”
He tilted his head downward a bit and glanced nervously at Richie through his brown fringe. The other boy had stopped laughing and was looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Jimmy Osgood,” Was his answer.
“Jimmy!” Virgil exclaimed loudly, tactless as ever. His eyes were comically wide.
“Wow,” Frieda said awkwardly. “Jimmy, you… I mean, it’s nice to see you.”
Jimmy smiled vaguely.
“Yeah,” Virgil nodded, and then said cautiously, “How’s… everything?”
There was an unspoken subtext. He didn’t want to know how “everything” was. He wanted to know how Jimmy was. How Jimmy’s mental state was. How Jimmy was coping, though with what he didn’t know. If Jimmy’s dad still owned a gun. If he still knew where it was.
The shrill shriek of the 7:10 bell rang, making Virgil wince and Frieda wrinkle her perfect nose at the sound. People were waving goodbyes and trudging off to their classes, complaining about teachers and subjects or lamenting over unfinished homework. The silence following Virgil’s question was awkward when Jimmy didn’t respond and Jimmy was thankful for the excuse to leave. He looked around, suddenly realizing that one of them was missing.
“Where’d Richie go?” He exclaimed more sharply than he’d meant to.
Virgil frowned, looking around too. He and Frieda looked at each other and she shrugged.
“I don’t know,” She said in confusion. “He was here just a second ago.”
Jimmy was upset. He didn’t even get to speak more than two words to him, let alone see him walk away.
“I’ve got to go,” Jimmy said suddenly. He turned without another word and hurried down the hall, trying not to push past his peers in his getaway. That would cause more of a scene. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t do this, that he wouldn’t run away whenever something was bad. He had sworn to himself that, this year, he wouldn’t make a scene if he was confronted by a situation he found uncomfortable. But he did, he’d made a scene, he’d left Richie’s two best friends standing there and now they would think he was going to hunt Richie down or something. All he wanted was to make sure Richie was alright. He never got the chance to, not really.
The day passed and it was 11:00 am. Lunch. He was one of the last in the lunch line because he had stayed after class to talk to Mr. Cohen about next week’s test. He knew Richie was in that class, too, and he wanted to know what would be on it more extensively when he asked Richie to tutor him. Well, he as toying with the idea, at least. He knew Richie had Mr. Cohen’s AP Chemistry class the period directly after lunch and it, just like Richie’s Principal’s List status, wasn’t a hidden fact. He would simply ask for help under the false pretense that he hadn’t taken the preceding classes and was only just jumping into the subject. He could watch Richie that way. He could claim that he’d chosen Richie because Richie was an ace at the subject.
Well, Jimmy was, too, but Richie didn’t have to know that.
The lunch lady was a squat woman in a revolting sea green shirt that had an iron-on Winny the Pooh picture that was peeling at the edges. She was wearing a white paper apron and you could see the fold creases that made a white on white checkerboard pattern over it. She looked tired and bored, scooping day-old lasagna with a mechanical rhythm. Her hair was up in a messy bun and covered carelessly with a hairnet. Her bangs were sticking out like some sort of a fashion statement and Jimmy unconsciously crinkled his nose at the thought. He so busy thinking of all the possible health code violations Dakota Union High could receive on an impromptu cafeteria and kitchen search that he didn’t notice the woman speaking loudly for several moments.
“Kid,” The woman was saying irritably. “Kid! You want lunch today or not? You’re holding up the line.”
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder at the expressions of irritation and annoyance on those in line behind him and felt his face flush. Head down, he thrust out his tray and the woman put a large scoop of who-knows-what and a roll onto it. He grabbed a small Styrofoam bowl filled with some shreds of lettuce, a chunk of cucumber, a couple cherry tomatoes and barely looked at it before putting it on his tray. He scurried up to the woman at the cash register/computer and shoved a five-dollar bill into her hands.
“Name?” She said, sounding just as bored as the other woman had looked.
“Jimmy Osgood,” He stated.
“Would you like your change?” She said, monotone. It was kind of jumbled around in her mouth, like how after someone says “Sally sells seashells by the sea shore,” five times they trip a bit over the sounds. Jimmy guessed she’d said this sentence much more than five times.
“No, thank you,” He said. “Just keep the rest in my account.”
He didn’t see her nod but didn’t need to. He turned and looked up, and suddenly realized he had no idea where he should sit. The cafeteria was full of his graduating class, the Seniors of that year; there were people there he’d met back in grammar school and people whose faces he’d never seen in his life. A boy who’d just paid for his lunch bumped into him and shot him an angry look before walking again. Jimmy jumped a bit and walked off to the side. He automatically turned his head and looked for the familiar shock of bright blonde hair in the crowd of mainly brunettes. He walked through the cafeteria and around the circular tables with chairs gathered around them. He felt as though everyone was watching his every move. His movements were jerky and he walked as though his joints were held together with stringy rubber bands. He was self conscious and unsure.
After a moment he spotted Richie, who was once again sitting next to Virgil. Those two were practically joined at the hip back even before High School started, and they were the same now, even more so. He watched from afar as Richie gestured to the two cartons of milk he had in front of him, opened and ready. Richie had pulled the tops of the two cartons open all the way instead of just the “v” spout you were supposed to drink from. The boy across from him was tall and buff, and was Virgil, Frieda, Daisy, and other kids were beginning to crowd around the two curiously.
Jimmy inched closer, trying not to be too conspicuous, and he caught the conversation.
“Okay, okay,” Richie was saying, laughter in his voice. “I’m just saying I bet I can chug these two milk cartons before you can eat those two tater tots.” He pointed at the two tots on the table in front of the other boy.
“Impossible,” The boy snorted. “I'd be done before you took your first sip.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Richie said, wagging a finger at the boy. “I sincerely doubt that. Just… you have to at least let me finish my first carton before you start on your tater tots.” He said. “And I know how you work, no knocking my milk off the table and making me lap it up off the floor just to win my own bet.”
“Foley,” The boy said, sounding insulted. “You know I wouldn’t play you like that!”
Richie held up his hands in surrender.
“Sorry, sorry,” He said. “Just getting it straight… and, you can’t touch my milk cartons and I can’t touch your tater tots.”
“Right,” The boy confirmed.
“Great,” Richie said in satisfaction, rubbing his hands together as Virgil nearly squirmed with delight at his side. “Whatcha got?”
The boy across the table reached into his pockets and pulled out some bills, inspecting them.
“Ten and a fiver.” He grunted.
“Fifteen?” Richie pouted. “What a weak bet.” He turned to Virgil. “Cough it up, Virg. What we got?”
Virgil grinned and pulled out two twenties, slapping them on the table.
“Anybody wanna raise it?” He asked teasingly.
“Chad, spot me some green,” The boy across from Richie said. Chad grumbled and, after much deliberation, handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
“That’s only cause you hooked me up with Katie,” Chad muttered.
Richie raised his eyebrows at the money.
“A fifty?” He said, sounding vaguely surprised. He looked up to see if any teachers were near, but as always, the teachers were oblivious. He leaned forward. “Sure you wanna bet that, Dan?” He said with a cheeky grin.
Dan scowled angrily.
“Anybody got anything they wanna put down?” Dan asked the crowd in general, all the while glaring straight at Richie. Richie’s grin seemed to get even wider.
“I wanna see this Foley kid get beat,” Someone said from behind Dan, and another twenty-dollar bill was placed on top of the ten, the five, and the fifty. “Stupid punk hustled me out of ten bucks last Wednesday.”
Dan seemed satisfied with the amount of money.
“Where’s your end, Foley?” He asked mockingly. “Ain’t got it, do you?”
“Well,” Richie said breezily. “The Bank of Richie isn’t exactly an open vault, now is it? If you win I’ll get you the money. Let’s think in the present for now.”
Dan frowned but nodded.
“Alright,” Richie said happily. He turned to Daisy.
“Say ‘One, two, three, Go!’” He commanded.
Daisy laughed and said, “One, two, three… Go!”
Richie’s hand shot out lightening fast and he was drinking the milk without stopping for air. The crowd got noisier and Dan was watching Richie intently, waiting for him to be finished, his fingers hovering a foot away from the tater tots. The moment the carton left Richie’s lips he’d snatched the first tot, and he was chewing and reaching for the second when he found an upside-down milk carton covering the space where the tater tot had been lying. He looked up in confusion to see the smug face of Richie Foley.
“You can’t touch my milk cartons and I can’t touch your tater tots.” He reminded teasingly, motioning with glee to Dan’s tater tot, which was stuck underneath the milk carton. There was no way Dan could pick up the tater tot and eat it without touching Richie’s milk carton unless he was planning on breaking the bet. And Richie knew it.
The blonde picked up his second carton of milk and held it in the air in mock salute, nodding his head at Dan and winking at Frieda and Daisy. The gathering of students was beside themselves and Dan and Chad and the other unknown benefactor were nearly burning with anger. They’d been thoroughly had.
The losing players got up and angrily stormed over to wherever they were sitting as Richie chugged the next carton of milk with ease to cheers of his friends, slamming it onto the table and picking up the bills. There was laughter in his eyes and his posture was slouched and at ease. Virgil was slapping him on the back and Daisy and Frieda were congratulating him.
"Easy money, V, easy money." Richie laughed.
Jimmy thought he would slip away now, unnoticed by anyone. He was good at doing that before. He’d suddenly lost steam and now was disoriented, not knowing what he was doing or why. Deciding he would leave now, go eat lunch in his next class or the hallway or something, he started to turn around. His sudden movement must have caught Richie’s eye because suddenly Jimmy was staring at Richie and Richie was staring at Jimmy.
Richie’s expression lost all the triumphant laughter of victory and he slowly lowered the money from in front of his face, handing it blindly to Virgil. Jimmy was frozen, unable to move, and suddenly the cafeteria was a tight box and he was closed in. Richie’s eyes were filled with that unreadable something from the morning and Jimmy’s throat closed with claustrophobia. He nearly dropped his tray on the floor but somehow was able to make his feet move long enough to set it on the table nearest to him. Richie was still watching him, brow furrowed in thought.
‘About you!’ His mind screamed. ‘He’s deciding he hates you! He’ll never forgive you! Look at his face, look at his face!’
And Jimmy did look at his face. Richie was frowning now. Jimmy was beginning to have a panic attack.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ He thought desperately.
‘Before Richie tells his friends to get you,’ His mind agreed. ‘Because you know that they’ll come after you. You hurt him. I bet he never walked the same way a -’
Jimmy let out a shout and clapped his hands to the sides of his head, bolting for the door. It swung open as he rushed through, racing down the hallways and skidding to a stop only after he was as far away from the cafeteria as his feet would take him. He left a sea of confused students in his wake, complete with a wary Virgil Hawkins and a disturbed Richie Foley.
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It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Jimmy saw Richie again. He had avoided Richie at all costs. After that first disastrous day of high school back in Dakota, he had almost asked his parents to take him away again. He had gotten out all the receipts from his back-to-school purchases, ready to return them with apologies. The only thing that had stopped him was the thought that being shot in the leg hadn’t stopped Richie, so why should a tiny backfire in his plans stop him?
He was prone to repeat his mistakes. He didn’t like the fact that he still wasn’t as at ease with the general populous as Richie Foley and Virgil Hawkins, but he could work on that. He could become a people-person. No bullies had taunted him yet. He had thrown out his trusty old red laptop, the wonderful friend in a sea of mean no-ones during his early teen years. The only person who had really appreciated his laptop had been Richie, who seemed to have a fondness for all things technical, just like him.
Jimmy thought for a moment. Bullies always picked on him when he had his laptop out. Maybe it was all those stickers on the front. The skull and all that. Well, at any rate, his new school supplies were completely unblemished and would remain so. No sticker would come within a mile radius of any of his things.
Jimmy was staying after school in the library to do some research for a paper that had been assigned the day before in English Lit. class. He was hoping to get it done soon and leave the library before anyone could really show up and notice him there, but it was unlikely since the school had opted to use its limited budget on the athletic department instead of the computer labs. There were only four computers in the library, and after hours they were the only ones available to the student body. Only two of them had internet hook-ups.
Jimmy had written a page of theories on how Edgar Allen Poe’s life and the events in it had lead to his penning such incredibly morose pieces of work when the door to the library swung open. Richie and Virgil were entering, both looking glum and obviously there to do work, like him.
“I’ve told you already, V,” Richie was saying exasperatedly. “I’m banned from all tech at my house as punishment for coming home a day after curfew.”
“You were at my house!” Virgil protested. “They knew that! Pops can vouch for you. You do it all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re preaching to the choir here, man,” Richie said unhappily, rubbing his forehead as if edging away a headache. “but I’ve gotta type this up and so here we are.”
“Ah, but here’s where we meet an impasse, Rich,” Virgil said smartly, looking self-satisfied. “It’s you who has to type, uh, whatever you’re typing. Not me.”
“So?” Richie said stubbornly. His voice was a little loud and the librarian shot a scornful “Hush!” their way.
“So I’m out,” Virgil said. Before Richie could protest he held up his hand. “Sorry, man. I’d love to be the good friend and all and sit by offering moral support while you suffer a slow death by schoolwork, but I’ve got a date tonight, if you don’t remember.” He waggled his eyebrows at Richie. “Daisy’s wearing something skimpy, if I read her tone right.”
Richie mimicked barfing noises.
“Peace!” Virgil said, unfazed by Richie’s teasing.
“And out,” Richie said reluctantly as his best friend exited the library. He heaved a big sigh and turned to the computers only to spot Jimmy.
Jimmy, who had been watching and eavesdropping the whole time, quickly ducked his head and pretended not to notice Richie when he finally started walking toward the computers. His heartbeat quickened as the chair beside him was pulled out, and Richie sat in the seat. Jimmy was steadfastedly staring at his hands in his lap as the clicks of the mouse echoed in the silence of the library and the tension mounted until it was almost palpable.
“Jimmy,” Richie’s voice said.
Jimmy flinched almost violently and looked up at Richie. He was taller than Jimmy even sitting down. But Jimmy had always been small for his age. That was part of the reason the bullies had picked on him. Richie wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t wearing an expression that could be clearly identified as angry.
“Yeah?” Jimmy said hoarsely. His throat was constricting again, just like it had in the cafeteria.
“Could you hand me a pencil?”
Jimmy could have died right on the spot. Richie hadn’t said anything about anything, and was simply asking for a pencil. Jimmy felt for certain that there was something behind it, that Richie was testing him. Feeling incredibly awkward and scrutinized, Jimmy shakily reached over to his right and fished out a pencil from the cup that the library offered for student use. He held it out at arms length to Richie, who gave him a strange look before taking it.
Jimmy was practically trembling with tension and a build-up of emotion. Richie was right there, right next to him. He hadn’t said anything. Jimmy was waiting, waiting until Richie would say it, would yell it and scream it. The blame, that is. The anger and hatred he must feel toward him. Jimmy was holding his breath and he barely knew it until he started to feel lightheaded and woozy, and he didn’t realize he was feeling lightheaded and woozy until his vision became a little blurred around the edges. He exhaled and inhaled again and again, remembering how to breathe and trying not to let Richie hear him. His pulse sounded loud to his ears. He felt like the narrator in the Tell-Tale Heart, only it was his own heartbeat that was pounding from under the floorboards.
The clock was ticking and time was passing and Jimmy scrolled down the screen of Edgar Allen Poe information, seeing the words but not comprehending a single bit of it. It was forever while it lasted but then it seemed like a miniscule blip in time when Richie’s fingers had stopped tapping over the keyboard and the printer was screeching out the document on paper, the ink black and dark and crisp.
Jimmy tried not to look as Richie grabbed the paper, exited his document in a few quick clicks, and stood.
“Bye,” He said simply.
Jimmy watched him walk away this time, paying close attention to his legs and his movements. Was that a limp he saw? Jimmy was horrified. Was that Richie limping? Or was he being paranoid? Was he overreacting?
The boy had tucked the papers into his bookbag and pulled it on his shoulders and Jimmy was still trying to comprehend the sickening possibility that he had crippled Richie Foley. Richie gave him a quick smile and the tiniest of waves that had Jimmy’s insides quaking with guilt and he was gone.
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Two weeks.
Two long weeks.
Two weeks since he had last seen Richie Foley.
Sure, he had caught a glimpse of the blonde in the hallways, and when he had stopped one day to talk to Frieda for a moment he had seen Richie about to approach. He had, of course, taken this time to make an excuse and leave before an encounter.
He didn’t know if it was a good thing or not, really. Not seeing Richie Foley, that is. Jimmy had thought of him almost constantly, plagued by curiosity and unadulterated guilt. He was afraid of how he’d react again after seeing Richie up close. The other times he’d been in close range had turned out to be entirely embarrassing or entirely awkward, or a despairing combination of both.
And the worst part was that Richie seemed completely unaffected by it all. It nagged at Jimmy like an unreachable itch that longed to be scratched at even though the scratching would inevitably cause pain that would last long after the initial satisfaction. Jimmy just wished he would show some outward sign of discomfort other than whatever that emotion was that he would look at Jimmy with. Confusion, maybe? Interest? Curiosity?
Jimmy scowled at his math textbook. These problems were relatively easy. He wished Richie Foley was a math problem. He knew he wouldn’t even do the steps. He’d just -
“And what would you do to solve this problem, Mr. Osgood?” The teacher questioned, breaking Jimmy’s stream of thought.
“Look in the back of the book for the answer,” He blurted. Loud laughter rippled through the class and he blushed. He hadn’t meant to say that. Not out loud, at least.
“Well,” The teacher said, not looking at all as if he found Jimmy’s answer humorous. He eyed Jimmy over the tops of his bifocals with distaste. “I assure you that in life there will be few times when you can simply flip to the back of the book and find the correct answer. What good is it to know the answer if you have no idea how you got it? What use would it do you in the future? The only way to be truly confident in your findings is to find them yourself, not rely on the work of others and be content with the outcome.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy responded meekly, and with one last look at the boy, the teacher continued conducting class.
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A month.
A long month.
A month and Jimmy thought he was almost past this insane Richie-obsession. He no longer winced when he heard any name that started with “R”. His parents were happy again because he seemed more upbeat. He was glad that his parents were happy. His mother was making his favorite foods for dinner every night, and his father had bought him one of those new remote controlled cars that were all the rage and he knew to be expensive. Jimmy noticed that his father had gotten him the red monster-truck version, not the dark green army-type tank with the neat track wheels. He knew why. Military vehicles wore artillery.
But Jimmy was pretty satisfied with his life now. He had shoved his guilt deep down and locked it away. He thought he’d thrown out the key and lost it and never would find it again.
But he also hadn’t seen Richie for a month.
And when he did see him the key was suddenly back in his hand and, as if under a spell or a curse, he had unlocked the vault and the guilt was back, eating him alive from the inside out.
It was storming outside. The rain was pelting down onto the school’s ceiling with force and the thunder cracked. It was dark as night outside, even though it was clearly early afternoon. It was like a bad omen. The grass was covered with a layer of water and the large puddles that were forming were constantly rippling as the raindrops splashed on to their surfaces.
Richie Foley was walking down the hallway of the Dakota Union High, whistling with his hands in his pockets, completely unaware of the feelings he was inspiring in Jimmy Osgood. It was the middle of a class, and the halls were empty except for him and Jimmy, who he hadn’t yet spotted. He passed him obliviously. Richie stopped in front of a glass door leading outside and pulled a hallpass and a thin blue book from in his hoodie pocket. Jimmy inched forward to get a better look at the book. Its cover was blank but Jimmy knew it was obviously an attendance roster. He must have been asked by a teacher to bring it to another.
Richie shoved the pass and the book into his hoodie pocket again and stared moodily out at the downpour with a sour expression on his face.
“Sweeney hates me,” He mumbled out loud. “He doesn’t have to give this stupid thing to Barnes until fourth period when Barnes is actually in the main building and he knows it. He just wants me to be soaked and miserable all through class.”
With a sigh of resignation, the blonde pulled his hood up to cover his head and pushed open the door, steeling himself against the onslaught of wind that brought sharp rain straight through his sweatshirt.
Richie stepped outside, hunching down a little, and hurried along the cement path to the Gym, where Mr. Barnes, the Gym teacher, would undoubtedly be sitting in his office. Jimmy slipped out the door after him, following.
The rain was fiercer than he had expected, and he was unhappy that he had brought his backpack with him. He loved his backpack. For a moment all he could think about was the lovely knotted loops on the zippers and how they would become frayed. His clothing was dark and heavy and wet now, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. He was cold and his skin was hurting where the rain hit it.
‘What a storm.’
He saw Richie yelp as he slipped on the wet ground and fall into a mud puddle. His hood slipped down and revealed his head to the weather, and he sat sputtering at the water in his face. His blonde hair was wet to the point that it gave the illusion of being brown, and it hung in his eyes in little spikes, dripping like light brown icicles. Jimmy, deciding he should help, came out from where he was in the shadows and offered his hand.
Richie covered up a rather girly scream with a masculine cough when he saw a figure suddenly over him. He breathed out a sigh of relief when it was Jimmy Osgood. He took the proffered hand and clumsily stood. There was silence for a moment and the two stood uncomfortably in the rain.
“Thanks,” Richie said at last.
“You’re welcome,” Jimmy said quietly. Richie could barely hear him over the rain. He was feeling cold and goosebumps were raising on his skin.
“Um,” Richie said, biting his lip. “This weather sucks. I’ve got to deliver something to Barnes, so… see you around, Jimmy.” He moved to leave.
“Wait!” Jimmy’s voice said desperately. “Stop, please, don’t go!”
Richie turned around, staring at the smaller boy. His eyes were large and round and, after making sure Richie wouldn’t move, he put swung his bookbag off his shoulder and crouched down in the mud next to it, riffling through the contents. Richie was utterly confused and was considering just leaving Jimmy there when Jimmy suddenly stood, waving something about in his hands.
“Here it is!” Jimmy cried. “I don’t want it, you can have it, I won’t use it! Just say something to me!”
Jimmy had put the object in his backpack a week or so ago on a strange impulse. He’d found it after a search of his house. It had been hidden under a loose floorboard in his parent's closet, and he was sure he wouldn't of found it at all if he hadn't been so thorough in his search. His father was clever, but apparently not clever enough. He hadn't noticed it was gone yet.
He didn’t understand why he had it. He hated it. But its coldness and solidity were the only thing that grounded him. He saw it and knew it and hated it all at the same time. He knew he could get caught but he couldn’t not take it.
Richie’s eyes widened and he backed away as he realized what happened. This time, Jimmy noted with a pang of sick satisfaction, it was Richie whose throat was closed up. Richie who couldn’t speak. Richie who was feeling the claustrophobia and fear that he had felt.
“Jimmy,” Richie croaked. “Put it down.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Jimmy yelled, still wildly gesturing with the gun. “You could have talked to me, blamed me, screamed at me.”
“Jimmy, I -”
“But you did NOTHING!” Jimmy roared, advancing.
Richie was terrified. And in the back of his brain he realized he was not as much terrified of the weapon in Jimmy’s hand as he was of the boy. Of the boy and the power over him that he now had. Richie, despite his super-intelligence, was too late in realizing and when their eyes met, he couldn’t cover it up. Jimmy noticed it first. He lowered the gun.
“So I’ve got you,” He said in awe.
“Jimmy, be reasonable.” Richie said in what he hoped was a steady voice.
“No!” Jimmy bellowed. “You! You be reasonable! You haven’t been reasonable at all! You didn’t even have the courtesy to show me that you hate me!”
“Jimmy,” Richie said hoarsely, eyes still wide with fear. “I don’t hate you.”
“Yes you do!” Jimmy screamed. “I shot you! I SHOT YOU!”
“You didn’t mean to,” Richie argued. He was backing away from Jimmy slowly, his hands held in front of him. Jimmy was coming closer and Richie stepped backward hastily, only to trip on a tree root and land in the mud. He looked up helplessly.
The rain was still pouring down and the thunder was booming. The wind was tilting the water at an angle, and so the droplet hit both of their skin like millions of sharp pins. The mud was watery on top and thick underneath and oozed through Richie’s fingers as his hands clenched the ground behind him.
Lightening struck somewhere in Dakota and the light flashed over Jimmy’s face. Richie couldn’t help but gulp at the look there.
“Jimmy,” He began slowly. His voice was strong. “Put the gun down. I’m fine, you’re fine. We’re all okay. Everything’s okay. Just put it down.”
“It’s got bullets,” Jimmy said sadly.
“Put it down,” Richie begged. Jimmy studied him. His hoodie was dark and saggy with water, pulling down heavily. The roster book would most likely be ruined. Richie’s khakis were wet and covered in mud and clingy green blades of grass. His hair was plastered to his skull and his face was like paper. His blue eyes were wide and his pupils small behind his glasses, which were foggy and splattered with water. He was blinking furiously, trying to clear his sight.
‘Must be hard to see…’ Jimmy thought vaguely.
“Jimmy?” Richie asked tentatively.
“We have the same name, you know,” Jimmy said remorsefully. There was a flash of confusion on Richie’s face and then it clicked.
“Osgood?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“Family name,” Richie said by way of explanation, but his eyes were on the gun.
“Are we related?” Jimmy asked abruptly.
Richie’s head shot up to look at Jimmy’s face. His expression was unreadable and the dark and rain, plus his fuzzy vision, made it even harder to determine what was going through Jimmy’s mind. Best to humor him, Richie supposed.
“Possibly,” Richie answered.
“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” Jimmy asked Richie, kicking at the ground and uprooting muddy grass.
“Should I?” Richie asked.
“Yes!” Jimmy practically shouted, startling Richie and nearly making him jump out of his skin. “You should hate me! I shot you! You were bleeding! After what I did to you -” He broke off and Richie realized he was sobbing. The tears running down his face were lost in the rain, and his broken moans were voiceless in the thunder. He dropped the gun in the mud and slid to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Richie was frozen, unable to decide what to do. The gun sunk heavily into the earth, and the murky water quickly filled in the depression.
Jimmy was bawling fully now, with a kind of aura that comes only with a cathartic release of human emotion. He jerked his head up, eyes red and bloodshot, when a hand rested on his shoulder.
He looked up into the compassionate eyes of Richie Foley, and before he could stop himself he was tottering forward, losing his balance, was falling at Richie. Richie stiffened for a moment and then relaxed, letting Jimmy cling to him as he cried. Jimmy clutched Richie’s soggy sweatshirt desperately and sobbed for what seemed like an eternity until all that was left was dry hiccups. He pulled himself from the blonde and peered with embarrassment through the still-pouring rain at Richie.
“Thank you,” He hiccupped.
“It’s nothing,” Richie said dismissively, but they both knew it was something. The two sat there, not quite knowing what to do.
The gun was buried deep in the mud.
The rain continued, and so did life.
End.
Author: totallystellar
Genre: Drama/minimal Angst
Summary: One-shot, mainly Jimmy POV, Richie-centric. Jimmy Osgood comes back to Dakota Union High for Senior year. He can't get over what he did to Richie. Confrontation eventually occurs. Better than it sounds.
Spoilers: Up to "Jimmy", at least.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Static Shock.
Note: I wrote this a while ago and posted it on fanfiction.net, but never got around to posting it here. I hope you enjoy. Also: The cafeteria betting scene was inspired from a scene in Poolhall Junkies, just to clarify. I thought it would be neat to show Richie being a little "bad." XD He never really struck me as the gambling type but it just seemed like he needed to do something fun with that super brain of his and I think I made it work.
Unrest of Obsession
It was early in the school day. He'd gotten there early, just to be safe. No need to cause extra attention. Everything would go right this year; he’d made sure of that. He'd gone to five different stores the previous week, making sure he had everything he needed for school. It was a task that he relished. He'd scoured the isles for the perfect brand of ballpoint pen, for the exact type of college-rule paper he would need. He went home, did an amateur study over which brand of pen wrote best over which brand of paper. He retested. Went back and bought more pens and paper.
He'd gone through the Back-To-School section in the local Wal-Mart the day it had opened. He literally waited for the saleswoman to put the last box of Crayola onto the shelf and announce that the display was open. She had been a ditzy blonde who was chewing her bubblegum lazily, giving him odd looks as he fidgeted in anticipation, hopping nervously from foot to foot. When she’d climbed off the ladder, he'd asked quietly, “Is it open?”
She had nodded yes, collecting the ladder and walking away, glancing behind her with a strange expression at his stranger behavior.
He'd practically jumped on the rows and rows of scholastic materials, picking and choosing and debating over which would prove most useful, be most durable, have the better effect. He’d bought a beautiful pencil case for his twelve point-seven lead mechanical pencils and eraser replacements, and he’d gotten an expensive set of math and drafting tools. He spent extra on a fine compass and a one-foot tri-ruler. One of the rulers where, if you looked at them sideways, you could see the three lines that each side made stuck out in a triangle. He’d received a ridiculous thrill of delight when he’d realized there were six sides of measurement that he could use.
His parents had just been happy to see him so excited for his Senior year at Dakota Union High. They'd given him the money, unhappy about letting him shop on his own (they were overprotective, in his opinion) but pleased that he was showing such interest in the coming school year. He had spent over one hundred and fifty dollars on his school supplies alone. His reasoning to his parents for the use of this large sum of money for what was supposed to be only a few binders, writing utensils, and paper was that he was just trying to work to his best as a student, and that meant the best materials. And besides, he had added, the backpack he’d bought was the main cost.
Oh, the backpack. He loved the backpack. It was dark blue, with two large pockets for his main schoolbooks and papers, and two mesh cup holders on either side of it. There were three other outer pockets on the bag for smaller things, like his pencil case with his twelve point-seven lead mechanical pencils and eraser replacements. There were neatly knotted loops coming out from every one of the zippers for easy access. He had stared at those knotted loops for a full fifteen minutes the first time he had seen his backpack. The thin cord was almost the exact same shade as the dark blue material of his backpack, but with random specks of almost sky blue dotted here and there through the braid. The fuzzy sing of the zipper opening his bookbag was just made sweeter by the knotted loops.
He had stopped seeing a psychologist a week or two ago. He'd been deemed perfectly sane from the start but had continued the weekly sessions on request of the state to make sure he had been not only mentally but also emotionally sound. He'd been let go and supposed he passed whatever test they were giving him. The psychologist said he had a slight tendency to obsess, but had assured his parents would pass with time. It would bring no harm.
He shifted the same backpack on his shoulders nervously as he stared at himself in the boy’s bathroom mirror. The comfortable padding slid as the weight in the bag resettled itself. He still had his messy brown hair, but he washed it more now. He didn’t slouch as much, he noticed. That was good, that was good. He was wearing khaki pants and a plain white shirt. Nothing conspicuous. Nobody would probably notice, not even bullies. He was a changed man. Good. He exhaled and flattened his hair back with his palms. Good.
He checked his wristwatch. It was a regular, normal-guy watch. Not a tech-geek sort of watch that someone could make fun of. It was a few minutes until 7:10 am, when the bell would ring and signal the five minute time period during which students could either high tail it to class or pay the price when 7:15 am rolled around and they found themselves in detention or late class.
He pushed the boy’s bathroom door open and saw that the halls were filling up. The busses had arrived. People were chatting congenially, grabbing things from their lockers or hastily shoving a poptart or something into their mouths for a quick breakfast. He saw a pretty girl coyly press her hand to a grinning jock’s chest as he leaned over her, one hand supporting himself on the girl’s locker and the other on his hip, flirting. A heavyset girl was behind them, across the hall just out of sight. Her eyes were watery and she hugged her books to her stomach as if pressing them tighter could make her stomach flatter, resulting in it being her coyly pressing her hand against the jock's chest instead of the other girl.
His knees felt weak and he almost went back into the bathroom after he saw that. It reminded him of before, when he was left out, when he was stuck away from it all because of stupid little things. He almost shrunk back into the shadows and decided to hide in the handicapped stall all day lest he face the students of Dakota Union High.
But then he heard a familiar laugh.
Richie Foley was laughing with his friends.
His eyes widened and he followed the sound until he locked onto the source. There, next to the water fountain, was Richie Foley. The blonde was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded against his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, chuckling as the dark boy in front of him gestured wildly, talking in a loud voice that didn’t quite reach the boy’s bathroom. Richie’s backpack was resting beside him.
He noticed that it was blue. Like his. His throat went dry.
He stared. He couldn’t help it. He watched Richie as Frieda, the girl of his dreams, leaned over and whispered something conspiratorially in his ear. He saw the grin spread slowly across Richie’s face and saw the way his eyes sparkled with humor. He watched as Virgil paused mid-rant as the two friends began to laugh, presumably at whatever Frieda had said. He watched when Richie unfolded his arms and leaned on Frieda as he shook with laughter. Virgil smacked Richie’s shoulder in mock anger.
The nervous butterflies attacked his stomach and he knew he’d have to face him some day. He wanted to watch him walk though. Wanted to make sure. Needed to.
With a deep breath he summed up all his courage and walked purposely toward the trio. Frieda noticed him first.
“Hi,” She said happily to him, her laughter still evident on her face and in the giggly undertone of her voice as she untangled herself from Richie. The blonde had apparently calmed down except for the sudden staccato giggles that would burst from him every now and then. “Are you new?”
“Oh,” He said, a bit lamely. He pulled his bookbag tighter. “I used to go here about two years back… I’m back for Senior year.”
“Cool,” Virgil said good-naturedly. Then he leaned forward, eyeing him closely. “You do look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Yeah,” Frieda said thoughtfully. She bit her lip and pulled her red hair away from her face in the way that always made his heart lurch. “You do seem awfully familiar. What’s your name?”
He tilted his head downward a bit and glanced nervously at Richie through his brown fringe. The other boy had stopped laughing and was looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Jimmy Osgood,” Was his answer.
“Jimmy!” Virgil exclaimed loudly, tactless as ever. His eyes were comically wide.
“Wow,” Frieda said awkwardly. “Jimmy, you… I mean, it’s nice to see you.”
Jimmy smiled vaguely.
“Yeah,” Virgil nodded, and then said cautiously, “How’s… everything?”
There was an unspoken subtext. He didn’t want to know how “everything” was. He wanted to know how Jimmy was. How Jimmy’s mental state was. How Jimmy was coping, though with what he didn’t know. If Jimmy’s dad still owned a gun. If he still knew where it was.
The shrill shriek of the 7:10 bell rang, making Virgil wince and Frieda wrinkle her perfect nose at the sound. People were waving goodbyes and trudging off to their classes, complaining about teachers and subjects or lamenting over unfinished homework. The silence following Virgil’s question was awkward when Jimmy didn’t respond and Jimmy was thankful for the excuse to leave. He looked around, suddenly realizing that one of them was missing.
“Where’d Richie go?” He exclaimed more sharply than he’d meant to.
Virgil frowned, looking around too. He and Frieda looked at each other and she shrugged.
“I don’t know,” She said in confusion. “He was here just a second ago.”
Jimmy was upset. He didn’t even get to speak more than two words to him, let alone see him walk away.
“I’ve got to go,” Jimmy said suddenly. He turned without another word and hurried down the hall, trying not to push past his peers in his getaway. That would cause more of a scene. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t do this, that he wouldn’t run away whenever something was bad. He had sworn to himself that, this year, he wouldn’t make a scene if he was confronted by a situation he found uncomfortable. But he did, he’d made a scene, he’d left Richie’s two best friends standing there and now they would think he was going to hunt Richie down or something. All he wanted was to make sure Richie was alright. He never got the chance to, not really.
The day passed and it was 11:00 am. Lunch. He was one of the last in the lunch line because he had stayed after class to talk to Mr. Cohen about next week’s test. He knew Richie was in that class, too, and he wanted to know what would be on it more extensively when he asked Richie to tutor him. Well, he as toying with the idea, at least. He knew Richie had Mr. Cohen’s AP Chemistry class the period directly after lunch and it, just like Richie’s Principal’s List status, wasn’t a hidden fact. He would simply ask for help under the false pretense that he hadn’t taken the preceding classes and was only just jumping into the subject. He could watch Richie that way. He could claim that he’d chosen Richie because Richie was an ace at the subject.
Well, Jimmy was, too, but Richie didn’t have to know that.
The lunch lady was a squat woman in a revolting sea green shirt that had an iron-on Winny the Pooh picture that was peeling at the edges. She was wearing a white paper apron and you could see the fold creases that made a white on white checkerboard pattern over it. She looked tired and bored, scooping day-old lasagna with a mechanical rhythm. Her hair was up in a messy bun and covered carelessly with a hairnet. Her bangs were sticking out like some sort of a fashion statement and Jimmy unconsciously crinkled his nose at the thought. He so busy thinking of all the possible health code violations Dakota Union High could receive on an impromptu cafeteria and kitchen search that he didn’t notice the woman speaking loudly for several moments.
“Kid,” The woman was saying irritably. “Kid! You want lunch today or not? You’re holding up the line.”
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder at the expressions of irritation and annoyance on those in line behind him and felt his face flush. Head down, he thrust out his tray and the woman put a large scoop of who-knows-what and a roll onto it. He grabbed a small Styrofoam bowl filled with some shreds of lettuce, a chunk of cucumber, a couple cherry tomatoes and barely looked at it before putting it on his tray. He scurried up to the woman at the cash register/computer and shoved a five-dollar bill into her hands.
“Name?” She said, sounding just as bored as the other woman had looked.
“Jimmy Osgood,” He stated.
“Would you like your change?” She said, monotone. It was kind of jumbled around in her mouth, like how after someone says “Sally sells seashells by the sea shore,” five times they trip a bit over the sounds. Jimmy guessed she’d said this sentence much more than five times.
“No, thank you,” He said. “Just keep the rest in my account.”
He didn’t see her nod but didn’t need to. He turned and looked up, and suddenly realized he had no idea where he should sit. The cafeteria was full of his graduating class, the Seniors of that year; there were people there he’d met back in grammar school and people whose faces he’d never seen in his life. A boy who’d just paid for his lunch bumped into him and shot him an angry look before walking again. Jimmy jumped a bit and walked off to the side. He automatically turned his head and looked for the familiar shock of bright blonde hair in the crowd of mainly brunettes. He walked through the cafeteria and around the circular tables with chairs gathered around them. He felt as though everyone was watching his every move. His movements were jerky and he walked as though his joints were held together with stringy rubber bands. He was self conscious and unsure.
After a moment he spotted Richie, who was once again sitting next to Virgil. Those two were practically joined at the hip back even before High School started, and they were the same now, even more so. He watched from afar as Richie gestured to the two cartons of milk he had in front of him, opened and ready. Richie had pulled the tops of the two cartons open all the way instead of just the “v” spout you were supposed to drink from. The boy across from him was tall and buff, and was Virgil, Frieda, Daisy, and other kids were beginning to crowd around the two curiously.
Jimmy inched closer, trying not to be too conspicuous, and he caught the conversation.
“Okay, okay,” Richie was saying, laughter in his voice. “I’m just saying I bet I can chug these two milk cartons before you can eat those two tater tots.” He pointed at the two tots on the table in front of the other boy.
“Impossible,” The boy snorted. “I'd be done before you took your first sip.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Richie said, wagging a finger at the boy. “I sincerely doubt that. Just… you have to at least let me finish my first carton before you start on your tater tots.” He said. “And I know how you work, no knocking my milk off the table and making me lap it up off the floor just to win my own bet.”
“Foley,” The boy said, sounding insulted. “You know I wouldn’t play you like that!”
Richie held up his hands in surrender.
“Sorry, sorry,” He said. “Just getting it straight… and, you can’t touch my milk cartons and I can’t touch your tater tots.”
“Right,” The boy confirmed.
“Great,” Richie said in satisfaction, rubbing his hands together as Virgil nearly squirmed with delight at his side. “Whatcha got?”
The boy across the table reached into his pockets and pulled out some bills, inspecting them.
“Ten and a fiver.” He grunted.
“Fifteen?” Richie pouted. “What a weak bet.” He turned to Virgil. “Cough it up, Virg. What we got?”
Virgil grinned and pulled out two twenties, slapping them on the table.
“Anybody wanna raise it?” He asked teasingly.
“Chad, spot me some green,” The boy across from Richie said. Chad grumbled and, after much deliberation, handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
“That’s only cause you hooked me up with Katie,” Chad muttered.
Richie raised his eyebrows at the money.
“A fifty?” He said, sounding vaguely surprised. He looked up to see if any teachers were near, but as always, the teachers were oblivious. He leaned forward. “Sure you wanna bet that, Dan?” He said with a cheeky grin.
Dan scowled angrily.
“Anybody got anything they wanna put down?” Dan asked the crowd in general, all the while glaring straight at Richie. Richie’s grin seemed to get even wider.
“I wanna see this Foley kid get beat,” Someone said from behind Dan, and another twenty-dollar bill was placed on top of the ten, the five, and the fifty. “Stupid punk hustled me out of ten bucks last Wednesday.”
Dan seemed satisfied with the amount of money.
“Where’s your end, Foley?” He asked mockingly. “Ain’t got it, do you?”
“Well,” Richie said breezily. “The Bank of Richie isn’t exactly an open vault, now is it? If you win I’ll get you the money. Let’s think in the present for now.”
Dan frowned but nodded.
“Alright,” Richie said happily. He turned to Daisy.
“Say ‘One, two, three, Go!’” He commanded.
Daisy laughed and said, “One, two, three… Go!”
Richie’s hand shot out lightening fast and he was drinking the milk without stopping for air. The crowd got noisier and Dan was watching Richie intently, waiting for him to be finished, his fingers hovering a foot away from the tater tots. The moment the carton left Richie’s lips he’d snatched the first tot, and he was chewing and reaching for the second when he found an upside-down milk carton covering the space where the tater tot had been lying. He looked up in confusion to see the smug face of Richie Foley.
“You can’t touch my milk cartons and I can’t touch your tater tots.” He reminded teasingly, motioning with glee to Dan’s tater tot, which was stuck underneath the milk carton. There was no way Dan could pick up the tater tot and eat it without touching Richie’s milk carton unless he was planning on breaking the bet. And Richie knew it.
The blonde picked up his second carton of milk and held it in the air in mock salute, nodding his head at Dan and winking at Frieda and Daisy. The gathering of students was beside themselves and Dan and Chad and the other unknown benefactor were nearly burning with anger. They’d been thoroughly had.
The losing players got up and angrily stormed over to wherever they were sitting as Richie chugged the next carton of milk with ease to cheers of his friends, slamming it onto the table and picking up the bills. There was laughter in his eyes and his posture was slouched and at ease. Virgil was slapping him on the back and Daisy and Frieda were congratulating him.
"Easy money, V, easy money." Richie laughed.
Jimmy thought he would slip away now, unnoticed by anyone. He was good at doing that before. He’d suddenly lost steam and now was disoriented, not knowing what he was doing or why. Deciding he would leave now, go eat lunch in his next class or the hallway or something, he started to turn around. His sudden movement must have caught Richie’s eye because suddenly Jimmy was staring at Richie and Richie was staring at Jimmy.
Richie’s expression lost all the triumphant laughter of victory and he slowly lowered the money from in front of his face, handing it blindly to Virgil. Jimmy was frozen, unable to move, and suddenly the cafeteria was a tight box and he was closed in. Richie’s eyes were filled with that unreadable something from the morning and Jimmy’s throat closed with claustrophobia. He nearly dropped his tray on the floor but somehow was able to make his feet move long enough to set it on the table nearest to him. Richie was still watching him, brow furrowed in thought.
‘About you!’ His mind screamed. ‘He’s deciding he hates you! He’ll never forgive you! Look at his face, look at his face!’
And Jimmy did look at his face. Richie was frowning now. Jimmy was beginning to have a panic attack.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ He thought desperately.
‘Before Richie tells his friends to get you,’ His mind agreed. ‘Because you know that they’ll come after you. You hurt him. I bet he never walked the same way a -’
Jimmy let out a shout and clapped his hands to the sides of his head, bolting for the door. It swung open as he rushed through, racing down the hallways and skidding to a stop only after he was as far away from the cafeteria as his feet would take him. He left a sea of confused students in his wake, complete with a wary Virgil Hawkins and a disturbed Richie Foley.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Jimmy saw Richie again. He had avoided Richie at all costs. After that first disastrous day of high school back in Dakota, he had almost asked his parents to take him away again. He had gotten out all the receipts from his back-to-school purchases, ready to return them with apologies. The only thing that had stopped him was the thought that being shot in the leg hadn’t stopped Richie, so why should a tiny backfire in his plans stop him?
He was prone to repeat his mistakes. He didn’t like the fact that he still wasn’t as at ease with the general populous as Richie Foley and Virgil Hawkins, but he could work on that. He could become a people-person. No bullies had taunted him yet. He had thrown out his trusty old red laptop, the wonderful friend in a sea of mean no-ones during his early teen years. The only person who had really appreciated his laptop had been Richie, who seemed to have a fondness for all things technical, just like him.
Jimmy thought for a moment. Bullies always picked on him when he had his laptop out. Maybe it was all those stickers on the front. The skull and all that. Well, at any rate, his new school supplies were completely unblemished and would remain so. No sticker would come within a mile radius of any of his things.
Jimmy was staying after school in the library to do some research for a paper that had been assigned the day before in English Lit. class. He was hoping to get it done soon and leave the library before anyone could really show up and notice him there, but it was unlikely since the school had opted to use its limited budget on the athletic department instead of the computer labs. There were only four computers in the library, and after hours they were the only ones available to the student body. Only two of them had internet hook-ups.
Jimmy had written a page of theories on how Edgar Allen Poe’s life and the events in it had lead to his penning such incredibly morose pieces of work when the door to the library swung open. Richie and Virgil were entering, both looking glum and obviously there to do work, like him.
“I’ve told you already, V,” Richie was saying exasperatedly. “I’m banned from all tech at my house as punishment for coming home a day after curfew.”
“You were at my house!” Virgil protested. “They knew that! Pops can vouch for you. You do it all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re preaching to the choir here, man,” Richie said unhappily, rubbing his forehead as if edging away a headache. “but I’ve gotta type this up and so here we are.”
“Ah, but here’s where we meet an impasse, Rich,” Virgil said smartly, looking self-satisfied. “It’s you who has to type, uh, whatever you’re typing. Not me.”
“So?” Richie said stubbornly. His voice was a little loud and the librarian shot a scornful “Hush!” their way.
“So I’m out,” Virgil said. Before Richie could protest he held up his hand. “Sorry, man. I’d love to be the good friend and all and sit by offering moral support while you suffer a slow death by schoolwork, but I’ve got a date tonight, if you don’t remember.” He waggled his eyebrows at Richie. “Daisy’s wearing something skimpy, if I read her tone right.”
Richie mimicked barfing noises.
“Peace!” Virgil said, unfazed by Richie’s teasing.
“And out,” Richie said reluctantly as his best friend exited the library. He heaved a big sigh and turned to the computers only to spot Jimmy.
Jimmy, who had been watching and eavesdropping the whole time, quickly ducked his head and pretended not to notice Richie when he finally started walking toward the computers. His heartbeat quickened as the chair beside him was pulled out, and Richie sat in the seat. Jimmy was steadfastedly staring at his hands in his lap as the clicks of the mouse echoed in the silence of the library and the tension mounted until it was almost palpable.
“Jimmy,” Richie’s voice said.
Jimmy flinched almost violently and looked up at Richie. He was taller than Jimmy even sitting down. But Jimmy had always been small for his age. That was part of the reason the bullies had picked on him. Richie wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t wearing an expression that could be clearly identified as angry.
“Yeah?” Jimmy said hoarsely. His throat was constricting again, just like it had in the cafeteria.
“Could you hand me a pencil?”
Jimmy could have died right on the spot. Richie hadn’t said anything about anything, and was simply asking for a pencil. Jimmy felt for certain that there was something behind it, that Richie was testing him. Feeling incredibly awkward and scrutinized, Jimmy shakily reached over to his right and fished out a pencil from the cup that the library offered for student use. He held it out at arms length to Richie, who gave him a strange look before taking it.
Jimmy was practically trembling with tension and a build-up of emotion. Richie was right there, right next to him. He hadn’t said anything. Jimmy was waiting, waiting until Richie would say it, would yell it and scream it. The blame, that is. The anger and hatred he must feel toward him. Jimmy was holding his breath and he barely knew it until he started to feel lightheaded and woozy, and he didn’t realize he was feeling lightheaded and woozy until his vision became a little blurred around the edges. He exhaled and inhaled again and again, remembering how to breathe and trying not to let Richie hear him. His pulse sounded loud to his ears. He felt like the narrator in the Tell-Tale Heart, only it was his own heartbeat that was pounding from under the floorboards.
The clock was ticking and time was passing and Jimmy scrolled down the screen of Edgar Allen Poe information, seeing the words but not comprehending a single bit of it. It was forever while it lasted but then it seemed like a miniscule blip in time when Richie’s fingers had stopped tapping over the keyboard and the printer was screeching out the document on paper, the ink black and dark and crisp.
Jimmy tried not to look as Richie grabbed the paper, exited his document in a few quick clicks, and stood.
“Bye,” He said simply.
Jimmy watched him walk away this time, paying close attention to his legs and his movements. Was that a limp he saw? Jimmy was horrified. Was that Richie limping? Or was he being paranoid? Was he overreacting?
The boy had tucked the papers into his bookbag and pulled it on his shoulders and Jimmy was still trying to comprehend the sickening possibility that he had crippled Richie Foley. Richie gave him a quick smile and the tiniest of waves that had Jimmy’s insides quaking with guilt and he was gone.
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Two weeks.
Two long weeks.
Two weeks since he had last seen Richie Foley.
Sure, he had caught a glimpse of the blonde in the hallways, and when he had stopped one day to talk to Frieda for a moment he had seen Richie about to approach. He had, of course, taken this time to make an excuse and leave before an encounter.
He didn’t know if it was a good thing or not, really. Not seeing Richie Foley, that is. Jimmy had thought of him almost constantly, plagued by curiosity and unadulterated guilt. He was afraid of how he’d react again after seeing Richie up close. The other times he’d been in close range had turned out to be entirely embarrassing or entirely awkward, or a despairing combination of both.
And the worst part was that Richie seemed completely unaffected by it all. It nagged at Jimmy like an unreachable itch that longed to be scratched at even though the scratching would inevitably cause pain that would last long after the initial satisfaction. Jimmy just wished he would show some outward sign of discomfort other than whatever that emotion was that he would look at Jimmy with. Confusion, maybe? Interest? Curiosity?
Jimmy scowled at his math textbook. These problems were relatively easy. He wished Richie Foley was a math problem. He knew he wouldn’t even do the steps. He’d just -
“And what would you do to solve this problem, Mr. Osgood?” The teacher questioned, breaking Jimmy’s stream of thought.
“Look in the back of the book for the answer,” He blurted. Loud laughter rippled through the class and he blushed. He hadn’t meant to say that. Not out loud, at least.
“Well,” The teacher said, not looking at all as if he found Jimmy’s answer humorous. He eyed Jimmy over the tops of his bifocals with distaste. “I assure you that in life there will be few times when you can simply flip to the back of the book and find the correct answer. What good is it to know the answer if you have no idea how you got it? What use would it do you in the future? The only way to be truly confident in your findings is to find them yourself, not rely on the work of others and be content with the outcome.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy responded meekly, and with one last look at the boy, the teacher continued conducting class.
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A month.
A long month.
A month and Jimmy thought he was almost past this insane Richie-obsession. He no longer winced when he heard any name that started with “R”. His parents were happy again because he seemed more upbeat. He was glad that his parents were happy. His mother was making his favorite foods for dinner every night, and his father had bought him one of those new remote controlled cars that were all the rage and he knew to be expensive. Jimmy noticed that his father had gotten him the red monster-truck version, not the dark green army-type tank with the neat track wheels. He knew why. Military vehicles wore artillery.
But Jimmy was pretty satisfied with his life now. He had shoved his guilt deep down and locked it away. He thought he’d thrown out the key and lost it and never would find it again.
But he also hadn’t seen Richie for a month.
And when he did see him the key was suddenly back in his hand and, as if under a spell or a curse, he had unlocked the vault and the guilt was back, eating him alive from the inside out.
It was storming outside. The rain was pelting down onto the school’s ceiling with force and the thunder cracked. It was dark as night outside, even though it was clearly early afternoon. It was like a bad omen. The grass was covered with a layer of water and the large puddles that were forming were constantly rippling as the raindrops splashed on to their surfaces.
Richie Foley was walking down the hallway of the Dakota Union High, whistling with his hands in his pockets, completely unaware of the feelings he was inspiring in Jimmy Osgood. It was the middle of a class, and the halls were empty except for him and Jimmy, who he hadn’t yet spotted. He passed him obliviously. Richie stopped in front of a glass door leading outside and pulled a hallpass and a thin blue book from in his hoodie pocket. Jimmy inched forward to get a better look at the book. Its cover was blank but Jimmy knew it was obviously an attendance roster. He must have been asked by a teacher to bring it to another.
Richie shoved the pass and the book into his hoodie pocket again and stared moodily out at the downpour with a sour expression on his face.
“Sweeney hates me,” He mumbled out loud. “He doesn’t have to give this stupid thing to Barnes until fourth period when Barnes is actually in the main building and he knows it. He just wants me to be soaked and miserable all through class.”
With a sigh of resignation, the blonde pulled his hood up to cover his head and pushed open the door, steeling himself against the onslaught of wind that brought sharp rain straight through his sweatshirt.
Richie stepped outside, hunching down a little, and hurried along the cement path to the Gym, where Mr. Barnes, the Gym teacher, would undoubtedly be sitting in his office. Jimmy slipped out the door after him, following.
The rain was fiercer than he had expected, and he was unhappy that he had brought his backpack with him. He loved his backpack. For a moment all he could think about was the lovely knotted loops on the zippers and how they would become frayed. His clothing was dark and heavy and wet now, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. He was cold and his skin was hurting where the rain hit it.
‘What a storm.’
He saw Richie yelp as he slipped on the wet ground and fall into a mud puddle. His hood slipped down and revealed his head to the weather, and he sat sputtering at the water in his face. His blonde hair was wet to the point that it gave the illusion of being brown, and it hung in his eyes in little spikes, dripping like light brown icicles. Jimmy, deciding he should help, came out from where he was in the shadows and offered his hand.
Richie covered up a rather girly scream with a masculine cough when he saw a figure suddenly over him. He breathed out a sigh of relief when it was Jimmy Osgood. He took the proffered hand and clumsily stood. There was silence for a moment and the two stood uncomfortably in the rain.
“Thanks,” Richie said at last.
“You’re welcome,” Jimmy said quietly. Richie could barely hear him over the rain. He was feeling cold and goosebumps were raising on his skin.
“Um,” Richie said, biting his lip. “This weather sucks. I’ve got to deliver something to Barnes, so… see you around, Jimmy.” He moved to leave.
“Wait!” Jimmy’s voice said desperately. “Stop, please, don’t go!”
Richie turned around, staring at the smaller boy. His eyes were large and round and, after making sure Richie wouldn’t move, he put swung his bookbag off his shoulder and crouched down in the mud next to it, riffling through the contents. Richie was utterly confused and was considering just leaving Jimmy there when Jimmy suddenly stood, waving something about in his hands.
“Here it is!” Jimmy cried. “I don’t want it, you can have it, I won’t use it! Just say something to me!”
Jimmy had put the object in his backpack a week or so ago on a strange impulse. He’d found it after a search of his house. It had been hidden under a loose floorboard in his parent's closet, and he was sure he wouldn't of found it at all if he hadn't been so thorough in his search. His father was clever, but apparently not clever enough. He hadn't noticed it was gone yet.
He didn’t understand why he had it. He hated it. But its coldness and solidity were the only thing that grounded him. He saw it and knew it and hated it all at the same time. He knew he could get caught but he couldn’t not take it.
Richie’s eyes widened and he backed away as he realized what happened. This time, Jimmy noted with a pang of sick satisfaction, it was Richie whose throat was closed up. Richie who couldn’t speak. Richie who was feeling the claustrophobia and fear that he had felt.
“Jimmy,” Richie croaked. “Put it down.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Jimmy yelled, still wildly gesturing with the gun. “You could have talked to me, blamed me, screamed at me.”
“Jimmy, I -”
“But you did NOTHING!” Jimmy roared, advancing.
Richie was terrified. And in the back of his brain he realized he was not as much terrified of the weapon in Jimmy’s hand as he was of the boy. Of the boy and the power over him that he now had. Richie, despite his super-intelligence, was too late in realizing and when their eyes met, he couldn’t cover it up. Jimmy noticed it first. He lowered the gun.
“So I’ve got you,” He said in awe.
“Jimmy, be reasonable.” Richie said in what he hoped was a steady voice.
“No!” Jimmy bellowed. “You! You be reasonable! You haven’t been reasonable at all! You didn’t even have the courtesy to show me that you hate me!”
“Jimmy,” Richie said hoarsely, eyes still wide with fear. “I don’t hate you.”
“Yes you do!” Jimmy screamed. “I shot you! I SHOT YOU!”
“You didn’t mean to,” Richie argued. He was backing away from Jimmy slowly, his hands held in front of him. Jimmy was coming closer and Richie stepped backward hastily, only to trip on a tree root and land in the mud. He looked up helplessly.
The rain was still pouring down and the thunder was booming. The wind was tilting the water at an angle, and so the droplet hit both of their skin like millions of sharp pins. The mud was watery on top and thick underneath and oozed through Richie’s fingers as his hands clenched the ground behind him.
Lightening struck somewhere in Dakota and the light flashed over Jimmy’s face. Richie couldn’t help but gulp at the look there.
“Jimmy,” He began slowly. His voice was strong. “Put the gun down. I’m fine, you’re fine. We’re all okay. Everything’s okay. Just put it down.”
“It’s got bullets,” Jimmy said sadly.
“Put it down,” Richie begged. Jimmy studied him. His hoodie was dark and saggy with water, pulling down heavily. The roster book would most likely be ruined. Richie’s khakis were wet and covered in mud and clingy green blades of grass. His hair was plastered to his skull and his face was like paper. His blue eyes were wide and his pupils small behind his glasses, which were foggy and splattered with water. He was blinking furiously, trying to clear his sight.
‘Must be hard to see…’ Jimmy thought vaguely.
“Jimmy?” Richie asked tentatively.
“We have the same name, you know,” Jimmy said remorsefully. There was a flash of confusion on Richie’s face and then it clicked.
“Osgood?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“Family name,” Richie said by way of explanation, but his eyes were on the gun.
“Are we related?” Jimmy asked abruptly.
Richie’s head shot up to look at Jimmy’s face. His expression was unreadable and the dark and rain, plus his fuzzy vision, made it even harder to determine what was going through Jimmy’s mind. Best to humor him, Richie supposed.
“Possibly,” Richie answered.
“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” Jimmy asked Richie, kicking at the ground and uprooting muddy grass.
“Should I?” Richie asked.
“Yes!” Jimmy practically shouted, startling Richie and nearly making him jump out of his skin. “You should hate me! I shot you! You were bleeding! After what I did to you -” He broke off and Richie realized he was sobbing. The tears running down his face were lost in the rain, and his broken moans were voiceless in the thunder. He dropped the gun in the mud and slid to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Richie was frozen, unable to decide what to do. The gun sunk heavily into the earth, and the murky water quickly filled in the depression.
Jimmy was bawling fully now, with a kind of aura that comes only with a cathartic release of human emotion. He jerked his head up, eyes red and bloodshot, when a hand rested on his shoulder.
He looked up into the compassionate eyes of Richie Foley, and before he could stop himself he was tottering forward, losing his balance, was falling at Richie. Richie stiffened for a moment and then relaxed, letting Jimmy cling to him as he cried. Jimmy clutched Richie’s soggy sweatshirt desperately and sobbed for what seemed like an eternity until all that was left was dry hiccups. He pulled himself from the blonde and peered with embarrassment through the still-pouring rain at Richie.
“Thank you,” He hiccupped.
“It’s nothing,” Richie said dismissively, but they both knew it was something. The two sat there, not quite knowing what to do.
The gun was buried deep in the mud.
The rain continued, and so did life.
End.