First Day of Freshman Year

Our very first day of highschool was unseasonably, and unreasonably, cold. The shushing of wind-breakers and jeans added just a hint of extra volume to the cacophony that had already begun. All around us, friendly embraces and loud, excited conversations as friends that had spent a whole summer apart caught each other up on precious lost months.
Terrified, wide-eyed freshman, lost in their combination oversized hoodies and long-sleeved shirts, roamed the halls in small packs. Confused, but enthusiastic, they avoided groups of upper classmen like quick maneuvering bait-fish.
Seniors, easy to pick out with their sandals, limp, empty backpacks, and occasionally what looked like pajamas, were all cocky-strut and loud-mouthed. Carefree. Careless.
Then, there were the sophomores and juniors. Up and coming social bosses, toadies in tow, looking to carve out a place for themselves as early possible. Day one go-getters.
Finally, amongst the tumult and chaos, was us.
Quiet, moving with a chin up confidence utterly contradictory to our station, and swaddled against the, quite frankly, much too cold, we made our way through the halls in search of our shared locker. It did not take long. People seemed to move out of our way for whatever reason.
This was noticed. One of those out to make a name became aware of our presumption of calm, and took it as a personal affront. He, along with two of his cronies, broke from the general mob. They made directly for us, shoulder checking anyone smaller out of the way.
They stopped a few feet away. Their leader was easily a head taller than me, and flanked on either side by bundles of teenage angst just as large. In eyes his I saw the eager gleam of potential violence.
Our first bully!
I spared a glance at Marlin, she waggled her eyebrows. A clear meaning: Peace is possible, fight just as a likely. It could go either way.1
“What’s up, new meat?” he asked in a warbly voice bordering on deep. Everything about him, from his posture to his half-cocked smile, was intended as a threat.
Intended, obviously. Conveyed? Eh.
“You wanna?” I asked Marlin, who was still only kind of paying attention, the question left unfinished and hanging in the air. She shook her head, removing a few empty notebooks from her backpack, and gestured for me to handle it after placing them in the locker. “Lemme stop you right there, chief. I don’t know what kind of feel good 80’s movie you think you’re in right now,2 but I am fairly confident it isn’t going to shake out the way you’re hoping.” I winked at him conspiratorially, to emphasize how little I cared for this distraction. “So why don’t you and your buddies fuck off?”
He stepped closer, forcing my neck to crane upward to maintain eye contact. His face was a picture of barely controlled anger. Seething, he asked, “What did you just say, faggot?”
Everything went very, very quiet.
“Oh, honey,” Marlin made her presence known, “that’s not a nice word.”
The bully mocked laughter, “Oh, shit!” Turning to his posse, he said, loud enough for everyone around to hear, “Looks like twin brothers. Or maybe twin sisters.” For some reason, this elicited a chorus of hateful glee from the other two, drowning out the oppressive silence. “How are we even supposed to tell you two apart?”
I sighed. An honest sigh, one that spoke of vexation, of a long day yet to start. It seemed that violence was a foregone conclusion at this point. And while I saw it as a tedious, boorish exertion that I could most definitely do without, Marlin’s face lit up with pure joy.   She was suddenly alive with the prospect of action.
Mentally acceding to the inevitable, I turned away from the idiot to take off my sweatshirt. He had a moment of pause, as my arms, now exposed, showed a generous amount of muscle that stretched sleeves and had no place on a fourteen year old. Amazing what nearly a year of constantly fighting monsters on a nightly basis will do for the body.
Honestly, I was a little unsure myself. Fighting is one of those skills that can only be improved if you regularly practice. I had fought plenty of monsters, but I had yet to fight another human being. For all I knew, it could be totally different. He may have fought a lot of people, and would therefore have the natural advantage.
Anyway, fighting with a jacket in my hand was not an option. As I hung it in the locker, he roared, “Hey! I asked you a question, you don’t turn your back on me!” He grabbed my shoulder, trying to force me around.
Between myself and my sister, I would like to believe that I was the more in control. Where she was choleric, I was patient. Where she was rash, I was decisive. Where this jack-wagon chose to grab me by the shoulder, I chose an over-hand grip on his forearm, bending at the knees, using my weight and lower center of gravity to wrench his hand down and forward into the locker.
Ultimately, my sister and I are the same person. And, where she would have slammed the door on his stupid hand until his bones cracked and gave, I slammed the door on his stupid hand until his bones cracked and gave, punctuating each impact with a shout. “I. Told. You. This. Would. Happen. You. Dumb. Fucker.”
The locker door, now too bent out of shape to latch shut, was smeared with blood. Bully boy slumped to the floor, whimpering and cradling his broken hand. Remembering my severed finger3, I felt no sympathy. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “You fucking psycho.”
Marlin, so far uninvolved, joined in. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” Her tone was so sweet, it could almost be mistaken for actual compassion. In a rapid shift, she hauled her leg back, the crowd gasped a collective gasp of anticipated pain, and Marlin launched her leg forward to kick him square in the groin.
There was a sickening, squelching pop.
He screamed.
His buddies, previously rooted to the spot by the knee jerk brutality, broke station and ran. Probably to find a teacher. Maybe to get away from us.
Marlin leaned in to whisper harshly in his ear as he whimpered, “Wanna know how you can tell us apart?” She jerked her thumb back at me, “He’s the one that broke your hand.” I waved, all innocence and toothy grin adding insult and creepy factor to injury. She stood over him and spoke loud enough for the remaining onlookers to hear, “And I’m the one that busted your balls.”
We high-fived. “To the principal’s office?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”

 

 

1 – Our nonverbal communication was pretty extensive by that time. -Marlin
2 – Probably one of the ones where the bullies always get away with attempted murder. -Marlin.
3 – For SOME reason. -Marcus.