The Hiding Place

Chapter 1 The blast of the siren tore through conversations, momentarily drowned out the shouts and laughter of the school yard and sent students, moving at a reluctant pace, to their lockers. A small group of half a dozen final year boys continued playing ‘brandy,’ a game whereby a tennis ball is thrown as hard as possible at someone and if it hits them, they’re “branded”. In his haste to escape the path of the tennis ball, Darren, one of the more athletic boys, crashed into Bryan, a skinny, pimple-faced student, who was never included in their games. The impact sent Bryan crashing to the ground. Had it not been for the fact he shot his hand out to break the fall, the damage could have been much worse. As it was, the only injuries sustained were a bitten tongue, a throbbing knee, and a great deal of embarrassment. Bryan picked himself up from the concrete walkway and gave his knee a quick rub. “Gee, are you okay?” asked Sharon, who was not only one of the kindest girls he’d ever known, but who was also one of two school prefects. She was a little overweight and had wavy hair that seemed to Bryan to be untameable the way it curled this way and that, even within the confines of a ponytail, but she had a kind face. It was a face—porcelain white, blemish-free and perfectly proportioned—that he imagined an angel to have. Bryan ran his tongue over his teeth, checking, and detecting nothing more than the metallic taste of blood, he nodded. “Are you sure?” she asked, resting a hand on his back. Bryan nodded again, keeping his eyes averted so he didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes. He could hear the boys laughing behind him and heard one of them say “Well done,” followed by what sounded like a high-five. He felt like sobbing. Not because of the sharp sting from the bite mark on his tongue and not because of the embarrassment of being knocked down in front of his peers, but because the boys enjoyed making his life hell and there was not a damned thing he could do about it. He took a deep breath and felt Sharon remove her hand. “We’d better get to class, hey?” she said. He glanced up at her after she had left his side. Watching her arrive at her locker, smiling as she took out the books she would need for her afternoon classes, made him feel a little better. He couldn’t say why. It just did, though the feeling was only a fleeting one. He opened his locker and saw that during the lunch break someone had drawn a caricature of him, his face almost obliterated by spots, with a crudely drawn p***s in his mouth. He reached out to rub it off with his fingers, but it was in permanent marker so he could forget about erasing it. He stared at it, feeling numb. His mind was empty of thought; the hurt and humiliation evaporated. He was the eye of a hurricane that boiled and spun around him. The sting of a tennis ball being thrown at full force at his left buttock wrenched him back to the real world. “i***t!” snapped Kylie, one of the girls in his English class as she glared at the culprit. When Bryan looked over his shoulder he saw Daniel, the best looking guy in the final year class, laughing riotously as Kylie showered his arms and back with slaps. He averted his eyes lest he draw any more attention from the boys. Strange, he thought, as he often had, how the girls scold the boys for bullying me and yet none of them actually do anything to help me. It was true. None of them, apart from Sharon, ever talked to him or interacted with him unless instructed to do so by a teacher, so it was perplexing why they should bother telling the boys off for torturing him. Doing his best to ignore the various aches and pains acquired during the forty-five minute lunch break, Bryan sat down near the front of the class. The popular boys sat in the back row, directly behind the popular girls, and there were a few vacant seats in the middle rows, where Bryan sat. Only the ‘nerds’ sat at the front—the studious types who didn’t care about the high school hierarchy of popularity. Bryan sat where he felt the most comfortable, with two rows separating him from the popular students and one row separating him from the nerds. He was not at all sporty and his pimples obscured whatever looks he might have. Test scores showed he was only of average intelligence and he only put in an average amount of effort. He could hardly be considered bookish. Third row from the front was the perfect position for him. Miss Stanovich was a new graduate. She had not yet learned how to control a class of bitchy girls wearing too much make up and of boys who were taller and broader than she was. She would certainly try and Bryan would watch in silence, trying to look as small and insignificant as possible because when Miss Stanovich began losing control she would pick on him. Why don’t you know the answer? How many times do I have to explain it? Were you paying attention at all when we went through this yesterday? And the boys would laugh because at that moment she was one of them, doing their job for them. The girls would be too busy swapping gossip and passing notes to care; only playing at paying attention for they had better things to do. “Everyone take their homework out,” said Miss Stanovich, exhibiting her sternest expression. Bryan opened his file and found the algebraic equations he’d muddled through the night before. He knew the answers were wrong. The only reason he’d even attempted the sums was to make it appear as though he’d made some effort to complete his homework. He just couldn’t seem to get his head around the concept of adding and subtracting numbers and letters of the alphabet. When would he ever need to do such a thing? “Come on, boys down the back. Where’s your homework?” Miss Stanovich took a step forward. “The dog ate it, Miss,” said Darren, the muscular jock who had earlier knocked into Bryan. The entire back row laughed. Bryan didn’t, though. He kept his eyes on his homework. “That’s not good enough, Darren. What about the rest of you?” “His dog ate my homework, too, Miss.” Now even the girls were laughing. “His cat ate mine, Miss.” “Yeah, you should learn to feed ya pets,” said another of the back row boys. Bryan glanced at Miss Stanovich and noticed the steady rise and fall of the joint where her two jaws connected. “That’s not good enough, gentlemen.” There was a crack in her voice. “If this happens once more, I’ll get Principal Carruthers in here.” “Ladies, what about you? Have you done your homework?” “Yeah, Bryan,” said Darren. “Did you do your homework?” Bryan inhaled deeply. His heart began beating a little harder. Still he kept his eyes on the paper in front of him, praying that Miss Stanovich didn’t ask him for answers he knew were incorrect. “That’s enough,” said Miss Stanovich. “Since only half the class have seen fit to do their homework, we’ll go on with today’s lesson. I expect yesterday’s homework, as well as today’s, to be done over the weekend.” Only when Miss Stanovich walked up to the blackboard and began writing did Bryan relax. Now that she had begun the lesson there was no danger of her asking him for answers that would invite more ridicule. When the siren went at the conclusion of the school day, everyone packed up their books and hurried out of the classroom. Bryan took his time. He wrote the date at the top of the page of notes he’d taken, filed it the algebra section of his file and then put his pens in his pencil case, slowly pulling the zipper closed. “Come on, Bryan,” said Miss Stanovich. “I’m going to lock the door.” “Yes, Miss,” said Bryan, gathering up his file, maths book and pencil case. He hurried through the door slowing his pace immediately after. Strolling down the corridor, he kept his eyes on his feet. Nothing could encourage him to hurry. Only when he turned the corner into the veranda where the lockers were did he look up. He exhaled. Every muscle in his body relaxed when he saw no more than a dozen students remaining. Everyone else had gone, although there was still the school gate to navigate. Occasionally the boys would wait there, smoking, for their older friends to pick them up in pimped up cars whose twin exhausts would roar as they took off down the road. Bryan packed his bag, leaving his locker empty but for a couple of text books he wouldn’t need, and the caricature of him sucking a c**k. His mind turned to the weekend. Two days respite from the constant stress of trying to remain sane in an insane situation. Yet now was not the time for smiles and daydreams. The sight of five boys sitting on the fence on either side of the gate meant he had one more hurdle to overcome before he could indulge himself in those. He had two options. He could turn around and walk the other way. There was another gate near the primary school, and also the entrance to the teacher’s car park. Or he could show them that he wasn’t a coward and walk right through the middle of their group. “Hey Bryan, want to suck my c**k?” He couldn’t turn around now. They’d seen him. He wished the ground could open up and swallow him. Or them. He inhaled deeply and steeled himself. He kept his eyes on the ground and willed himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. “Want a smoke, Brysy?” asked Darren. Bryan shook his head. “Wanna suck this?” Bryan saw a movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced to his right and saw Darren grab his crotch. In the brief moment his eyes were on Darren’s hand he saw the outline of a c**k that looked erect. He could have been wrong. He didn’t care. He hurried past and didn’t look up again until he was on the other side of the road and the school building was no more than a few bricks visible through the street trees. With each step forward he felt the tension in his muscles ease, his mood lighten, and his whole soul start to shine. He began to hum. It wasn’t a song he knew, or even that he recognised. It didn’t matter. Part of the fun was inventing his own melody. If he’d known how to write music, he’d have written it down when he got home. It was quite catchy. He could easily imagine singing it on Video Hits. It would be a smash. He’d have fans and they’d want his autograph. People would like him. So lost in his thoughts was he that he barely noticed the car approaching from behind. A banana skin hit him on the side of his head. Someone yelled out “Poofter” and Bryan’s dreams of superstardom disintegrated. In a flash his muscles were tense once again. Who was he kidding? He’d never be famous. He’d never even be popular. He wiped the side of his face where part of the banana skin had hit and felt his eyes water. If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, someone had switched it off. Bryan unlocked the front door of his house. “Hello!” he called. No one replied. That was something at least. After a day like the one he’d had it was good to have some time alone. It was almost four o’clock. His mother would be home in half an hour and his father, well, who knew? Officially his father left work at five o’clock, though it was a rare evening that he bypassed the local pub and it was never for a quick drink. More often than not he’d roll in a quarter of an hour after the pub had closed for the night, giving everyone else a chance to perfect the art of walking on eggshells until it came time to go to bed. As for his younger brother, Dean, he could have been anywhere. Dean had a marvellous knack of returning home with just enough time to wash up before their mother put dinner on the table. Bryan dropped his school bag in his room and pressed play on his stereo. The infectious melodies of an ABBA song filled the room. He did like a few modern bands and singers. At odds with his passion for ABBA was his love of Marilyn Manson. Yet it was the music of his childhood, of his parents CD collection, that he really enjoyed. New romantic bands like Duran Duran and Culture Club, and there was nothing better to dance to than Dead or Alive turned up so loud that often, when he was playing it, he wouldn’t hear his mother arrive home. She would suddenly appear at his bedroom door, scowl on her face and yelling at him to “Turn it down!” He would glare back at her, the spell of the music having been broken. The sounds of the real world would infiltrate any magic created by the music and he’d be left in limbo.