Inside the Dean's office, Ron felt the cold, harsh aura of authority and discipline. Red and white squares made up a thin horizontal line around the room, sandwiched between dry, grey paint. If he had the guess, Ron would say that the paint had been made by grinding up(more) dusty encyclopedias, or perhaps volumes of historical English literature.
In front of Ron, behind a large, cherry desk, sat Dean Tinwitten. The dean was a frail man, with an air of sterile organization. His gray hair was parted neatly up the middle, and his moustache curled tightly at the ends. Smudged round spectacles slowly slid down the bridge of his sharp, aristocratic nose.
"So, Mr. Wartwell, it seems that you come from a long line of Trolleyriders."
Ron fought back an eye roll. What kind of school picks a "Trolleyrider" as a mascot?
"Yes sir," Ron forced out enthusiastically. "My family bleeds Trolleyrider Red!"
"Excellent, excellent!" The dean pushed his thin glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Mother, father, both were academically excellent. Oh, and it seems you had an uncle attend as well?"
Ron grinned. He really didn't think Taylor had the guts to do it. He had been joking when he suggested they sneak in and sabotage his application...but Taylor wasn't the type to leave her friends to...unpleasantness...without a fight.
The dean froze as he began to read the history of Ron's uncle. His hands began to shake, and Ron could only make out a couple words out of the Dean's mumbling stammer: "...fecal matter...professor's wife...live walrus?"
The dean shakily closed the folder containing Ron's academic 'history.' "Well, Mr. Wartwell...it seems there may be some small issues with you application...I'll have to...spend some time reviewing these issues."
Ron fought back a chuckle. "Yes, I suppose you will."(less)
"why aren't we best friends anymore?" you ask me for the umpteenth time, passing by my locker between classes, catching me on my way to the bus, finding me anywhere you can although i try to hide.
i fix you with a steely glare and swallow down whatever words(more) are about to spill out of my mouth.
"it's not your fault," i want to say, but that would make explanation necessary.
"whenever i see you i see him," i consider saying, but that is too cryptic, too "gossip girl" for someone i have known since the days of nappies and pacifiers.
"why don't you ask your uncle?" i settle on finally, trying to expel thoughts of what he did to me that day at your family reunion, and i leave you behind.
The Mark I knew was not the Mark that plagued city streets, asking anyone who was unlucky enough to walk by for a cigarette, then a light, then their wallets.
When(more) he wasn't at my house, he was a bad man, I know this.
But I still like to pretend that the loving person who would show up at my house with a pack of gum and a ball was the person he always wished he could be. The man he was without the addiction and the mental issues that plagued him.
I knew why the police were there before they knocked on the door, and I knew what my mom was going to say before she said it. And I didn't want to hear it.
I wanted to keep him in my thoughts as a good guy, if only for a moment.(less)
"It's a funny story, how this came about, it really is. My father caught me kissing this boy, see, and he didn't waste a bloody minute in snatching me up by the hair and dragging me inside. He shoves me down through the doorway, slams it shut behind us,(more) and the poor boy's looking at us from outside all horrified-like and whatnot because he's sure I'm about to get the daylights slugged out of me, but my father doesn't do a thing for a minute - he stands there quiet like no words needed to be said, like I should already know what's coming. But I didn't, there was no way I could! - I'm feeling like I've swallowed a small animal, absolutely fucking terrified. But then he comes down on my level, pulls me up by the hair again, and lets me have it; he was probably trying to knock the queer out of me himself, to be honest. When he thought I had enough, he straightened me up and told me that he wasn't going to allow another queer in the family. 'And your uncle?' he said, 'he was a fucking queer, too, and that disease stops here.' I felt so goddamn sick after that - I honestly wished that he HAD knocked the queer out of me, that it might have showed up in my vomit, but no such salvation ever came - I knew I'd be sick forever.
And that, Aiden, was the last time I ever told anyone that I was queer."