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Chapter One: ғ ı я s τ [ a η ɖ ] ℓasτ |
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The room was filled with the drone of clamoring voices. There were about twelve or so round tables within the quarters. There were seats surrounding these tables and in these seats were people. Children, in fact: adolescents ranging from the age of thirteen to about eighteen. The heads of shaggy, neat, prim, shiny, dark, unkempt, and short hair all bobbed in distinctive motions. Laughter, emphasizing points, or moving to the beat of the music blaring in their ear buds – the boys of Oracle Prep were enjoying their ritual of lunch.
The boys had separated themselves in factions: according to grade and sub-class of association. Friends hunched over the table, banging their fists against the tabletops, causing the metal supports to clatter in consequence. They all were as loud and boisterous as boys could be – some groups more mature about their conversations while others were purely fueled by nonsense. There were boys standing at the vending machines – awkward with patience as they awaited their beverages or snacks. On the opposite side of the lunch room, two doors provided a majority one-way path for the lunch line. Steaming lunches made the mouths of many water, and the students brushed shoulders, insuring their location in line and definite share of the food. Down at the end of the line was the cash register where two jovial and familiar ladies stood, waiting in ample time.
There were two doors which the room was accessible from – both on the same wall, leading out into the lobby. Through these doors – always left open – the diffusion of students were scarcely paid attention to, as they had other obligations to attend to: such as retrieving their books or meeting up with a teacher. Between the two doors, a mural of The Last Supper was painted, a magnificent work of an artist who had recently done it the summer prior. Above it all, the emblem of the school was presented with pride and glory. It watched over all of the students who came to the school as they ate. It was a symbol of their existence.
On the wall, the number eight was displayed. Next to it, the word “day” and the number one were plastered, keeping the students wary of their rotational schedules. It was on this day – the last day of the eight-day schedule – that all of the juniors of Oracle Prep had the same lunch period. There were about two-or-so hundred students in the school, less than thirty of them in their junior year. While they were littered about the tables in little groups, the concentration of these individuals were in the back of the room, closest to the three windows. The middle two tables housed most of the juniors, cluttered with books and bags and meals all the same. Their laughter reigned over the rest of the cafeteria for a moment before dying down, mimicking the flow of the cafeteria chatter.
Between the bodies – seats intertwined and overlapping of excess seats – the rays of mid-day poured through the blinds. They were slit closed, irritating many when they were opened. The clattering of the banging on tables resurfaced, drawing the eyes of nearby tables, absentmindedly. Sitting there were boys around the age of sixteen and enjoying their lunches. They looked across the table as the attention shifted, each male sharing their part to keep the conversation going. It was a comical one, though; it would split into two or three for a moment when the interest had been lost, only to translate to another topic.
“But on Friday, he said that the take-home quiz was due on Tuesday,” Said one of the figures, covering his mouth as he resumed his chewing. His eyes darted between two of the individuals opposite of him as they flipped through the pages of their notebooks. They were recounting their lecture in pre-calculus from the week prior.
“Yeah, I thought so,” One of the others concurred before looking around the table absentmindedly. His lips were glossed from the grease in the lasagna he was eating. He rubbed his fingers against a napkin before continuing to gorge. Others nearby him didn’t mind as much as one particular pair of eyes watching. They were eyes that observed nearly everything and could see things before they even happened. They were eyes endowed with an instinctive conjecture that something was to happen; though it was never as easily understood as he would like. Sometimes, the pseudo-premonitions were completely absurd, but he thoroughly inspected every aspect – as though his life depended on it.
The onlooker smiled from his seat, knowing that the boys around him were all one in the same – though, not in the same class. The brown orbs flickered over to the person to his left, who was in the Pre-Calculus class also.
A fetching chin protruded out over the Styrofoam plate of ziti, neck craning to keep the melted cheese from falling onto his dress shirt. He plucked the cheese away from his reedy lips, grinning foolishly as he spotted the male next to him staring. A chuckle escaped his lips, and they shared a smile. They were good pals since last year and shared a big secret that no one could ever know about. He was capable of doing amazing things, and his physical appearance was not simply for aesthetics. If he actually wanted to tell someone, he could put all of his toned muscles to work in plain view. Unfortunately, revealing his identity as a teenage vigilante was much more complicated than one could have imagined.
Especially with the potentially fatal repercussions that could follow.
Their eyes quickly broke the gaze as a voice chimed in with their laughter.
“And the test is this Thursday?” He was paying attention to the open textbook on the table before him, reaching across the defaced leafs for another curly fry drowned in hot sauce. This received a few odd looks, but the same set of brown eyes went in a straight path from the close friend over to the fellow student. “No,” Interjected another voice, “The Algebra test is Thursday.”
A few eyes looked over in the immediate vicinity, watching as the boy who corrected the statement continued his feast on his chicken Caesar wrap. It was, in his opinion, the best thing that man had made to consume, and his favorite meal by far. Nodding in satisfaction, his poor, brown eyes strained to see across the table at the figures who were staring at him. With a mouth filled with food and lacking the momentary mannerisms, he produced a mumbled, “What?”
A few chuckles littered the table and they turned away. A few were expecting him to go on a rant of reverence about his highly-favored, greatest influence of philanthropist – Quohpar Widdlefree. He shrugged and went back to fantasizing about whatever it was, his head nodding in accordance to the contentment. While the eyes peeled away from the humorous, always-enthusiastic male, they returned to the food before them on their plates or in their hands. Some even returned to their studies. The chatter of the lunchroom took dominance over the momentary silence of the group.
Eyes perused the tabletop, reflexively taking note of the heap of garbage and concluding that they were not going to partake in the disposal of this small burden. A distraction wasn’t uncommon at all to find in one’s peripheral vision – especially when sitting in the immediate vicinity of the table beside them. As if it were proof, the clattering of fists against the table sporadically sprouted from the circle, idiotic laughter balancing the weighty, realistic demeanor of the students at the table next to them. Furthermore, the laughter and hooting elevated as one of the figures leaned back in his chair, gravity pulling through the ephemeral comfort in his balance and the seat to clatter beneath the weight of the person sitting in it.
Up sprang a rather lively boy, his long face wearing a mask of faux embarrassment. He was well versed as a comic in the group of foolishness. His absurdity never ceased to take those around him by surprise, and his teachers were oft taken aback by his ridiculous outbursts. His persona was seen as annoying by a few, yet hilarious by others; though everyone knew his name.
“Stiggy,” One of the figures sitting next to him laughed, practically crying from the humor he was enduring, “You are absolutely stupid.” The statement was frank, but interpreted as insulting and endearing all the same. The boy made a rather inhuman sound, pausing a moment with fingers awkwardly stiff and feigned to attack the boy from overhead as he proceeded to kick the chair from underneath him. They both let out yelps, resembling the oddest of war cries as the rest of the table rolled in the chairs with laughter. This was the highlight of their day, often.
They would battle against the noise of the cafeteria, a few looking over their shoulders to one of the teachers supervising the lunch period. As the few employees present sat and ate their lunches, speaking of their responsibilities and experiences as all adults do, the teenagers continued their preposterous behavior. “Joe,” One of the figures sitting at the table was grinning and also enjoying his lunch. As he looked towards the one he called, two turned in response, causing the male to proceed and point towards the one closer towards him as he swallowed the mass of celery. As the closer-Joe looked to him, he pointed to his bottle of water that was relocated on the opposite side of the table due to their recklessness. As the arm reached across to retrieve the bottle, it was knocked from the table top and skittered through the entrance to the lunch line, weaving through the moccasins and dress shoes still awaiting their turns to be served.
“Damn it, Pedersen!” The voice shouted as he waved his hands up in the air, mildly frustrated, a flustered boy watched with wide eyes in return. "What?" With the stalk of the celery still in his hand, he stuck it into his mouth, holding onto it with his teeth and went to retrieve the bottle, pushing in his chair amongst the cramped space. As he squeezed and maneuvered through the shifting seats and moving bodies, he kept his eyes on the water bottle, briefly looking up at the familiar faces of the kids in line. “'Excuse me,” He parted them as he ventured in, quickly grabbing his water bottle and turning back around to return to his seat. As he went the other way around to his seat, where there was much easier of a squeeze, but more backpacks littering the pathway as well as greater traffic with people walking through, occasionally courteous enough to allow someone by. Before he approached his seat, however, he was stopped by the other Joe, clapping his hands clean before covering his mouth as he leaned back to point towards the other door. Past the garbage can and before the ketchup and paper towel dispenser, the exit from the lunch line was simply an open doorway.
“Ken, can you get me some napkins?” Watching with hazel eyes, the boy stopped short, holding fast to the pen in one of his belt loops and nodded. “Yeah,” Of course, he would get a napkin for Joey. Because he asked. On his way to get a napkin, he absentmindedly looked out into the hallway, spotting a tiny lower-schooler leaving the lunch to lug his large backpack down the stairs. It was a bit odd, however, that he didn’t seem to be struggling whatsoever. Shrugging it off, Ken turned back around to return to his table, giving the napkin to Joey-now-further-away-from-him, and sat in his seat.
The table had many more ridiculous moments as their lunch came to a conclusion, some closer to finish with their lunches than others. “Stand up, Gentlemen: time for prayer.” Came the ritualistic command from their personal, school Priest, Father DiStefano. He looked over the twelve tables from the front of the lunch room, standing beside the long, teacher’s table with a countenance of serenity and reverence for their religious figure that they were going to acknowledge momentarily. While they were all standing, each and every boy looked around for a moment or two to make sure they weren’t disturbing the moment of prayer. Even if they didn’t practice the religion, they were to be respectful.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” They began. As a Catholic school, the boys were more than accustomed to this grace after their lunches each and every day. “Thank you, Oh Lord, for these – thy gifts – we have just received from thy bounty through Christ, our Lord. Amen.” Before they crossed themselves once more, others standing at attention and were dismissed with, there was the “Saint Philip Neri,” and their response of, “Pray for us.”
They shuffled with the chairs, battling against the crowds of smaller and taller figures to get their trash in the garbage, dropping off the trays in the window on their way out. Friends waited for friends, while others rushed to catch up to the familiar faces they were to head to their next classes with. As the last of the boys shuffled out, and Father DiStefano reminding them to throw out their trash from the tables, the lunch ladies shuffled out from the kitchen and approached the two doors. Father stepped out after the last of the students, and the two ladies – both young and old – pressed at a small button next to the doorway.
There was the sigh and hiss of a compressed valve being released as the slate rolled down and out came a scanner. They swiped their key scans, identifiable by the codes within the cards themselves and unique to only their person, and there was a blinding flash of light that bled out into the main lobby. The students, who were used to it, did not look back, and the others who were standing in the lobby were just as sensible. The ladies turned back around to see the blank space sprout pixels all about the place, and the lunch room was reset to its state as they had set it to this morning. Each table had the same amount of chairs, the floors were cleaned beyond belief, and the machines were restocked with items.
“Children are the worst to clean up after,” The shorter female growled in her constant dissatisfaction. Her daughter looked at her with a hearty giggle and an embarrassing snort. “Oh, you are so right.”
 Montferer - Maestro · Fri Apr 15, 2011 @ 04:04pm · 0 Comments |
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