Trapped with a Way Out

by Jeffery Martinez

  The waitress graced them with a swift departure, sweeping the menus away with her, and Vincent was left paralyzed, frozen with an expression of shock and some horror that shifted itself to Richard's smug smile.

  Rodriguez and William soon figured out the reason behind the behavior, but Hans did not understand what was going on. He frowned upon the way this boy was acting after all of the generosity his wife had been showing him…when he deserved none of it…

  "Oh, bread!" William exaggerated her enthusiasm for the brown club-like loafs, skewered by a large knife, when they were set on the table and glasses of water were passed around. Vincent squinted down at the yellow lemon and green lime slices sitting in his water, wondering why the water was free when it was so fancy looking. Then red blinked when an unexpected small white plate was placed in front of him, a hunk of the dark bread sitting in the center of it with a smear of butter. He looked up and watched as Richard cut a slice for herself and then let her husband cut his own piece. Vincent looked down at the bread again, his stomach gurgling quietly as his eyes widened a bit, hunger surfacing from its dormant state. A pale hand and mouth made quick work of the bread, and Richard supplied the teen with another slice before Vincent could refuse it.

  Bread is free, he reminded himself, each time he swallowed a bite.

  It was quiet at the table until the salads arrived a few minutes later (no one had ordered soup). Then the munching of leaves commenced.

  Vincent munched a few, his developing nervousness seeming to magically steal away the taste of the dressing. In reality, the flavor of the dressing was present, but Vincent was over chewing his lettuce, letting it fall apart in his mouth instead of swallowing. The knot in his throat had grown and become as impassible as a boulder, forbidding the passage of larger quantities of food. The source of the strengthened nervousness was the aged green gaze that frequented Vincent, though the boy kept his face directed downward at his salad and tried to ignore the man…while nervousness also came from his troubled conscience, hating himself for accepting the expensive meal. Slowly, it seemed, a new conversation arrived. However, it being partial to the Rodriguezs and their daily activities, Vincent could not seek to participate and had no hopes of distracting himself to lessen his anxiety. He endured in silence, becoming even quieter than the mute man across from him as Hans joined the conversation with the use of a few signs.

  Vincent chewed the same lettuce leaf for a minute and then tried to swallow. He could only manage a few leaves at a time, and never anything as loud and daunting as the hard croutons that might attract attention to himself. Lettuce leaves were vocal for only a few moments before they tamed, ending their complaints to please the jaws that bore down on them relentlessly.

  Richard noticed Vincent's silence but decided not to interfere too much, refraining from making the boy join in a discussion if he was not eager to do so on his own. She had dragged him here against his will, so she could at least let the boy eat in peace if he was more comfortable doing so.

  Vincent listened to his chewing, catching snippets of the family's conversations.

  I can't eat anymore and I can't take it with me. Vincent stared at the slab of meat on his plate and the remaining mashed potatoes that had a gaping crater carved into their center. A glance to his left told the teen that Rodriguez was managing to pack the 'x' number of ounces of steak and potato he had been served, into his stomach. Richard was content with her lamb, William with her salmon, and Hans was killing off the rest of his meal, leaving no scraps behind. Vincent gazed down at his plate again, his mouth a frown as he imagined sticking one more bite of food in his mouth and then hurling what he had managed to eat all over the table. Yeah. That would be the best way to thank them for the food. Throw it up, you stupid dumbass. You can't even eat a full freaken steak? You let a dead animal beat you? You stupid worthless pile of-

  "Did you enjoy your meal?"

  Vincent's head shot up and he found Richard watching him with a neutral expression. He maintained the gaze for a few seconds but then broke it to nod and then grimace with self loathing at how much food he had left on his plate, seemingly wasting the woman's money and kindness.

  But I can't eat another bite…

  "Did you not like it?" Richard watched as the glare Vincent had been directing to his food twisted into some other emotion that was hard to read as his face noticeably cringed. He looked at her and then away from the table.

  "The food was really good…I just can't….eat all of it."

  "Then you can take the rest home with you."

  But if I bring it back, it'll be obvious… It'll be obvious that I spent the day with you guys…when I'm not supposed to. The teen imagined waving to the car as the Rodriguezs drove away, and then sneaking off to toss the food into a garbage bin. The concept revolted him, again wasting food and kindness… Despicable, even thinking of this…what type of person am I?

  Vincent hung his head, unable to come up with a way to convince the woman not to ask the waitress to bring three boxes to pack away the extra food. A tan hand presented the white styrofoam container and Vincent dully accepted it, shoveling in his potatoes and plopping his meat to the side of the mound of mush. He closed up the container and waited for the others to finish.

  I don't deserve what these people have done for me. I really don't deserve any of it, not this food, not the clothes, the shoes, even the socks I'm wearing… They gave me all of these things, and what have I ever done to repay them? I make Rodriguez's parents fight. I plan to throw away the food they spent money on and gave to me. I'm a freaken creep. The biggest, most ungrateful bastard that ever lived…

  Vincent shut his eyes when he caught sight of Hans' wallet as the man pulled out a credit card he handed to the waitress along with the bill. When the woman returned the card and receipt, the group stood, Rodriguez nudging Vincent to inform him of this development, and they filed out of the restaurant.

  No form of rain fell from the dark sky, though clouds hung heavy with moisture overhead. In The Fancy-Ass Car, Vincent waited to confront another moment he dreaded, chewing the inside of his mouth, guilt chilling him as heat from his meal seeped into his legs through the styrofoam, dreading the moment Richard would turn around an ask him where he wanted to be dropped off.

  Please don't ask for specifics…please just let me get out anywhere, just anywhere. God I'm sorry…you've already done so much for me Chief, but please don't fight me with this. Just let me get out on any street. Just any…

  Lights glinted off of the windows and red irises sucked in the light, brightening for flashes of moments as the car drove down a few city blocks where the mixture windows and signs from shops and restaurants brightened the night.

  The teen swallowed the knot in his throat with a quiet gulp and opened and closed his hand stiffly. "You…can let me out here."

  He heard heads turn, he didn't need to look away from his lap. Richard spoke from the front seat.

  "Is this close to where you're staying?"

  It's close enough. "Pretty close."

  The thrill of relief flooded his nerves as he felt the car gradually slow to a stop and pull off the road, parking next to the sidewalk as the engine continued to run.

  Vincent looked up with a half smile, thanked Richard for the dinner, also glancing at Hans to give him part of the thanks, and then said goodbye to the Rodriguez siblings.

  "See you at school."

  The pale head nodded at Rodriguez when the jock said this with a wave of his tan hand. Shutting the door, Vincent backed up, waving while the car entered the street again and slowly distanced itself from him.

  He let out his relief in a strangely uplifting sigh, pivoted and strode off with his styrofoam box hidden in his hand.

  Jogging up the short span of steps, Vincent reached Jake's door, tried it, and found that it was locked. Knocking a few times brought the giant to the door and he let Vincent in without questioning him, though Vincent had expected him to. As Jake continued to no
t show any interest in what Vincent had done that day or where he had gotten the food he was putting in the fridge, the teen calmed. Casually, he went to the couch and dropped onto it, allowing the springs to buoy him for a time, even bouncing himself for amusement. Jake was at his computer, an open window on the screen telling Vincent that the giant's thoughts were elsewhere.

  The man kept his phone by his ear as he continued whatever conversation he had been having with a girl before Vincent's return.

  They had plans to go out somewhere, or so said the website brown eyes scanned.

  Vincent frowned, recalling memories of the man's past girlfriends with distaste. Jake was always hooking up with mean girls, always the same ones, and then breaking up again… The last fight had landed Jake in the free clinic at the hospital where he got a few stitches for what he claimed to be an accident that had occurred when he was cooking at home.

  But there was no stopping it, and Vincent didn't have the right to step in where he was not wanted. So when Jake shut off his computer and readied to leave, Vincent busied himself with Tinkerbelle and Esmeralda. The rats climbed into his hood as the front door shut, leaving the teen feeling surprisingly isolated and alone.

  He already missed the Rodriguezs.

  It was strange how easily he could dissolve into the environment, not minding the atmosphere, the precise schedule where each hour contained some preconceived event, some planned experience that would hopefully positively contribute to his future. It was strange that he gave up his freedom with no resistance or acknowledgment of the sacrifice. Years in the education system had molded his unconscious thoughts to accept the intruding hand that would restrain his freedoms for a generous portion of the day, where in any other situation alarm and his own human attachment to his natural rights would have caused him to question the authority of the school staff, as well as question the opinions they imposed on his malleable mind. But all of this instruction and discipline, this atmosphere, this environment - it was all natural and fitting.

  It was strange how relaxing the school setting felt, though a majority of the students and staff had yet to arrive and the bell remained in its dead hibernation. An overcast sky had disheveled Vincent's hair with mischievous moisture lifting odd curls, increasing the volume with an undesirable frizz. This often happened as the boy usually walked to school. He left the influence of the weather once he entered the designated art building and soon found his designated table and his designated seat, pausing to glance at his designated teacher to acknowledge her existence. Lowering his head into his arms, crossed and forming a ready nest on the table, after slumping down into his seat, Vincent pondered again how strange it was that handing over his freewill was sometimes liberating, though it was actually sacrificing his freedom. It was a contradiction, but to have designated times, instructors, classrooms, and seats was comforting rather than constraining – it was relaxing. It, in some sense, removed part of the weight of responsibility imposed on him by his freedom. Only in the school setting would such a situation be acceptable, or compatible with his character.

  Perhaps it wasn't so strange.

  Red eyes shut, relaxing, indulging in a peculiar moment of comfort. They, however, were abruptly opened, dimly surprised by the teacher's sudden intrusion into his mood, where her entrance instantly destabilized his feelings, causing them to crumble into a ruin that slowly shaped itself into unease. Gradually the languid body stiffened, as rusted hinges tend to do in ruins, keeping Vincent in the same position on the table which gave the appearance of his having made a conscious decision to ignore the woman, though in all practical reality she possessed his full undivided attention.

  It was obvious that the art teacher would have preferred to speak to a student who was sitting up properly and looking at her, rather than a student who could be either asleep and completely oblivious of her words, or even dead for all she knew. Vincent's face was still hidden from her. She wasn't aware that his eyes were open and staring into the darkness of his arm.

  "I'd like to talk to you about your grade in my class."

  There was no immediate response, but she had not expected one though she had chosen to pause. The pause seemed to make the topic more important.

  "Right now you have a borderline C, but you're well on your way to reaching a D. Your participation grade is hurting you a little (more than a little). You tend to fall asleep or work on something that isn't related to what we're doing in class. But your biggest issue is that you don't fulfill the requirements I give for the assignments, and, also (before I forget), you have multiple missing assignments and unfinished work piling up. …I can give you an opportunity to raise your grade if you'd like." She paused again, her expression unconsciously becoming colder as Vincent's posture suggested his indifference, and - what offended her more - his apparent disregard for her authority and the effort she was making to help him. Nothing she was now saying was for her own benefit. If the student showed that he didn't care, she had little else to motivate her to help him. Annoyance slipped into her tone once her words became sharper. "I don't have to do any of this. I don't need to spoon-feed you like you're in middle school. You can either pay attention to your grade from now on or fail. I have no qualms about failing Seniors. If you need the credits for this class, you won't graduate. And that'll be the end of it. You'll have to take the class again during the summer, and you won't get to walk at graduation. And… you'll be the one who has to explain why you can't, to your parents."

  The woman was startled when Vincent suddenly spoke, showing, for the first time, signs of life and alertness that meant he had indeed been listening to what she'd been saying. Her mood simmered, and the teacher listened quietly as the teen spoke with a short-lived rigidness in his tone and a hard seriousness that nearly convinced her that Vincent was angry.

  "I don't need the credits. The only classes I need to be taking this year are Gov, Econ, and English, and I'm passing all of those classes- and also finishing off US History…that I need to…to finish." Vincent fell silent after the indirect confession. He hated dwelling on past failures, but this one still haunted him. He had failed his Junior history class and now sat in a classroom full of Juniors five times a week. The teacher seemed to have expected the failure. Either that or she had not noticed it.

  "Alright. Then are you planning on passing my class?"

  The teen took a moment to realize she meant the drawing class. He continued to speak from his arms, never sitting up or looking at the woman – the taste of his past failure keeping his face hidden, prompted to remain so by his shame. He never wanted to taste this sort of failure again. What would his uncle say?

  "…Yeah." The reply was slightly muffled.

  "Would you like to take advantage of the opportunity I'm giving you to improve your grade?"

  "…Yeah."

  "Then come over to my desk and I'll explain what you need to do." She was already moving away as she continued to speak. "And you can look at your grade to calculate what you'll need to get on future assignments to keep a C for your semester grade."

  Vincent didn't respond though he rose and followed the petite instructor to her desk and stood to the side of it to watch her computer monitor – though his eyes trailed off to her computer's tower which was decorated with random handy crafts, beads, and taped up calligraphy that praised life and art. The teacher was separated from the classroom to an extent, sitting behind a desk that caused her line of vision to run tangent to the body of the class while a lengthy table fit along the end of her desk to form the longest side of an 'L,' resembling a low wall. An actual wall was on the opposite side of the desk, caging her in with the students. Handouts were often lined up on the table, accompanied by a box of colored pencils and markers, a large discolored can of pink and white erasers the teacher had individually snipped into halves, and a stack of cheap drawing paper. Currently, the table featured a mixture of these things. Back at the computer, the woman's mouse clicked while she and the boy remained si
lent. She typed in a username and a password to access her students' records.

  Vincent decided to ask a question as she took her time finding his class. "Is it possible for me to get a B?"

  The teacher hesitated, her bobbed hair cut bouncing slightly at the unexpected concern Vincent was showing, but then she continued, scrolling down a list of names and then scrolling back up when she realized Vincent's name was near the top. She clicked and his grades popped onto the screen, scarred with daunting blood-red wounds that indicated the missing assignments that were causing his grade to slowly wither as these points of weakness crippled it. "Maybe…" She finally answered him, running through the grades. "You can calculate it for yourself, but I give a final in this class to let kids pick up their grades if they want to. It's a multiple choice test and ranges from 40 to 60 questions. I haven't written it yet. It also has a drawing portion that usually counts for…oh, I'd say about twenty or so points. -That's sounds about right. In all, the final counts for 10% of your grade."

  After hearing this and forming no solid disdain for the matter, Vincent nodded but he did this just before the woman turned away from the monitor to look at him, so she missed seeing the response. For a time she was quiet and simply stared up at the pale teen, noticing the improvements that had been made to his appearance. He looked healthier, maybe even happier – not as strained or withdrawn and angry – little scraps of emotional changes. Her years as a teacher had allowed her to develop a second sense that let her to pick up on such differences. His jacket was also new, along with his blue jeans - she glanced over them when she looked down to find a clamped stack of papers she had placed near her computer. A small hand freed the leaflets and spread them before Vincent as if offering him an array of dishes.

  It was his unfinished art.