by S E Holmes
Nic should have guessed an hour and a half was too protracted a span to go without running in to another Arkady. One minute he chatted to Nate prior to first class, while rifling his locker. The next, a metal door slammed his shoulder, punctuated by an insincere drawl with a familiar accent.
“Sorry.”
“You Arkadys spread like mould.”
It was supremely rude and possibly undeserved. He should give the guy a chance. But the truth was: the constant uninvited approaches wore him down. Nic closed his door.
Sasha propped against a locker, arms crossed in mimicry of his sister only last night. “Yet another witty white-boy.”
“To be fair,” Nate joined in. “You’re kind of a white-boy. Wit’s scarce so far.”
“Sasha. One of these yours?” Nic indicated the lockers.
“Nope.”
“How did I guess,” he sighed.
Sasha did the uniform justice, the crisp whiteness of the shirt highlighting olive skin. His black hair hung below the regulation height of his collar, the dark grey jacket with crimson piping and embroidered emblem straining across a formidable chest. He was as glamorous as his aunt and almost as arresting as his cousin.
Nic dropped texts into his satchel. “It seems I’ve collected the set, Nate.”
“You can lock them in the cabinet now. Take them out occasionally and give them a polish.” Nate took nothing seriously. A grin creased his cheeks, blue eyes sparkling.
Sasha sneered at them, unbridled enmity causing Nic to question his sanity. He wished he could check the guy’s ankle. “What do you want, Arkady?”
“Stay away from Mira.” He lifted open his jacket, revealing a knife in a holster under his arm. How he’d managed to slip it by security was a mystery. “If you set foot on our property this is the best you’ll get.”
“I couldn’t be happier to comply. Don’t get illusions,” Nic took a step closer, anger rising. It seemed default since they’d invaded his existence. “It’s because of her superlative character, not threats from a punk cousin.”
“Problem, Mr Lawson?”
Typical. Teachers appeared like magic when you least needed them. “Of course not, Sir.”
“Bell is imminent. On your way lads.”
Sasha slinked in the opposite direction down the packed corridor. It seemed the crowd parted for him, like the prow of a ship through choppy swell. Nic hefted his pack and fell into step beside Nate for Chemistry. Neither of them avoided the argy-bargy with anything resembling grace. Nic was quietly confident about the upcoming test. He’d been up all night in last minute review. It was probably unnecessary; he knew the curriculum back to front.
“He’s competing for Mr Congeniality,” Nate commented snidely. “Can’t say the odds are in his favour.”
“You should meet the cousin.”
Nate frowned. “What the hell? Did you thumbs-down the Arkady Facebook page or something?”
“My theory is psychopathic genes.”
“She hot?” Nate elbowed him.
“Scorching. If you’re attracted to serial killers.”
“You don’t mind, do you? I enjoy a challenge. If the occasion presents?”
“Knock yourself out.” Nic laughed. “On the other hand, she’ll probably do it for you.”
“Ooh, coma sex without the Rufy. Kinky.”
“You’re sick, Nate. You know it, right?” Nic refused to place sex and Mira in the same sentence. There was no crawling from that quagmire of high-maintenance. They arrived outside the lab. A boy with pock-marked skin in fish-bowl glasses sweated profusely by the door. “You’ll be cool, Isaac. Just remember what we’ve practised.”
“That’s the problem,” he stuttered. “Remembering.”
“Flipping the stereotype, hero? The jock tutoring the dweeb. How touching.” Arkady slimed to the start of the queue, scrutinising Isaac. “Give up while you’re ahead, sweet meat. You’d look good as a bus driver. Too scrawny for a garbage man.”
“Why don’t you shut your mouth, Arkady?”
“Aww. Sticking up for your little faggot friend.” He barged up close and poked Nic in the chest. “Make me, pretty boy.”
Nic’s fingers curled into fists. He wanted so badly to rid himself of the Arkady blight, his mounting animosity zeroing in on the bastard stealing his air. What on earth was the issue with this aggravating-beyond-tolerance family?
“Nic!” Nate grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms. “We’ve got a final, man. Don’t drop your bundle over this pecker-head. You’ll stuff it up for both of us. I can’t get through Med-school without you.” Nic responded with a glare, Nate rushing to rectify his dismal effort at mediation. “I’m sympathetic, really. Pounding him is a temptation difficult to resist, I know. The sublime yet selfish reward of bones breaking, blood splattering --”
“Are you dissuading me or encouraging me?” He shirked his friend’s hold, control ebbing back.
Sasha smirked. “Such a good, obedient little virgin.”
Students lining for the door chuckled, eyes darting in shock. Rumours like that were hard to stamp out. Nic lunged on reflex, landing a stellar punch on the wanker’s nose. He went down like a fighter throwing the round, screaming beyond all proportion. Blood did indeed splatter. But the ludicrous performance diminished the satisfaction. Until the plot became obvious.
He snivelled and yelled, “Help! He’s got a knife. He’s trying to stab me!”
“What?!” Nic’s pride had stepped him in it. Possession of a knife earned immediate expulsion.
“Move aside, Gentlemen! Let me through.”
With the precision only an adult could manage, the Chemistry Master Mr Jenkins arrived at exactly the wrong moment. A knife clattered to the floor between them. Sasha winked, before he was hauled to his feet, weeping and hollering, an authentic smear of blood over his top lip.
“Perhaps, I was misguided. Mostly Gentlemen, and two brawling idiots. What’s the story, Lawson?” he raised his voice over the racket. Arkady chewed the furniture with his acting.
“Sir, I admit to the hit. Under extreme provocation. That knife is not mine.”
“Can the opera, Arkady. To the office! Both of you. I’ve an exam to conduct.”
“But, Sir! I need this result. Let me sit the exam. I’ll cop whatever penalty after. Please, Sir!”
Nate stepped up. “It’s true, Sir. The provocation was truly extreme. Calling a man a virgin in front of his peers. It’s the lowest blow.”
Nic huffed in exasperation, convinced Nate hindered rather than helped. Nic was the top Chemistry student. He’d slaved the entire year to reach this point. Fate would not deny him. It was too cruel.
“Get that wayward tongue under control, Nathan O’Connor. Or you’ll be heading to the office with your boxing partner. Out of my sight, Boys.” Jenkins knelt and lifted the knife. Arkady sniffled pathetically. “One more thing. Mr Arkady? If you ever bring a weapon onto this campus again, I’ll have you black-banned from every school in the district. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, Sir” Arkady said, his tone stony and eyes dry. Continuing the charade served no purpose. He’d won.
“I have no proof. Otherwise you would not complete the day,” Jenkins said.
Nic broke the unspoken code between Sacristy students: never tell. “He’s wearing a holster.” Now he was a supposed virgin and a tattle-tale.
“Remove your jacket!”
Arkady did so. A smug smile never left his lips. Of course, the holster was gone.
Jenkins was genuinely regretful. “Sorry, Nic. You know the rules. You should not have retaliated, despite the slur regarding your manly prowess. Get a haircut, Arkady.”
Nic was poised to miss his Chemistry final, ruining his scholarship chance at a prestigious programme. A programme he’d strived for his whole life. And the wretch Arkady wasn’t even kicked to the curb. Hatred like he’d never known raised its ugly head.
***
Chapter Six
;
