Fishbones Book I – Chapter 2: Where’s Your Boyfriend

Posted On May 25, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

Science was one of Ferris’ favorite subjects, though the class itself was not one of his favorite places. The room itself was fine. An analog clock above the blackboard ticked lazily as the instructor wrote the day’s assignment with determined clicks of chalk. The man was intelligent—likable, even. But the boys sitting to the right of Ferris’ desk were a bit less intelligent and much more unlikeable. Despite their run in with an angry man wielding a shotgun a few days before, they continued to eye him like a piece of meat.

Ferris was focusing so intently on his notes that he couldn’t read them. Stares and snickers competed for his attention, louder and more urgent than anything else in the room. He could remember the moment this started, only a few weeks ago, before an exam. Paul had been the one who approached him in the hallway.

“So, if you get a lower score,” Paul had said. “Then the curve would make everyone’s grade higher, and you could still get an A.”

Ferris had stared back at the boy for a full five seconds before giving his answer. “Why don’t you just study?”

This response had been Ferris’ first mistake.

His second mistake was back in the present—turning his head when one of them whispered his name. He’d barely looked at the boy before a folded paper football made a field goal between his eyes.

“Ow.” Ferris hissed, putting his hand to his face as the trio exchanged high-fives. He peeked up at the teacher through his fingers. The man was still writing, his back turned to the class. Ferris could feel his ears growing hot and was so taken with his own embarrassment that the sound of the school bell startled him. Books shuffled into bags as his classmates stood to leave.

“Pussy,” one of the boys said as he walked past, sliding Ferris’ notebook, along with all of his exceptional notes, to the floor. By the time the room cleared out and he was able to pick it up, there was a black shoeprint over his scrawls about Punnett squares. He sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and snapped it shut.

#

The boys’ bathroom was his last stop before leaving school for the day. Ferris slouched in front of a mirror. He pushed up his glasses with one hand, rubbing the red spot the paper football had left with the other. At his side was another boy, one leaning much too close to the mirror as he checked his teeth from different angles. Apparently satisfied with his smile, he turned to leave Ferris alone with the urinals and sinks.

The door didn’t close behind him.

A hand caught the edge, holding it open as three new bodies entered the stage. In the mirror, Ferris could see his peers from science class coming up behind him. They all either had uncannily synced bladders, or had followed him.

Ferris’ eyes locked on Rudy first. His classmate was tall and sported a towheaded buzz cut. Paul had longer, darker hair. It hung loosely around his face as if he were a movie star and not an awkwardly proportioned high school boy. Zach was forgettable, the type you could talk to for half an hour and not recognize the next day.

Each of them belonged to relatively distinguished families, giving them the impression that they could get away with pretty much anything. In this assumption, they were correct. They were especially correct if there was no one around. Ferris’ only witness, his last hope with the dazzling smile, was already long gone.

Paul leaned in, hands on his hips. “Where’s your skinny boyfriend?”

“Oh, we’re sorry,” Zach said. “Did he break up with you?”

Ferris did not have the time for this. Avoiding eye contact, he turned to leave the bathroom. His body stopped mid-step—Zach had grabbed his sleeve.

“Let go,” Ferris said.

“Don’t be rude. We don’t leave when you walk into a room.”

“Let go.” Ferris twisted his arm, forcing his wrist free and stumbling backwards a step. After glaring at them one last time, he hurried through the door.

It was Rudy’s voice that followed him down the hall.

“Fine, fuckin’ kike!”

Ferris’ heart was pounding by the time he made it down the hallway, the sound of their laughter stuck in his head. His hands were clenched. It was an odd realization—he wanted nothing more than to hit that boy. He wanted to shut him up, to hurt him. Ferris closed his eyes. No, that wasn’t how this worked. They wouldn’t goad him into starting a fight.

All that aside, there were three of them. That was one battle he would definitely lose.

#

Ferris was grateful when the weekend finally came. He’d been neglecting his sleep, his violin, and whatever emotions he was supposed to be working through after his encounter in the boys’ bathroom. Though it had been half a week since that afternoon, the stone in his gut had signed a long-term lease.

Cleaning the violin didn’t require much thought. It was slow, repetitive, as mindless as washing the dishes. The cloth ran up over the strings, wiping away traces of rosin, clearing any evidence that fingers had ever been present. There was something satisfying about it.

Stanley was at his feet. He looked less like a one-year-old pug and more like a two-month-old cantaloupe that someone had tacked googly eyes onto. Ferris had given up trying to convince his mother that people-food was not meant for dogs—she’d brought him home, after all. Ruth had been convinced that a bug-eyed puppy was just the thing to make her son smile more often. She had been wrong.

Stanley’s wrinkles folded as he pressed his face against his paws. He whined.

Ferris’ hand paused over the violin. “What do you want?”

The pug responded with a tail wag, followed by a few shameless hops and a closing bow.

“I can’t play right now.”

Stanley whimpered. The sound grew in pitch, peaking into a bark. He bowed again, his tail wagging so hard it was a wonder it didn’t fall off.

“Fine. Just a short walk.”

Stanley had been around long enough to know what ‘walk’ meant. The dog lost his mind, winding and unwinding in rapid circles. Ferris traded his violin for a coat and scarf. It took a moment to hook the leash on the loose pinball his pet had become.

“Hold still, seriously. Just a second. There.”

If the pug was any bigger he’d have pulled Ferris headfirst down the stairs. Instead, he tugged in vain until they were out the door, then scurried to the nearest tree. Ferris shuffled behind, unable to comprehend getting this excited over, well, anything.

“Are you almost done?”

Stanley wasn’t anywhere near done, dragging his begrudging teen an entire four blocks from the house. Ferris looked up. The sky seemed grayer—that tense swell that came before rain. Now seemed like a good time to go back. Stanley, however, seemed to think it was a good time to squat. Ferris readied a plastic bag.

“Yeah, sure. Shit in the middle of the sidewalk. You’re too good for the curb.”

As he tied the bag shut and tossed it in the trash, something down the street caught his eye—three familiar faces at the corner. He’d never seen them out of uniform, but their antagonistic stench had remained. They hadn’t noticed him yet.

Ferris took a slow step backward.

The motion caught Zach’s attention. He motioned to his friends, whose trajectory veered straight into Ferris’ direction. Ferris’ eyes darted back and forth; there weren’t any other people out on the street. There was a pulse, somewhere under his skin, pounding on the walls of his chest as if it were trying to escape his body.

“Hey, Ferris.” Paul leered as they formed a human wall around him.

Ferris swallowed the lump in his throat. “What do you want?”

“Well, you dropped a penny.” Rudy grinned. He dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out a copper coin. “We thought you’d freak out or something if you lost it.”

Ferris averted his eyes.

“What, you don’t want it?” Rudy said. “Go ahead, it’s yours.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Come on, take it.”

The boys were starting to laugh. The sound was like the screeching of steel, the shriek of a violin in the hands of a four-year-old. Ferris had heard it too often—in the halls and in his dreams. His ears were hot. They could probably see him turning red.

Ferris rediscovered his ability to move, turning away.

Paul’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. “We came all this way just to see you,” Paul said. “Don’t be like that.”

“Is that your dog?” Rudy crouched. “Ugly little guy.”

Ferris had forgotten about Stanley. Before he could act, Paul grabbed his wrists. Rudy took the leash.

“Stop! Give it back!” Ferris fumbled for the leash, but Paul twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him forward in a half nelson.

“What’s wrong? Is this your little brother? He looks just like you,” Rudy said, picking the dog up by his scruff. “See?”

The pug squirmed, tiny feet paddling air beneath a high-pitched whine.

“Rudy, I’m serious. Put him down!” Ferris hadn’t stopped struggling.

“What? What’s wrong? He likes it!”

“Put my fucking dog down!”

Stanley whimpered and the boys laughed once more. As Paul snickered, Ferris felt a slack in his grip. This was it.

Any traces of logic and critical thinking had retreated to a safe room in the back of his mind. All that remained was anger—Stanley’s whine, the grip of Paul’s hands, the color red. Ferris’ chest filled with his next breath.

His elbow hit Paul hard in the ribs, a wrath-fueled wrecking ball, and Paul doubled over, gasping. Ferris’ attention locked on Rudy.

Ferris had never learned the right way to hit someone. In one sweep, his fist cracked across Rudy’s cheek. Pain shot up through the joints in Ferris’ poorly arranged fingers. Rudy staggered backward and Stanley landed with a plop on the grass.

Ferris couldn’t remember ever being angrier. There was no thought in his movements, no rationale for the way he threw Rudy down onto the sidewalk. He was on top of the boy in an instant, punching him once, twice, ignoring the sound of skull on pavement.

“G-get him off!” There was a spray of blood and saliva as Rudy shouted. “Get—him—off!”

Rudy’s voice snapped the other boys back into the moment and they scrambled to grab Ferris by the arms. They threw him down, kicking him over while Rudy pulled himself up against the tree.

“What the fuck was that?” Rudy wiped his chin with his sleeve. “Crazy asshole.”

The impact had skinned Ferris’ cheek and knocked his glasses loose. He could hear them clatter somewhere down the sidewalk, out of reach. Everything was blurry. His head was pounding—something in his skull was attempting to depart through his ear canal. Ferris gripped his temple, trying to push himself up on one elbow. He barely had time to inhale before an over-eager tennis shoe met his stomach. He fought the retch that shot upward from his gut, keeping it down with a gasp. Something hit his back and his limbs crumpled.

Ferris wondered if he should regret hitting Rudy—if Stanley had gotten away.  The dog was probably so thick that he’d hung around to watch. A sharp bark confirmed this. Stanley was still bristling at the strangers instead of running away. In a way, it was flattering that the little pug would stay at his side.

Stupid dog.

Ferris tried to focus—the sidewalk was fuzzy and gray. Small red spots began to appear on the cement and Ferris realized that his nose was bleeding—or maybe his lip. Something was bleeding. A force pushed him onto his back and there was a weight on his hips. Paul was sitting on him, his grip coarse as he fisted the collar of Ferris’ shirt. He knew Paul was close, he could feel the heat of his breath. Why did he sound so far away?

“You ever hit one of us again and we’ll—”

“Someone’s coming.” It was Rudy’s voice, probably. “Forget him.”

The hands on his collar departed, leaving Ferris in the custody of gravity. He hit the pavement with a dull thump. There was bated cursing, scuffling. The sound of three sets of shoes faded and for a moment, the street was still. He closed his eyes and listened to the traffic a block away. Stanley was licking his hand.

A new noise approached, the roll of small wheels. A cart—a stroller? It stopped, the sound replaced with a woman’s voice.

“Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

The voice faded into the traffic. Then there was no sound at all.

#

On Monday, Ferris didn’t show up at school. The doctor had recommended he recover at home and Ferris, having attended six fewer years of medical school, was in no place to object. He had holed up in his room, staring a crater into the same wall for 48 hours. This was for the best. A face that was three shades of purple with a half-swollen eye was not a face he would want to present to everyone at St. Basil’s Private Academy.

His glasses were giving him a headache. They were too small and too old, a spare he’d kept around from fifth grade—a child’s glasses. The arms were digging World War I trenches into each side of his head, but his new pair wouldn’t arrive for another week.

Ferris shifted on his bed, glaring at a new focus—the ceiling. Normally he would be reading, studying—anything resembling productivity. Yet somehow, he could do nothing but shoot dirty looks at that single spot above his head. Stanley was curled up at his side, snoring. This was enough excitement for one day.

There was a knock at the door.

His first instinct was to ignore it. If he didn’t feel like reading, then he certainly didn’t feel like talking. His second instinct reminded him that his mother hated being ignored.

“Yeah?” he said. His throat was dry.

“Demos is here. He has your homework,” came Ruth’s voice through the door.

“Okay.”

Ferris dragged a pillow up over his face. Demos couldn’t see him—not like this. The door cracked open. Ferris glanced over from the corner of his eye; he could see his friend slip inside and shut the door behind him. Demos rolled the desk chair over, sitting down next to the bed. He was holding a small stack of folders.

“Ferris,” Demos said in the most eerie, commanding tone Ferris had ever heard. “Look at me.”

Ferris mumbled something against the pillow. Not content with this response, Demos snatched the pillow in a single, curt swipe. There was a pause as he looked over the extent of the damage. Demos’ eyes darkened in the already dim room. The pillowcase creased as his fingers tightened into it, digging lines in the linen.

“Who did this to you?”

Ferris looked away. Who did this to you? What happened? His parents had asked the same thing. There would be questions, then more questions, then conversations with other parents, with the school. Ferris didn’t want any part of it. He could sit in this room, suffocate his humiliation, and then drag himself back to school once his face looked human again. That was the plan.

“Is that my homework?” Ferris asked.

Demos scowled.

“Yeah. Biology and World History. There’s an essay you have to do.”

“Fine, give me the assignments.” Ferris sat up and held out a hand.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I got mugged,” Ferris said. Maybe his friend would buy it.

Demos took in a slow breath through his nose, then leaned closer. “Mugged?”

Okay, so he wasn’t buying it.  Demos’ next words came through his teeth. “Who was it? Tell me the truth.”

Ferris made a hand gesture. “Some guys.”

“Do I look like an idiot to you? I know when you’re lying—you suck at it.”

“I do not.”

“So you are lying?” Demos said. “Tell me or you’re not getting these assignments.”

Ferris couldn’t take those eyes anymore. It was unbelievable, how terrifying such a small, pale figure could be. Demos was what Ruth referred to as svelte—slender limbs and pianist fingers, the furthest possible thing from the word intimidating. Yet, here he was, scaring the shit out of his best friend with those eyes.

“You can’t blackmail me,” Ferris said. It was a weak claim, at best.

“Yes, I can.”

Ferris looked down at his hands, his lips flattening into a thin line. Shame and doubt clung to him like an itchy sweater—too hot, too heavy, too late to take off. Demos was waiting. The silence between them was worse than the interrogation had been.

Ferris closed his eyes.

“Rudy Sauber.”

“And?”

The follow-up hit him with a jolt. Why couldn’t his best friend have been just a little bit dimmer?

“Why do you think there was someone else?”

“Because Rudy Sauber is a pathetic coward,” Demos said. “Why are you trying to protect these guys?”

“I’m not protecting anyone.” He sighed. “I just—”

“What?”

“I don’t want it to be a big deal.”

Demos set the pillow down on the bed, letting his hand linger atop for a moment. When he looked back at his friend, his eyes were just a little bit softer.

“It won’t be.”

Something twisted inside Ferris’ chest. The gentle look was even more disarming, more terrifying. Ferris’ mouth opened, but the words had lodged themselves in his throat. He exhaled, then spoke.

“Paul Bennett,” Ferris said. “And Zach Straight.”

Demos sat back in his chair. He wasn’t looking at Ferris anymore—he was somewhere else entirely. Ferris almost missed it, the tightness in the corner of his eye, the shadow that seemed to have welled up from below the earth’s surface and nestled into the pointed gaze of the boy at his side.

“Why?” Ferris asked. The question seemed to bring Demos back to the bedroom.

“No reason. Here’s your homework.” Demos set the folder down on the nightstand, then stood. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Right. See you,” Ferris said. “And, uh—”

Demos paused, looking back at him.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Ferris said.

His friend responded with a simple smile, and nothing else. The door drifted shut behind him.

#

A day later, Ferris was staring at the door of his science class. There hadn’t been a day in his life he had intentionally been late for a class, but the bell had rung a few minutes ago. The scene was playing out in his head: walking in, catching snickers, laughter. The boys would see their handiwork all over his face. His fingers clenched over the strap of his bag. Another image came to mind. It was a whining dog, the scrape of the sidewalk on his palms—the color red.

Ferris swallowed, then reached for the door.

Any hopes that he could enter unnoticed vanished the moment he felt his classmates’ eyes. It seemed they’d noticed his absence, that he’d reappeared looking as if he’d been mauled by a bear. They were staring. His eyes locked onto the floor as he made his way to his desk. He slouched into his seat, took a breath, then looked up.

Rudy, Zach, and Paul weren’t there.

Where had they gone to? Maybe they had all just skipped class together—they did that sometimes. Ferris bit his lower lip. He hadn’t had breakfast that day, so why did his stomach feel as if he’d eaten a handful of wet sand?

“Hey.”

Ferris blinked, then turned to look at the boy who was whispering to him. “Yeah?”

“Were you in the same car accident?”

“Car accident?”

“Yeah. Those guys, they were hit by a car. Like a drunk driver?”

“No, it wasn’t a drunk driver.” Another student had leaned in, her voice hushed. “The car chased them down.”

“What? That’s stupid,” the boy said.

She huffed. “I’m serious, that’s what happened. They’re all in the hospital right now.”

Ferris stared, forgetting he was a part of the conversation. A car had hit them—no, chased them down. A car had chased them down. The sand in his stomach shifted and he could feel himself go pale.

“Well?” the boy said, this time more urgently.

“Uh—” Ferris swallowed. “What?”

“Well, were you in the accident, too?”

Ferris looked back over to the three empty seats. Whatever had happened, whatever rumor was true, there was one simple fact. Rudy, Zach, and Paul were not in class that day.

“No. I wasn’t.”

He left it at that. This, whatever this was, could be the result of only two things. Either karma was incredibly effective in this day and age, or this had something to do with Demos Giorgetti.