Fishbones Book I – Chapter 6: Personal Space

Posted On July 23, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

The boy’s bathroom on the second floor of St. Basil’s Private Academy was empty but for one person. Ferris had excused himself from class on account of a terrible headache. He stood in front of the sink, leaning on it with one hand. The other hand clutched his temple. The tight, grinding feeling didn’t seem to be going away.

“Damn it.”

The lights in the bathroom were too bright. Two sinks down, he could hear a drip—tiny droplets hitting ceramic, three seconds between each beat. It was unbearable. He was used to headaches, but lately they’d been worse. The aspirin wasn’t working, not this time. This was a terrible day.

It was about to get worse.

Every noise in the tiled room was magnified tenfold: the opening door, the newcomer’s footsteps, and the clang of metal as Ferris was pushed up against a bathroom stall.

Ferris’ shoulder blades dug into painted steel. His uniform collar had been snagged with two fists, their grip nearly lifting him from the floor.

“You look like a smart one,” said his assailant. He had a British accent.

Ferris took a moment to survey the stranger. This was a student he’d never seen before—tall, trim, with bleached blond hair and dark sideburns. He looked like a runner, but something told Ferris this boy wasn’t on the track team.

“Uh, thanks?” Ferris said.

“Happen to be any good at maths?”

“Look, if you want my lunch money or something, all I have is leftover kugel,” Ferris said. “Which is really not worth this kind of effort.”

The English boy shoved him harder against the stall. “I didn’t ask for money, I’m asking for answers.”

“That’s very deep, but I should be getting back to—”

The stranger’s fist found its way into his abdomen. Ferris wheezed, groaned in pain, and subsequently shut up. At least his headache was no longer the biggest of his problems.

His attacker leaned in closer. “Test answers. I don’t know who Dean is or why he has a list in the school paper, but your name was at the top of it,” he said. “So I was hoping you could do me a little favor.”

Test answers—of course. How was it that every student in this private school refused to do any actual studying? Attacking strangers in bathrooms was exponentially more work than reading a simple book. Ridiculous. “No. Take your fucking hands off of me,” Ferris said.

“Well, I’m going to have to rough you up, then,” the boy said. “I apologize in advance.”

Ferris was thrown to the opposite bathroom wall, his face hitting the tile with a crack. This again. He had just finished healing from the last one.

As the boy rushed in, Ferris turned. He was only able to get one punch in before they were grappling. A single hit—it was something. More than Ferris expected to pull off against this nearly six foot, maybe-a-runner, definitely-an-asshole bully. They had only been scuffling for a moment before the boy gained the upper hand.

Ferris was forced up against a sink, arm twisted behind his back as his antagonist muttered into his ear from behind, “You’re just making this harder than it needs to be.”

“What are you going to do with test answers, anyway—sell them?” Ferris made a poor attempt at wrenching free. “Demos already has that market covered.”

“Jokes on you, mate. I’m working with him.”

Ferris narrowed his eyes. His nose was dripping red circles onto the white porcelain sink. “No, you’re not.”

“How would you know?”

“He’s my friend,” Ferris said. “And he wouldn’t deal with a stupid neanderthal like you.”

His attacker stopped in place. Seconds passed, and then, he let go. Ferris exhaled as he was released. When he turned to look, the boy was scratching the side of his ear, looking very much like a child who’d been caught drawing on a wall.

“You really do know him?”

“Yes,” Ferris said. “I know him.”

The boy laced his fingers behind his head, offering a helpless grin. “Well, sorry about all that.” He laughed. “Think he’ll be angry when he finds out?”

Ferris could only gawk, bruised and still bleeding from his nose. Of all the nerve.

The boy’s wide smile didn’t falter. “Anyway, I’m Seamus.”

“Isn’t that an Irish name?” Ferris said. “You don’t sound Irish.”

“Ah, Dad liked some poet—never read his work.” Seamus wet a paper towel in the sink, leaning in to wipe the blood off of Ferris’ upper lip. “Not big on poems, myself.”

Ferris waved the gesture off with a pointed glare. “No kidding.”

“Oh, come on. I apologized, didn’t I? Twice!”

“Yeah.” Ferris snatched the paper towel to wipe the blood off himself. “I don’t think ‘sorry’ cuts it, you probably broke one of my ribs.”

Seamus was watching his reflection through the mirror, still uncomfortably close. Was personal space not a thing in England? “Well, let me make it up to you.”

Ferris faked a smile, which looked worse than his frown. “Do you have a car? You can drive me to the police station so I can file a restraining order on you.”

Seamus laughed again. Unbelievable. “How about a little drink?” Seamus pulled a flask from the inside of his blazer and gave it a little shake. By the echoing slosh, it was already half empty. “You look like you could use it.”

“No, thanks.” Ferris leaned in to the mirror, wiping off the last bit of blood from his chin. “How do you know Demos, anyway?”

“Helped him out of a little tough spot. He’s clever but bloody useless in a fight.” Seamus unscrewed his flask, taking a swig of the liquor inside.

So this was the guy that Demos had conned into beating up his competitor. Ferris tossed the paper towel into the trash can and straightened his tie. He’d been gone for much too long. “I’m going back to class,” he said. “You should too.”

“In a bit,” Seamus said. “I’ll see you ‘round lunch?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Great, catch you then!”

Ferris didn’t see Seamus wave—he was already in the hallway. He touched his sore jaw. His headache was returning with a grudge, the dull burn thumping under his skull. Seamus was—he was something, all right. At least Ferris didn’t have a fourth bully to worry about.

Still, he was going to have a long talk with Demos about his choice of accomplices.

#

In the two weeks that followed, Ferris saw much more of Seamus than he’d have liked. School had been out for an hour, but three sophomores remained on the front stoop. Demos and Ferris had found seats on the stairs. Seamus was lounging along the concrete banister, flipping a cigarette between his fingers. He had apparently been using the “I’m from another country” excuse anytime he was caught breaking rules, but Ferris knew that wouldn’t work forever. One could only pretend to be an exchange student for so long.

Seamus snapped a lighter open, lighting the cigarette with a puff of smoke. “Sure I can’t tempt you, Fer?” Seamus had taken to calling Ferris a nickname. Ferris hated it, which Seamus responded to by using it as often as possible.

Ferris turned a page in his notebook, trying to ignore the smell. “I told you—I don’t smoke.”

“Your loss.” Seamus shrugged. “You finished that midterm, yet?”

“I’m almost done,” Ferris said. Somehow, Demos had conned him into joining their little scheme.  “I haven’t taken Calculus II yet, give me a break.”

Dishwashing didn’t pay a lot.

Seamus had a talent for determining exactly when teachers left their classrooms unattended. All he’d had to do was find the test master copy, take a high-resolution photograph, then return the paper to its original spot. The teacher would be none the wiser—or at least, that was the plan.

This time, Seamus had forgotten the answer key.

Which is why Ferris was blatantly scribbling on an illicit print-out on the front stoop. They were breaking at least four academy rules—and they were doing it directly in front of the school. Now he had two friends without a shred of morality.

Maybe “friend” was a strong word for what Seamus was. He was the type to ruffle hair and partake in public spectacle—all of which Ferris had zero patience for. Seamus flirted without shame, considered schoolwork optional, and had barely a care in the world.

In other words, he was Ferris’ complete opposite. If Seamus was summer, Ferris was winter. And if Seamus was smoking and drinking in front of school, Ferris was doing math problems.

“There, it’s finished.” He tossed the notebook at Seamus before he could properly catch it.

Seamus fumbled with it for a moment before getting a proper hold. “Well, great. This means bugger all to me, so I hope it’s right.”

“It’s right.”

“I’ll type these up,” Demos said, stealing the notebook from Seamus. “I already have a waiting list for this one—I heard the teacher is a real hard ass.”

“By the look of those questions, he is,” Ferris said. “What was his name again?”

Before Seamus could answer, the school doors opened. He quickly tossed the cigarette to a step, crushing it with his foot. A teacher walked out. There was a twist in her expression—she could clearly smell the smoke. She tossed the boys a look before making her way to the parking lot.

Ferris had done his best to shield his face from her glare. It was no use. Everyone knew he spent time with Demos and Seamus. There was no turning back now.

When the teacher was out of earshot, Seamus spoke up again. “Wasted half a fag. Shame.” He picked up his foot, looking at the crushed tobacco with a frown.

Ferris pulled the pencil from behind his ear and started his own homework. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“That I’m half a fag? You got me—in fact, I think I’ve got a thing for you. It’s the real reason I tease you so often.”

“Go jump in traffic, Seamus.”

Demos and Seamus both laughed. Ferris rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his actual homework. If they were a trio now, he was going to have to get used to Seamus.