Blaine Scott

The ninth grade students thronged the hall as school let out for the day. Most of them were eager to get home, but many of them lingered in the halls, talking and laughing, making plans for the weekend. Blaine moved among them silently. He shuffled, his short curly brown hair swaying lightly atop his head. He had both arms folded around his books, clutching them to his chest, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. As he walked, he watched his own feet. He should have often run into other students, but they were used to moving around him by now, and he could avoid them, almost as if he had some internal steering device--radar, or sonar.


Then he bumped into someone directly in front of him. He knew that an apology was expected, but he didn't bother with it. He simply stepped aside, to move around the obstacle. But it moved with him, blocking his way. Patiently, he stepped back, trying to go around the other side, but the student moved, blocking him yet again. Blaine started to repeat the little dance, but a hard hand came down on his shoulder, shoving him back against the wall. "Hey, Insane-Blaine."


The voice was familiar. Blaine sifted rapidly through images, and found the one that fit--Robert Barclay, seventeen, two years older than himself, tall, broad, blond, with cruel, pale eyes. Blaine didn't respond to him, simply waited. Something unpleasant was going to happen--it always did with Bobby Barclay. Others were gathering around, nudging each other and snickering, ready to enjoy the show. Tormenting Blaine 'Insane' Scott was always good for a few laughs.


Bobby loved an audience, and he knew that he'd come up with something entertaining this time. "Say, Blainey, I heard my Mom readin' a kiddie story to my little brother. It was "The Animal Band". You've heard that, haven't you? Sure you have--you read all the time, and it's about your level. Anyway, it's about a rooster, a donkey, and a cat who travel together, right? Well, hey, I was just thinking--it's got YOUR name on it! So tell me, Blainey, which one are you--the cock, the ass, or the pussy?"


There was a burst of raucous laughter, and Blaine felt several harsh pokes. Someone said, "Shit, what's the point? He doesn't even understand."


"Dead," Blaine whispered.

"What did you say, retard?" asked Bobby. Blaine wasn't expected to make any response.

He didn't raise his voice. "Dead. Better dead. Dead is better."


The chuckling died down uneasily. Someone said, "Why the hell do they let these fucking nut jobs come to school with us normal people? Why are we wasting our time with him?"


The boys started to drift away. Bobby muttered. "Stupid bitch. You ruined my joke." He knocked the books out of Blaine’s arms, then kicked them down the hall. Blaine squatted slowly to retrieve them. Bobby looked up and down the hall. It had emptied quickly--there was no one in sight. He reached down and grabbed Blaine's ass, squeezing roughly, then shoved. Blaine sprawled on his face. His ass was tilted upward and his shorts had rucked up, showing a long expanse of brown, bare thigh. Bobby blinked, eyes crawling over him, then he shook his head. "Fucking psycho." He planted his foot on Blaine's ass and shoved him back down as he started to rise, then turned and moved away rapidly, trying to ignore the thickening at his crotch.


When Blaine was sure that the boy was gone, he finished getting to his feet. A teacher came out just as he was rising, and hurried over. "Blaine, are you all right?" The teacher didn't receive a response, but hadn't really expected any. He quickly scanned the silent boy, and saw no injuries. "My, you're a clumsy soul, aren't you? Let me help." He helped Blaine gather his school things. "Is your mother coming for you? Yes, of course he is. You usually wait at this door, right? I'll walk with you."


Omosupe was just getting out of his car when they reached the door. His expression tensed. "What's wrong?"


"Nothing, Mr. Scott. Blaine just tripped, that's all."


Omosupe gave his son a fast once-over, serious eyes cataloging every detail. He knew exactly how his son had looked when he'd been deposited here this morning. "Tripped, huh? You want to tell me how the hell that footprint got on his ass, then?"


The teacher looked, this time noticing the gray, dusty outline of a sole on the boy's dark shorts. "I... Mr. Scott, I didn't see anyone do anything to him."

"You people never do," Omosupe snapped, putting an arm around Blaine and urging him into the passenger side of the car. He got in the car and started it with a vicious jerk of the key, squealing his tires as he pulled out. "I swear to you, baby, that's the last straw! I'm taking you out of there. If he won't pay for you to go to a special school, or have a home teacher, then by Allah, I'll just keep you home. I'll bite judge's face if he says you have to go back."

---


Wallace Scott had used some of the settlement in investments, and they'd done well. He didn't have to work so much these days, so he didn't. He spent most of his time fucking Omosupe and visiting his brothers, and there he complained bitterly about his imbecile son, threatening at least once a visit to 'just dump his ass somewhere.' By now two months had past and Wallace was still trying to get Omosupe pregnant. Wallace believed that Omosupe’s reluctance to have another child with him was out sheer frustration that he couldn't persuade him to take Blaine out of public school. This had become a point of sheer stubbornness on Wallace’s part. He knew that his son was an outcast at school, but he wasn't about to admit he was wrong at this stage of the argument.


Both his wife and son were out of the house when he got up around 3 o'clock and staggered into the kitchen in search of food. A few minutes later Wallace stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window as he drank orange juice. The view was lovely--a small, green clearing, ringed by thick trees. Wallace didn't really like it. He would have preferred to live in town, maybe even in one of the big cities. But Omosupe wanted to live somewhere that Blaine could wander around without having to worry about running into someone who might harass him. He'd made noises about separation. Back then, about two years ago, Wallace hadn't been entirely sure that Omosupe wouldn't be able to actually leave him, so he'd caved on it. It was a good investment, after all. The property was valuable.

He'd about had enough, though. He'd been looking into homes or institutions where Blaine could stay. He wanted a real family with Omosupe, not just a poor substitute. His only problem was figuring out how to get Blaine out of the picture without hurting Omosupe too much. His wife was loving to a fault and that was one of the traits that had attracted Wallace to the beautiful Carrier in the first place. He'd hate to make Omosupe hate him for this, but he was a man and shit, this was his family and he knew what was right.


*Don't make this harder than it has to be, `Supe,* he thought as he drained his glass. *Don’t.*


He heard the front door open, and sighed. He'd been hoping to be out of the house before they returned. He heard Omosupe *of course it's him. That damn kid never speaks unless you fucking DRAG it out of him, and then it's mostly nonsense* Omosupe was saying, "Don't be sad, baby. I've had enough of this crap. How you can get such good grades in that sort of atmosphere I'll never know, but you could do so much better if you didn't have to deal with those punks. I'll just..." He trailed off as he entered the kitchen. "Oh, Wallace, I didn't expect you to be home."

Wallace shrugged, “What's up?"


"What is it ever?" Blaine had put his books down on the kitchen table. Now Omosupe took his shoulder and gently turned the boy around. He pointed. "Look at that."


Wallace eyed the dusty shoeprint on his son's backside. "Huh. Someone finally decided to motivate him."


"How can you talk like that?" Omosupe looked on the verge of tears. Wallace looked away.


Blaine had seated himself at the table, an opened book before him. He was slowly writing something on a sheet of paper, eyes moving from the paper, to the page, and back again. He always did his homework, never needing anyone to remind him, or help him with it. That puzzled Wallace. It went against his assumption that Blaine was barely functional, and it irritated him still further, because to him it indicated that the boy could be a lot more normal, if he wanted to.


Wallace moved to pour himself more juice. "Will you just cool it, `Supe? Shit happens. Blaine is going to have to learn to deal with a lot of shit, the way he is."


"Wallace, he doesn't have to deal with it! I thought that was the whole point of winning that settlement—that my baby could have a good life, protected from the world." Wallace shrugged. Omosupe's brow lowered. "You don't give a damn about him. All he is to you is a valuable nuisance."


Wallace snapped, "Just shut the fuck up! I've had just about enough of this shit, `Supe. I'm your husband."


"We're taking him out of that school, and that's final," Omosupe ground out; his handsome face a delicate mixture of fear and determination.


Wallace’s eyes flashed "I told you--I'm not shelling out for any 'special' school."


"How can you treat your own son like this? Don’t you want what’s best for him?”


"I want what’s best for us!" Wallace raged. “Don’t you understand that?"


"You're twisted. If you won't pay for a proper school, I'm taking him out and keeping him at home. I can teach him, and—"


"No fucking way! With him in school we can at least have a little time away from him."


"You've got some nerve. You never want to be bothered by him. You just want it to be you and me, without him. It's not going to happen, Wallace, he’s our son. I won't abandon him."


"He doesn't have to be here! Besides, Blaine fucking bothers me no matter where he is. Just knowing that he's out there, somewhere--staring--it's enough to make me sick."


"You don't deserve him, you—"


"You got that right! I never deserved to have this happen to me, and I'm fucking tired of this!"


Their voices were rising. Neither noticed it, but Blaine hunched his shoulders a little as he continued to write, his eyes never straying from the paper. He looked oblivious, but he heard—he heard every word. Blaine had a hard time realizing that he could have any impact on the world around him, but he wasn't oblivious, no matter how blank he seemed.


Wallace just looked at Omosupe for a moment, gazing down at his pretty dark brown Carrier. “Look, baby,” he made his voice real soft and calm, “why don’t we talk about this some other time.”


Omosupe sighed. "Don’t you understand?” He whispered, looking into Wallace’s cold grey eyes. “You’re trying to take away my baby.”


Incredibly, Wallace smiled. “We can have another one,” he said, and he sounded as though he was comforting a child who had dropped his ice-cream cone. “You’ll have another baby, and this won’t happen. The next one’ll be fine. A nice little boy. You wait and see. It’ll happen.” Wallace smiled then, and the sight of it made Omosupe feel like screaming. It was like watching a corpse grin in its coffin.

----

That night when Omosupe woke to soft footsteps padding down the hall, his first thought was that it was Blaine, up and about for some reason. Very gently, Omosupe moved Wallace’s heavily muscled arm down from on top of his hip and got up from the bed, intent on making sure Blaine was alright.


When Omosupe closed his bedroom door behind him and started down the dark hallway, his heart jolted painfully in his chest as he stepped onto something warm and sticky-slippery. He couldn’t tell what it was; the hall was too dark. He looked up and down the hallway and saw that Blaine’s bedroom door was cracked open slightly. From Blaine’s room a thin ray of orange light spilled from the partially closed door and fell on the wall facing it. Omosupe felt dread well up and fill his mouth with a steely taste. He ventured a few more steps until he stood partially in the beam of light.


“No,” he whispered, “no. Oh my dear sweet Allah, no. Good Allah, Merciful Allah, dear Allah, no.” *Let it be piss,* he thought. *Let it be piss…or maybe Blaine spilled some water or lemonade. Yes, that’s probably it. Blaine probably got thirsty and on his way back to his room he spilled some on the floor. That’s it.*


Except it wasn’t water and it wasn’t pee. It was blood. Omosupe stood in the middle of the dark hallway, dazed, looking down at the bottom of his foot. He willed his fingers to gradually creep down his leg, to the sticky slippery fluid he’d stepped in. *Please*, He thought. How many times had that word gone through his mind since waking up? He didn’t know, but there it was again. *Please let the liquid on my foot be clear. Please, Allah. Please let it be clear.*


But when he brought his hand out of the darkness and into to the light cast by Blaine’s room, the tips of his fingers were red with blood. As he looked at them, a monstrous urge to vomit ripped through him like a hacksaw blade. He had to slam his lips together to stifle the nausea. Then, quickly, almost frantically, Omosupe pushed himself into Blaine’s room.


There Blaine was, sitting on his bedroom floor. He was naked, moaning, shaking, and clutching a blood drenched towel between his trembling thighs.