Guidance (closed for ericrodman101) [M/M]

[tamgreen]

Toby didn't get much sleep; he rarely did. Two guys in the next apartment, on the other side of the wall that seemed as thin as cardboard, had been having a screaming match until at least 3am, accompanied by occasional loud banging, as if they were throwing furniture around. And this morning, whoever was in the apartment on the other side started playing obnoxious pop music before it was even 7am. During his less-than-four-hour window of relative quiet, he'd spent half the time struggling with the couch that he usually slept on. It sagged in the middle and springs poked him in places. He might have gone to sleep in his mom's bedroom - she hadn't been home since last week anyway - but she always left underwear and drug needles lying around, half of which didn't even seem to be hers, and Toby was already too grossed out to go near the bed where his mom fucked.

He felt sick. He'd had stale french fries for dinner last night, and he wasn't sure if there was anything for breakfast. He stumbled in his underwear to the fridge and stared inside. Ketchup and soy sauce packets, a bottle of hot sauce, half a jar of olives, bottles of vodka, a few cans of beer, and a jug of milk with about an inch left in it.

Toby checked the cupboards. There was an old box of generic corn flakes, but when he opened it, a cockroach came out, and he dropped the box in disgust, leaving it lying on the kitchen counter among empty takeout containers that had been there for weeks.

He found a crumpled bag containing the heel of a loaf of bread that was past its best before date but not moldy - he squeezed a ketchup packet onto it and folded it over, scarfing the pathetic morsel and washing it down with a can of beer. This wouldn't help his nausea, but he hardly thought twice about chugging a beer first thing in the morning - hell, it was one of the few things that was usually guaranteed to be in the fridge. And if it made him a little tipsy, maybe that had a chance of improving his day a tiny bit.

He had some time still before school. Maybe he could scrounge up some real food.

After a quick shower, he put on some junky clothes he'd worn a couple of days ago. Everything he had was junky, and he didn't have quarters for the laundry machines, not that he knew how to use them anyway.

He stepped into his mom's room and started to gingerly poke around, wary of needles and other things he didn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole, just hoping she might have left some money lying around somewhere, even a dollar or two.

What he found after a protracted search was a folded-up lottery ticket with something inside it - when he peeked in past the folds, he knew exactly what it was. Heroin - probably about fifty bucks' worth. He considered just shooting some of it up and blowing off school. It wouldn't be something he hadn't done before. Heroin was a hell of a trip, but the comedown could be a bitch.

Food, his body insisted. He tucked the folded-up lottery ticket into his pocket and headed out with his backpack over his shoulder. He walked up and down the dingy halls of the shitty apartment structure that always stank of cigarettes, weed, and sometimes urine, looking for a junkie he knew. Aside from the idiot in the apartment next to him playing pop music, no one seemed to be up.

He headed outside and into the labyrinth of narrow alleys, skirting trash and sleeping bodies until he found some locals hanging around, shooting the shit - he recognized one of them, some constantly stoned chick who sometimes came around to hang out with his mom.

"Hey, little man," she said drowsily, recognizing him. "Where's your mommy?"

"Fuck if I know," Toby mumbled in response. He pulled the small packet out of his pocket, holding it between his first two fingers, trusting that she knew what it was. "You want?"

She held out her hand, and he shook his head. "Sixty."

The girl made a face at him. "You gotta show me what the fuck I'm getting for it, boo."

He unfolded the lottery ticket to reveal the brownish powder, and held it up under her nose. She had a cursory examination of the substance and shrugged. "Ripoff."

Toby took his prize back and refolded the ticket. "Fine - I'll take fifty for it."

The girl giggled at him and rolled her eyes. One of the men she'd been talking to grabbed Toby by the shoulder, painfully, and slammed him back against the wall. "Why don't you fuck off to nursery school, kid?" the guy growled. "You think you're some kinda junior gangbanger? You think you can just sell here, huh? You wanna get a bullet in your back, faggot?"

"Get your hands off me... cunt!" Toby shot back, squirming in the large man's merciless grasp.

"Jimmy, leave the kid alone," the girl coaxed, tugging on the man's sleeve. "Maybe he's just trying to raise money for a school trip?"

She giggled frivolously, and Toby scowled. They were both just making fun of him now, and he hated that. He thought it would be cool to be in a gang or something, but no one took him seriously.

The bruiser finally let go of him with one more shove against the wall, and Toby stumbled a few steps away, ready to just abandon his plan and go hit up a corner store where he knew there were security blind spots and he had a chance of swiping something, but the girl called him back.

"C'mere, boo - c'mere," she coaxed as if he were a puppy. She flashed a twenty dollar bill at him when he turned back to face her.

"Twenty? You're shitting me."

"Take it or leave it."

Sighing, Toby stalked back and held out the packet, quickly grabbing the twenty dollars in exchange. What he'd sold was certainly worth more than twice that, but at least he'd gotten it for free and he was twenty dollars richer.

Ducking into a market a few blocks away, he indulged in what might as well have been a shopping spree. He grabbed a whole pack of Oreos, some cheese crackers, a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, a large bag of Doritos, a Gatorade, and a cream soda - the expensive kind, in a glass bottle. He also took several bars of chocolate, tucking these into his clothes. It was easier to shoplift when you were actually buying things - people weren't as suspicious.

He left the store with his treasures, both purchased and stolen, and finally headed for the nearest bus stop as he was off the school bus route by now. He ate Oreos and drank cream soda all the way to school, ignoring the strange looks.

Beer, Oreos, and soda on a mostly empty stomach didn't sit well, and he felt like he might throw up. He fought with his body, needing it all to stay down. He couldn't pay attention to anything in class, but that was nothing new. His head was all foggy and swimmy. His joke of an education was crashing and burning, and he'd given up on math in particular.

His math teacher, Mr. Flores, called Toby to his desk at the end of class. Toby knew what this was about. His teacher just looked exhausted, not even mad.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" the teacher wondered, slapping a paper down in front of Toby - his quiz from last week. Almost every answer, Toby had written fuck this, and added a few obscene drawings for good measure. He'd been in a particularly bad mood that day, having been in a fight with some bigger boys who'd called his mom a whore - they didn't know anything, having never seen his mom, but what bothered Toby the most was that he thought it might be true.

"I dunno," Toby muttered. "You can wipe your ass with it if you like."

Mr. Flores frowned and turned to stare out the window for a few moments, as if he'd just had more than enough bullshit to last him a lifetime and was close to giving up. "What did you think you were accomplishing?" he shot back, finally finding a bit of real frustration. "What point are you trying to make? I've been real patient with you for a long time, Toby, but let's be real. Why even bother coming to class at all if you're just going to blow off all the work?"

"I have no idea. Why are you here? You don't wanna be here either."

Mr. Flores sighed and leaned on his desk. "Believe it or not, I actually want to help. I can give you a chance to make up the test. Are you going to waste my time again?"

"Are you going to keep being a loser?"

The teacher shrugged. "You can call me a loser if you like, but I'm an employed loser. If you want a chance at that, maybe you can start putting in even a little bit of effort. Just a suggestion."

Effort. What did this guy know about effort? Why did they always talk about that, as if his life was easy and painless? He couldn't possibly know what Toby had been through just trying to get something to eat this morning. He'd risked bodily harm and committed a crime for Oreos and peanut butter sandwiches. This jackass probably got to go home to a house, where someone nice cooked a good meal for him.

"You could go fuck yourself - that's my suggestion for you," the kid shot back, turning to swiftly leave the classroom.

"Detention, Toby!" Mr. Flores barkes after him.

"Whatever!"

He was hurrying for the bathroom. He really, really felt sick. He ended up throwing up, and the mess that landed in the toilet after eating a lot of Oreos and drinking something bright pink looked horrendous, like what someone might vomit up when they had internal bleeding. For a moment he thought about dying, and how that might be a nice change. He quickly flushed and washed up, leaving the bathroom and stumbling to his locker. He was weak and shaky. He'd stashed the rest of the food he'd bought in his locker, and now he was digging into it to get something in his stomach again.

"Thanks, fucktard," a broad-shouldered jock announced, hip-checking him aside and reaching into Toby's locker to grab his big bag of chips. "Don't mind if I do."

"Get lost!" Toby roared, trying to shove the bruiser aside, but the guy held him back with just one hand. "Give it back!"

The guy and his equally beefy friends laughed. They just laughed, and started eating his Doritos. His hard-earned food. How often did he have twenty bucks to spend? Almost never.

This same bully had been harassing Toby for years. It was the same jackass who'd called his mom a whore. Toby was reaching his limit - he would only be stomped on so many times. Rage and humiliation with a twist of desperate survival instinct rose up in him like emotional vomit. His empty cream soda bottle was still in his locker. He grabbed it by its stem.

"Hey, you fat load!" he barked, and when the furious jock turned around, Dorito crumbs all around his greedy mouth, Toby swung. The glass bottle smashed across the guy's face, and Toby came away unscathed, with the broken-off stem in his hand.

But he wasn't done. He lashed out with the jagged bit of glass, slashing the bigger boy's cheek open. The chips fell to the floor among a spray of blood.

This wasn't going to end well.

 

[ericrodman101]

Gerry Metzler leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, and contemplated the morning.

He'd heard Andrea leave the house way before dawn. That was the norm now. She'd even taking to sleeping in another room so as not to wake him with her early starts. Not that she needed to. Gerry had long ago pretended to be asleep when Andrea woke.

She'd be in Pensacola now. At the conference. Or was Pensacola last week? Denver maybe....

Andrea's marketing job kept her away a lot. It had all been his idea, of course. Gerry loved how much Andrea enjoyed her job. When their daughter Charlotte started elementary school, he'd encouraged Andrea to finish her degree at the community college. Just finish it, he'd said, and you can get a nice job in school reception or at a medical centre. That was 15 years ago and here she was, Marketing Director for one of the most prestigious colleges in the state. Late nights, working weekends, travelling interstate, even overseas. Sometimes he hardly recognised the shy young girl he'd married. The only woman he'd ever known....

And Gerry? Still senior guidance counsellor at Fillmore High. Still packing a cut lunch into his briefcase every day, walking along Main Street and buying a coffee at Crusty's, then sitting in the same office, hearing the same problems, sending the same angry teens for therapy or the knocked-up ones to the clinic, or the ones who still hadn't managed to fall pregnant to family planning. The seniors were more savvy and more sassy than when he'd started, but the problems didn't change. The solutions weren't as controversial though. Abstinence had been the only approved answer in the early days. As if that was ever going to work.

And it helped that the kids he was seeing now were the children of the ones he'd seen all those years ago. Their parents often remembered his advice to them. It helped that they'd been through it all before.

His laptop pinged. Charlotte. Third year psychology. Thank Christ she'd selected a college interstate. If there's one thing guidance counsellors can't fix it's their own children. But she was doing OK now, except for the spending.

Gerry opened the email. Charlotte wanted money. Again. A trip to Europe. Why? Aren't American nut jobs good enough for American psychology students? He closed the screen. Deal with it tomorrow, he thought.

The only woman he'd ever known....why did his thoughts keep coming back to that? When was the last time he and Andrea fucked? It was his fault. Yes. My fault. Too much time spent at school when she was home, and not enough....enthusiasm? Libido? Interest? Jesus, Andrea was a fine woman....still sleek and firm and...fuckable.

He'd never looked at another woman...never....come on...who was he kidding? So he'd looked. Who didn't? But not touched. Not his friends' wives, not his colleagues, not all those teenage whores referred to his office because their parents couldn't keep their boyfriends out of their pants. They'd flaunt themselves, wave their butts, flash their tits...Mr Metzler, they'd whisper, running their fingers across their plump lips. Christ, he could have fucked any of them. Right here on this desk. But did he....?

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. When Andrea was away that meant leftovers. Again. Leftovers and porn.

Gerry realised he was hard. It had worried him once. Getting hard sitting at his desk listening to some jock awash with testosterone relating how he wanted to fuck his stepmom. You don't want to fuck your Mom, he'd say, forgetting to say 'have sex with'. No, fuck was the word they used, so Gerry used it too. You had to 'get down with the kids' like it said in all the modern textbooks. You want to focus on your studies, on sport, on getting your grades up. Come see me anytime you need to talk. Anytime you need to talk and I need to get hard, Gerry thought. And the young guy would nod and sigh, and slouch away to jerk off in the bathroom.

Gerry dropped a hand onto his lap and felt his cock through his slacks. Still hard. Leftovers and porn....

When Andrea was away it meant a whole evening of undisturbed porn. Sometimes he tried to be good. Tried to stay off the computer at home. Stick to TV. Or reading. Or even go to a bar, which he never enjoyed. It just meant coming home a little drunk and watching porn. School girl gangbangs were his tipple. It was that whole teacher thing. Like taking work home.

With his hand on his cock, enjoying the warm tingle, Gerry opened the next file. Jesus Christ! Tiffany Sachs again! He saw Tiffany in his mind's eye, already waiting in the corridor for the light to flash over his door, chewing gum with her mouth open, playing with her ponytail, the flimsy blouse tied but never buttoned, all that warm, dark cleavage he'd try not to stare at when she leaned across his desk to make a point about how now she was 18, her parents didn't understand that if this week's boyfriend couldn't stay over she was going to fucking die.

He enjoyed a gangbang vid of a girl who reminded him of Tiffany. His cock hardened further, tenting his slacks. Jesus! Gotta get out of this place before I disgrace myself, he thought.

Gerry stood. His cock was painfully hard now. Instinctively he brushed his hand over it, hoping it would settle down, but just slapped himself painfully. No, don't walk to the door and invite her in. Sit. Press the button, flash the light. Look down and pretend to be engrossed in her file. Tiffany. Take a seat...leftovers and porn....

 

[tamgreen]

Shit had hit the fan in a big way after the incident. The other boy had had to get stitches after getting a broken bottle to the face, and Toby was told he was damn lucky that he probably wouldn't have to face criminal charges over the assault. As Toby was eighteen, and so was the other boy, the school couldn't bring the police in on a student's behalf. The injured boy had elected not to "be a pussy" by pressing charges.

Toby was immediately suspended, and was told that expulsion was going to be the likely result after a hearing was held. He spent plenty of time in his principal's office yelling - hadn't they ever heard of self-defense, and wasn't anyone interested in his side, and hadn't the other guy done plenty to earn himself a suspension, at the very least? Why him?

But he knew why him. Toby had been a problem here for his entire high school career. He was belligerent, disrespectful, defiant, destructive, foul-mouthed, and had on plenty of occasions stolen food from younger, smaller kids, just like the bully had done to him. Logic was hardly Toby's strong suit, especially when he was pissed off... which was most of the time these days.

It would be three weeks until the expulsion hearing, and meanwhile he'd been enrolled in a program for suspended students. It was a surreal time for Toby. He slept in as much as he could, and when he couldn't sleep, he spent hours jerking off.

He was supposed to be basically homeschooling himself during this time, but as expected, he got very little done. His laptop was a dinosaur, and his wifi connection was garbage. People who expected students to complete work from home didn't seem to consider low-income families, because it was pretty much all internet dependent now. The relief of being free of the school and teachers and students he hated was short-lived, and he just felt like a piece of garbage that had been kicked deliberately between the cracks. Even his mom was ignorant of everything that was happening - he had no idea where she was or when she'd be back, and since he was 18, they didn't have to notify her of his suspension or pending expulsion.

As much as he hated school, it was at least reasonably predictable. He knew his enemies, and that was half the battle. If they sent him to a new school, he had no idea what to expect.

He was afraid. That wasn't something he could admit to anyone. Every day was a fight, every day was keeping his head above water. He could hardly handle any new challenges. And where the hell was his mom?

* * * * *

She came home the following week, and slept for nearly three days. She'd obviously been on some kind of bender. When she finally managed to get on her feet again, it was a relief for Toby. She ordered pizzas, and he had plenty to eat for a while. He didn't ask her where she'd been or what she'd been up to - he didn't want to know.

"Hey... mom?" he ventured as they ate pizza and watched TV. She was drinking from a vodka bottle.

"Hmm?"

"Can you leave me grocery money when you go away? I was hungry."

She shot him an annoyed look. "There's bread and peanut butter in the kitchen!"

"I bought that myself, and I went through hell just trying to come up with a few bucks because you left me with fucking nothing!"

"So you're not completely useless," she snorted. "You're a big boy now, Tobes. I'm tired of humouring you. Get a fucking job like anyone else if you're hungry, okay?"

Toby growled and slouched, taking a moody bite of his pizza. "Yeah, what's your job? Selling your ass for dope?"

She smacked him upside the head. "When did you get to be such a little shit?"

"Guess I've always been! And now I'm getting kicked out of school, so there you go. I'm fucking useless garbage - you want me just admit it?"

"Fuck, Toby! God, I have a headache."

"Well maybe you shouldn't chug vodka like it's Gatorade!"

"Fuck off!" she shrieked at him.

Enraged, Toby left behind his pizza and shoved his feet into his shoes, leaving the apartment in a huff. He didn't have any plan - he just wandered aimlessly around the neighborhood until enough of his angry energy had calmed that he felt he could go back without feeling like hitting someone or something.

In the morning - almost afternoon, thanks to her hangover - mom was a completely different person. She brought home bagels and hot chocolate for him, and told him he was a precious, sweet boy, and those school administrators could go to hell for ever thinking that he could do anything wrong. Toby enjoyed it while it lasted - it never did. Soon he'd be a little shit again.

* * * * *

Toby skipped the expulsion hearing. If he even had a defense, no one would bother listening anyway. Soon after they sent him a letter confirming he was officially expelled from Central High, and they were recommending him to continue his education at Fillmore.

Fillmore! Everyone knew about Fillmore. Central was a shithole full of reprobates, but Fillmore was the shithole of shitholes, where reprobates who couldn't crack it at other shitholes were discarded. Their graduation rate was the worst in the district, and Toby sure wasn't going to pull up the curve any. Had it really come to this?

He didn't get even an hour of sleep the night before he was to start at Fillmore. There seemed to be more noise around the apartment building than usual, and his mom had brought some random dude over. Even pressing his ears between two pillows didn't help much. Of course, the noise was the least of his problems.

Toby was terrified. The bullies at Fillmore would be bigger, meaner, unrulier. He'd tried so hard to be as mean as any other guy, but he'd never be as big as them, or as tough-looking. Not even if he got tattooed from head to toe. He was too stressed out to even jerk off, which usually relaxed him, at least a little. Not that he'd be much in the mood when his mom had a 'boyfriend' over. What a boner killer.

Breakfast was corn flakes with watered-down milk. Toby couldn't find anything for a lunch, and didn't have any lunch money. He'd have to brave his mother's bedroom.

He knocked carefully, even though her bedroom door was ajar. He looked down at the floor as he pushed it further open, not wanting to see anything he couldn't un-see.

"Hey... are you awake?"

"What the fuck?" A man's deep voice. "Fuck off!"

"Chill - it's just my kid." His mom's slow, sleepy voice. "Whaddya want?"

"I don't have any lunch money."

"God almighty," she sighed. "Still with this?"

Toby clenched his jaw. "Yeah, turns out I'm still your goddamn kid and I still have to eat!"

"The attitude on him," the man muttered.

"Yeah, yeah," mom sighed. "Tobes, if you don't get a job, I'm gonna kick you to the curb one of these days - you're not gonna leech off me forever. For now go take five from my purse. It's by the door."

"Five bucks doesn't buy anything!"

"Would you shut him up?" growled the man.

"Toby, get the fuck out of here!" mom groaned, throwing a pillow at the door.

Toby got the fuck out. He dug through his mom's purse and wallet, intending to take a lot more than five bucks, but all he found was six quarters, three dimes, and a nickel. No fives at all. He'd be lucky to buy a Coke with a dollar and eighty-five cents, but he had to catch the bus now. The city bus - the school bus wouldn't even be an option anymore. Fillmore meant a longer ride on a worse bus and it was going to be awful.

* * * * *

Fillmore was the sort of school that had metal detectors and security guards. He felt like he was going to prison instead of school. Everyone seemed bigger than him. Everyone seemed dangerous. He tried to seem tough, not wanting to establish himself as a cowardly loser from the first day. He felt like he was made of glass, like everyone could see right through him and anything could break him.

He threw curses at anyone who got in his way, or looked at him funny. It was all he had at the moment.

After receiving his schedule and locker assignment, he was handed a slip of paper advising him that he had a mandatory appointment with the school's guidance counselor.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself, glaring at the piece of paper.

Gerry Metzler. It even sounded like a boring old loser name. This would be just the thing to top off a particularly rotten day.

 

[ericrodman101]

Gerry woke with a start and nearly fell off his chair. Chair? What the fuck....

He was still at work, the guidance office. In the dark. He could no longer see the wall clock.

Shit! Still at fucking work. What time was it? Another wasted evening at school, he thought. Wasted...yeah, wasted. But then Andrea was out of town again. He leaned across his desk and switched on the lamp. The pool of cold light fell across the files reception had delivered earlier. Only four this time, thank Christ. Four reprobates who needed his guidance tomorrow. Jesus, I might even get some filing done...

He thumbed through the files again. Three of them he recognised. Regular customers. Why the fuck the Principal persevered with them, who knew? Guidance counselling was the last thing they needed. Military school maybe. Or the Marines.

And then the new one. Toby Keller. Some mixed up crackhead, he guessed, being dumped on Fillmore High. Already 18 too. Why not just drop out and get stoned at home? Or wherever?

Gerry refreshed his computer. 7.00pm. Fucking seven! At least now he knew the cleaners were avoiding his end of the corridor. Or had they cleaned around him and not managed to wake him up? And yet switched off the light.

He leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, and stared at the same spot on the ceiling. Leftovers. What would Andrea be eating for dinner? Gerry tried to recall if the boss was attending the conference with her. If she was with her boss it would be fine dining. Gerry used to accompany Andrea to college functions. Black tie affairs. Waiters and napkins and wine to be tasted before pouring. Men and women, her colleagues, who talked about multi-million dollar funding, international students, scholarships, endowments, research. 'So you're a high school guidance counsellor....' they'd echo. Gerry used to watch these brilliant people struggling to process his job and find something interesting to say before their attention drifted away.

He tried to recall when he'd stopped going to Andrea's dinners. It wasn't recent. Had she asked him not to attend? Maybe he offered. Maybe he didn't feel like putting on a penguin suit one time, and that was sorta that. The new normal. Andrea, in heels and cleavage drinking champagne with clever men who looked after themselves, and Gerry at home reheating leftovers.

Men who looked after themselves....Gerry leaned back as far as he could, stretching his stomach flat. At this angle his sweater and shirt rode up, exposing his waist. He felt for a fold of skin and pinched it between his fingers. Hmmm...he wasn't as firm as he used to be.

'I'll go for a run in the morning before school,' he thought, absentmindedly opening a file. Toby Keller. The new kid. Cute looking. Butter wouldn't melt. But this kid was trouble. Why else get dumped at Fillmore? Just another useless kid who'd be mouthing off in the office tomorrow while Gerry put together a remedial program to get the kid through to graduation.

Yeah, a fine looking kid. Quite feminine really. Soft. Androgynous. How did some kid with the face of an angel get dumped on Fillmore?

Gerry stood, closed the Keller file and dropped it into his briefcase. I'll read it tonight, he thought. Ready for tomorrow. Taking a last look round, he switched off the lamp, and walked to the door.

Tomorrow.....

...........................................

There was half a lasagne in the refrigerator. It slumped into a semi-edible mush in the microwave. Gerry forked it into his mouth as he booted up his home computer and opened Pornhub. Even though he was alone and could stream porn on the flatscreen if he wanted, it just never managed to feel right. Porn was for watching furtively, privately, hunched over the desk in the den. Jesus, with Andrea away, I could be hosting an orgy in the living room, he thought. You want guidance, Tiffany? Well, how about I slam my fat guidance right up your tight little butthole....

No, it had to be the desktop. Just Gerry and the flashing screen and the hard office chair in the den, curtains drawn, phone in his pocket in case Andrea called, or his mother, or Charlotte wondering where her money was.

But tonight, Pornhub had nothing new to offer. That's the trouble with porn. It's always the fucking same...the same fucking. Gerry smiled to himself at the wordplay, and promised to commit it to memory so he could try it on someone, anyone, on the off chance he ever bumped into someone willing to talk porn.

It wasn't going to happen. Porn was his dirty secret, never to be shared. Andrea didn't even like movies with sex. And she'd certainly never allowed him to experiment. Sucked his cock? Let him play with her ass? Cum on her face? He didn't dare ask. And since they'd stopped fucking....well, that was the end of that.

Even his favourite, little Riley Reid, held no allure tonight. Frustrated at the lack of anything new, Gerry resorted to Riley's pizza delivery gangbang where she was fucked in every hole while wearing nothing but knee length socks. She was only making him half hard tonight, and mouth full of hot cheese, he opened the Keller file again and turned to the detailed report. Jesus Christ!

......................................

The lasagne repeated on Gerry all night. He slept fitfully, dreaming and forgetting, waking in a knot of blankets. His stomach was still sore as he sat down behind his desk and extracted the Keller file from his briefcase.

Toby Keller. 9.15am. What the fuck was he supposed to do for this kid? Drug addicted single mother, probably a prostitute, attacked another kid with a bottle and no criminal charges - there had to be more to that - every teacher entry since whenever described insolence, destructive behaviour, foul language, theft, bullying, violent tendencies. Was he a drug taker? That wasn't clear. But he was around drugs, probably dealt, so must have used more than once.

And yet that photo. Toby Keller was a cherub. An angel. The photo, sad eyes, clear skin, thin lips demurely pursed, dark hair falling across one side of his face, could have been professionally taken for a modelling portfolio. Angry kids with harsh lives showed it in their faces, but not this one.

Gerry could only think of one explanation. His colleague at Central High had stuck the wrong photo on the file. Whoever this beautiful young guy was, he wasn't Toby fucking Keller.

The clock approached 9.15. Gerry had no desire to interview Toby Keller. Or anyone. He wanted to shit out the lasagne that heaved explosively in his gut, and then run as fast as he could away from this armpit of a school. Jesus, if only....

He decided better not to fetch Toby from the corridor. With his stomach in knots, Gerry wasn't sure he could stand anyway. He pressed the button, imagining the light flashing in the corridor, and waited for the door handle to turn.

 

[tamgreen]

Toby stood in the hallway, hunched over, trying to stay awake. He had his appointment slip in his hands and repeatedly scrunched it, eventually starting to rip it into tiny pieces, which he left littered all over the floor around his feet. It was the absolute smallest amount of destruction he might commit, but it was in its own way satisfying. Or at least distracting. A distraction from the constant, gnawing stress that ate away at his insides like a rat. Rats and cockroaches, like the ones that often invaded his kitchen - maybe that was all that was inside him. Writhing in there and constantly eating.

The light illuminated overhead, catching his eye. Did this mean he was supposed to go in now?

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

He had no idea where he'd heard that or why it had popped into his head. One of these fresh-start platitudes idiots who had easy, carefree lives liked to spout, as if it were in any way helpful. What a bleak thought this was. The first day of the rest of his life. Life sucks, then you die - that was a better platitude. If someone had told him this was the last day of his shitty life, god, what a relief that would be. He would hold up a 7-11, eat as much as he wanted of anything he wanted, and throw himself off the roof of his apartment building. Why the hell not?

He pressed down the handle of the door with a small, bunched hand that was sheathed inside the baggy sleeve of his too-big hoodie. Where did he even get this hoodie? He'd found it in a park when he was fourteen or so, he recalled. Some guy had forgotten it after playing basketball. Or maybe Toby had just swiped it while the basketball game was still happening. Either way, it was his now, even if it was just as oversized as it had been years ago. Seams unravelling, holes here and there, the screen printed graphic of a stylized skull long faded to something that was barely recognizable.

The door opened a few inches and he peeked inside, his already sour stomach reflexively twisting in anxiety. Maybe he'd misinterpreted the light, and someone was going to yell at him. Or maybe he was exactly where he was supposed to be, and was about to get counseled. Ugh.

There he was - old Gerry Metzler. He looked about as old as his name sounded, hair all salt and pepper, with a light beard to match. He looked more like someone's nice grandpa than like a typical asshole that worked at a shitty school telling a lot of loser kids everything they were doing wrong. He legitimately looked non-threatening. But he also looked about as exhausted as Toby did. Immediately Toby concluded that the old man didn't want to be here any more than he did. He could practically smell the ennui in the air. Jaded... they were both so jaded. They had something in common. Maybe that meant they could make this quick.

Toby's filthy, barely-holding-together sneakers shuffled across the hideous linoleum as he moved himself fully inside the room. His backpack dropped to the floor as he folded himself into the chair in the room and stared down at the floor. He suppressed a yawn. His hands squirmed free of their baggy sleeves to rub his obviously tired eyes. His stomach gurgled. Only 9:15 and he was hungry again.

"What's this for?" he mumbled, his lack of sleep making his voice hoarse and creaky. "If you're gonna tell me I need to straighten up and fly right, or apply myself, I've heard those a few million times."

 

[ericrodman101]

'Straighten up and fly right....'

The gravel-voiced kid shuffled into the room, eyes on the floor. Gerry so wanted to see those eyes, so wanted to gaze on the face in the file, so wanted to prove that the photo was wrong. But the hoodie meant the face was mostly a mystery. Toby dropped his backpack, slumped into the chair and rubbed his eyes.

Under the over-sized hoodie and the baggy, threadbare clothes, Gerry could see and hear enough to guess this kid was in trouble, even if whether he was trouble remained speculation. Toby was slight, skinny, moving without energy or vigour. Malnourished? Sick? Broken?

But for an 18 year old hoodlum to drop a line from Nat King Cole. Was that class? Hidden depth? A memory from somewhere way back?

Gerry wanted to stand and shake Toby's hand. It was the textbook thing to do. If these kids were ever going to pull themselves up, they had to adopt social norms, a modicum of politeness, standard interpersonal behaviour. It was a long time since Gerry had studied anything, but it was Guidance 101. And the only way to start was for Gerry to exhibit everything he wanted the student to adopt. It wouldn't happen immediately and to be honest, Gerry knew there were many cases where it never happened. The lost causes.

Gerry made himself stand. His gut heaved. He moved round the table and stood next to the seated boy.

"Gerry Metzler," he said, holding out his hand, willing Toby to look up. Are you a lost cause, he thought.

"So you must be Toby." Look up, look up, look at me. I need to know you are just another hard-bitten teenage junkie and not the angel in the photo. Nothing. Just a faceless pile of cheap, crumpled clothes.

Gerry looked round for the appointment slip, but Toby seemed to hold nothing in the hands which hung limply from the hoodie sleeves. Not that it mattered, except as a gesture, an initial opportunity to make a connection, hand something over, trigger the contract between them.

Gerry wanted to place his hands on the kid and remove the hoodie. Even as he first thought of doing so, removing the hoodie became his obsession. Take it off, he willed. Show yourself.

It seemed, however, that showing up today, opening the door, entering the room, and falling into the chair had exhausted whatever energy Toby had mustered when he woke and left home this morning. Maybe being here was all Gerry was going to get for their first meeting. As much as he could rightly expect.

But it wasn't enough. Gerry couldn't explain it. He saw hundreds of kids every year. Thousands over his career. Some he helped. Some he failed. Some wanted to improve. Some hated life and everyone they met. But reading Toby's file, seeing that sweet face and failing to reconcile the two, spurred something in Gerry he didn't usually feel.

And from obsessing about Toby's mostly invisible features, Gerry sped on to anger. Take your hoodie off, punk, he wanted to say. What's wrong with you? Show me your face.

But, no. Wrong, Gerry, wrong. Get a grip. The kid gave you the clue. Nat King Cole. No one says 'straighten up and fly right' by accident.

Gerry stepped back and returned to his chair. Even in the shadow of the hoodie he could make out a little of Toby's softly contoured jawline and lower face.

He sighed, placed his hands together on the desk, and stared at the hoodie where it concealed Toby's eyes.

"Straighten up and fly right. Sounds like you and me both are fans of Nat King Cole."

 

[tamgreen]

Toby's insides twisted when the man came close. He kept his head down, refusing to acknowledge the offered hand. He wasn't going to play this game. All these little attempts to connect with him, to dig into him - techniques, and nothing more. It was all just tactics. Toby refused to be manipulated like that.

His hands retreated into their sleeves and squeezed, his shoulders hunching in a clearly closed-off posture. A little hermit crab retreating back as far into its shell as it could get, shrinking away from the pecking, probing beak of a predatory gull.

Sounds like you and me both are fans of Nat King Cole.

What?

The word rang a distant bell, but he couldn't connect it to anything. What the hell did it mean? Straighten up and fly right. It was just a thing people said, wasn't it?

But way in the back of his mind, the words had a tune to them. Some ancient jazzy thing. Old guy music. But he'd known someone once who wasn't old and liked that music, hadn't he? One teacher, once upon a time, that he'd actually liked. A tragically optimistic, brand new, first year teacher, who hadn't yet had his eyes opened to the realities of what he'd have to face if he wanted to be a high school teacher in this town. He'd played jazz quietly while Toby sat in detention, talked about un-teacher-y things, like Toby was a real person and not just a Problem. A teacher who genuinely seemed to give a fuck, and had taken to sharing a sandwich with him almost every day.

But it was all just fucking tactics, wasn't it? Bribing good behaviour out of him with jazz and mellow chit-chat and a free sandwich. The teacher hadn't even lasted a year - the worst of the worst at Central High had burned him out, badly, in just a few months.

And he hadn't even said goodbye.

No - no more tactics. Toby wouldn't be led down that path again.

He looked up at Gerry, the hood falling back a little to allow a view of large, bluish-gray eyes, rimmed with dark hollows of exhaustion.

"I don't know who the fuck that is," he murmured.

The subtext was clear - don't try and relate to me. But Toby was too tired even to put the anger into his words and his expression that he wanted to. For a few moments before he ducked his head down again to hide, he looked like what he was - just a small, tired, hungry boy who had been hurt far too many times.

 

[ericrodman101]

Gerry watched intently. As the boy replied he raised his eyes just a little. The hoodie slipped back a notch, allowing Gerry to see Toby's sad, exhausted eyes.

"I don't know who the fuck that is...."

The boy ducked his head back down.

Gerry knew not to speak. Not yet. This was a classic response. Denial, then closing down. But no one, not from here to fucking Timbuktu said 'straighten up and fly right' like it was a natural expression. Somehow, somewhere in whatever painfully sad past Toby had endured, someone he knew well enough to lock their words into his memory, had played or sung or quoted Nat King Cole.

Getting who or what out of Toby would be another thing entirely. For the first time in as long as he could remember Gerry felt a frisson, a workplace spark. Here was a project. The Toby project. Why and how did this sad, lonely kid give him a line from Nat King Cole, just one line, and clam up?

"Hey Toby," Gerry said softly. "You don't have to tell me anything. You don't have to like me. But you do have to sit here. It's the law. We can't do anything about that. So every school day morning from tomorrow until you graduate, you and me are going to sit across this desk from each other for forty minutes. Or at least until I say you're ready not to. We can sit in silence. Or we can talk. When you're ready. You might even enjoy it. I'm a good listener for a crusty old guy who probably looks and sounds like every interfering school teacher and fucking social worker you ever saw."

'Fucking?' Why not. That's how kids spoke. Gerry looked for any sign of reaction from Toby as he swore, but there was none. And had Toby seen a social worker? It wasn't on file, but it was a good guess.

"So we are just going to sit now until 10.15. I might say a few things about Fillmore and what you can expect, and you can talk whenever you like. About anything. Ask me anything. Tell me anything. Call me whatever you like. It's Gerry, but if you want to get something off your chest, you call me what you like. OK?"

Still no response. Gerry looked at the clock. Half an hour to go. Or six months depending on how you looked at it.

"So I'll just pipe down for a bit while you make yourself comfortable. There's OJ in the fridge. And sandwiches in case you haven't eaten breakfast. You can make a date to have breakfast here every morning if you want. Yeah?"

Still no response. Gerry fell silent, glanced at the clock, and then busied himself with the other files in the tray.

 

[tamgreen]

Toby's ears twitched at the f-bomb from the older counsellor, but he showed no visible reaction. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for guys like this to be so loose with their language. There were the uptight kind who excessively moralized, never using bad words and scolding anyone who did, as if swearing could possibly be an issue worth bothering about when many kids around the school were committing felonies. Then there were the kind who parroted words or behaviors of troubled kids, as if mimicking their peers would magically create trust and cooperation. It was so dumb, it was like that goddamn Steve Buscemi meme that was so aged it wasn't even funny anymore.

How do you do, fellow kids?

Toby remained tightly closed off, gritting his teeth. Old people trying to relate to him - was there anything worse? And this he would have to endure every day of school. Every fucking day. Maybe he could just use the time to catch up on some sleep. The chair was pretty comfy. He started to tune out the old man, but abruptly the word sandwiches broke through.

Juice and sandwiches? Toby carefully restrained his reactions. Already his mouth was watering, but his brain was on alert, holding him back. He carefully watched the counsellor out of the edge of his vision, waiting until the man seemed to have his focus on the files on his desk before slowly turning his head.

There it was. The guy had a damn mini fridge in his office. OJ and sandwiches. Breakfast every morning, if he wanted it. Fuck. It was so transparent; he hated that he was tempted. There was no way this wasn't some kind of bait. But like a starved yet clever rat, he stared at the trap, scheming on how to get the bait unscathed. Surely he could have a sandwich and not let it mean anything...? Not like before, when he was duped, and then dumped, like an idiot. A sandwich could just be a sandwich. Not a relationship.

But hungry as he was, Toby remained wary of the possibility of getting attached to a food source - it was a form of trust, and it might be cut off at any time. One day he might come here and Metzler and his little fridge would be gone.

He let several minutes pass. Papers rustled. A clock tick - tick - ticked on the wall above his head. His stomach rumbled.

The monkey looked the buzzard right dead in the eye and said,
'Your story's so touching, but it sounds just like a lie...'
Straighten up and fly right
Straighten up and stay right...​

"Killmore," Toby snarled abruptly. "That's what some kids call this shithole, back at Central. Killmore. You must be real fucking proud of your shitty school full of cunts."

There. That was satisfying. The boy crossed his thin arms over his flat chest, the bulky hoodie scrunching.

"How long have you worked here?" he added, peeking warily out of one eye from between shaggy bangs.

 

[ericrodman101]

Trying hard to keep his eyes on his work, Gerry watched Toby survey the room. He guessed what the kid was going through. Just another stupid, old, irrelevant white guy planning on telling him how to live his life.

His daughter Charlotte had been angry at school. At Gerry and Andrea. At just about everything. And if Gerry hadn't got so angry back he'd have realised that it was the perfect preparation for becoming a psychologist herself. So long as she came out the other side, of course. Maybe that was why he was so shit at being a guidance counsellor. Never suffered. Never got angry. Never been deprived of anything.

Except sex.....

Sex. Freud was right. It all came back to sex. What was Andrea doing now, he thought. He made another promise to do something about their love life when she returned from Denver or Pensacola or wherever she was conferencing this week. Something different to his last attempt at seduction. Dinner? Roses? Lingerie? Porn? An escort? None of the above? Jesus, even just thinking it through led him back to square one and no deal. Don't be silly, Gerry. I've got work to do Gerry. I've got to leave early tomorrow, Gerry. Just make yourself happy tonight, Gerry. Fuck....

Toby had clocked him watching. Maybe. Eyes down....

And then Gerry saw Toby locate the fridge. Just a quick dart of the eyes under the hoodie. The slightest head adjustment. That's right, young Toby. An Aladdin's cave of goodies. Go on. You know you want to...

But no dice. Hey, it might not be today. Or tomorrow. But Toby, those sandwiches aren't going to eat themselves. Well not the ones I'm taking home tonight for toasting....

"Killmore....shitty school full of cunts."

That's right little Toby, get angry, get snarky, get a sore ass sitting in that godawful chair.

And look up, look me in the eyes. That's right. Just to make sure I've got your message. See. That wasn't so hard after all. Now we're talking...

Gerry watched Toby fold his arms as if to say 'gotcha', and settled back for another long silence.

"How long have you worked here?"

Whoa, quicker than I thought. I'll have you sucking OJ and quaffing sandwiches before period 2 at this rate.

Gerry placed his pen down, slowly and deliberately, closed the file, and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.

"Thirty years, Toby."

What do you think of that, punk?

"And here at Killmore we call it Cuntral High. On account of all the cunts who go there."

 

[tamgreen]

Toby's one visible eye widened. Hm. Cuntral High, on account of the cunts. Cute.

"Cunts like me, who'll cut a bitch over a bag of fuckin' Doritos," he muttered.

Thirty years, though. Damn. His eighteen-year-old brain couldn't conceive of thirty years of anything. Thirty years of trying and failing to fix teenage cunts who didn't give a fuck about their education. It was the bleakest thing he'd ever heard. Why did the guy even try? Or did he? Was he just filling a chair, passing the time until he could retire and never have to give high school kids a second thought?

"What have you accomplished in thirty fucking years?" he challenged. "Maybe you're why this is the worst school of all time."

Ha. Take that.

Without waiting for an answer, he unfolded himself and shuffled over to the mini fridge, pulling it open. There they were - bottles of bright, sunny OJ, neatly wrapped sandwiches, like privileged kids with moms who acted like real moms would take to school with them, never having to worry about where their next meal might come from.

One by one, Toby transferred every bottle of OJ and every sandwich into his backpack, and zipped it shut. He would take them, but he wouldn't give the old man the satisfaction of seeing him enjoy them.

He glanced back at Gerry, to catch his reaction.

 

[ericrodman101]

Cunts like you....

Cunts who take all the fucking food. Jesus, Gerry thought, in thirty years you're the first fucking little shit who did that. And here was I thinking I've got nothing to learn. Touche, Toby fucking Keller. Touche.

"You enjoy breakfast, Toby, courtesy of all the Killmore cunts. OK?"

Gerry cursed himself for sounding so aggressive. This fucking kid was getting to him. Don't react any further. Don't react....

Gerry smiled. Sweetly and unconcerned, he hoped. It wasn't easy. Thirty years a professional, listening to every fucking teen problem and the parents who'd caused them, wiping kids off the floor, explaining to them what made the baby inside them and how not to do it again, why holding a girl down while your friend fucked her was rape, why anal was not an approved form of birth control, why no didn't mean yes, how things would get better, why it was worth giving it another try, taking them home, picking them up from home, going to court with them, arranging their bail, writing their statements, chasing and catching them when they ran off, and even assisting them to run away from homes where they had no future.

And here was Toby fucking Keller, 18 year old foul-mouthed, emo cunt emptying the refrigerator like he owned the joint. Well, two can play at being a cunt.

"We're going to have plenty of time to talk about what I've achieved in thirty years, Toby."

Gerry looked at the clock. Ten minutes to go.

"Tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Just you and me, talking over breakfast. I'm looking forward to it."

 

[tamgreen]

He'd made the old man angry - he knew it. Toby felt he'd achieved something, though it didn't entirely make sense. Maybe he just wanted a guy like Metzler to be real with him - to put aside the manufactured patience, the flimsy pretense of giving a fuck. Counselling was a joke. He wasn't here because anyone wanted to help him - he was here because the administration had an obligation to at least put up an appearance of intervening when they had a potentially violent student on their hands. They were probably just covering their asses from a legal standpoint, by forcing him into this room for forty minutes a day. Metzler certainly didn't want to help him - Toby felt he'd proven that now.

Fuck, if that fake smile from the old man didn't make him want to get violent again. Toby dropped his butt into the chair and hugged his bulging backpack against his chest, clutching it like a greedy dragon upon its hoard, restraining himself from lashing out. There it was - the guy hated him already. Metzler probably hated him the moment he'd seen his file.

Just admit it. Just let me know you hate my worthless guts. And you don't care. And you don't want to help me. You'll hand out a few sandwiches and go to sleep in your warm bed feeling like a hero, but as soon as you don't have to be here, you'll be gone, just like everyone else, and just like I will be.

He glared at the man for several minutes of seething silence. Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes for today. Then he'd go eat his sandwiches and drink his orange juice. And he'd have enough for lunch, and dinner. Not a total waste, then, but the counsellor was deliberately making it worse than it had to be. Telling Toby he was looking forward to it - what the actual fuck? This seemed like an insult to both of them.

"Listen," he said tightly. He could hold back from lashing out physically at the guy, but he couldn't hold back verbally anymore.

"I know bullshitting kids is basically your job. But you could at least not be so fucking obvious about it. What's the point of telling me you're looking forward to talking to me when we both know you're not? Do you just want to piss me off? Is that your technique?"

 

[ericrodman101]

Now they were both angry. Or at least Gerry had been angry when Toby had taken all the food from the refrigerator. He knew he'd spoken to Toby more aggressively than he should, than he wanted to sound, even just for an instant. A single sentence.

But he'd pulled back. Calmed. Smiled. Spoken politely and optimistically. And now Toby was angry.

Fuck! No one was irredeemable, but this kid sure had a hair trigger. And being nice wasn't going to work.

Nine minutes to go. No time to try another tack. The kid was going to be angry all day. All week. Forever? That was the challenge, of course. Toby Keller was an angry kid. With every reason to be. I mean, why not? The file told him enough to know no one had ever done much more Toby. And with six months left to graduation, how much could Gerry and Fillmore do? And do what? Help him to be less angry? Was that going to be possible? Find a way to turn anger into something useful? Drive. Energy. Focus.

What did angry people do? Box? Fight? Make squillions? Murder? Rape? Annihilate themselves? And others? There were plenty of options, and not mutually exclusive. The challenge would be to convince Toby he had choices and to make them.

Gerry watched the kid boil and spit. So you think I'm bullshitting? Pissing you off because I like it? Maybe I am. Maybe I do. Who the fuck knows?

"OK, Toby, so you're pissed off. Who wouldn't be, sitting in here with a smug fucker like me? But it's feeling something, isn't it? Pissed off. Look, you're 18. You can do what you want. Go away and do you what you like. Or spend a day in the warm and dry. If you come back to Fillmore tomorrow you get to spend forty minutes with me. Having breakfast. Telling me how you feel about all the sad fucks and crazy cunts who mess with you. That's my problem for forty minutes a day. And your fucking problem all day. Do I really look forward to hearing some angry ungrateful punk trying to shit me off? Well maybe I do. It sure beats being cold and hungry and sitting in my own shit in an alley."

Gerry gave Toby space to come back with some wisecrack. Or hit him. Or just to leave.

"So you do what you like, Toby, and I'll do the same."

 

[tamgreen]

Do what I like? When had Toby ever had such a luxury? As if cutting up other bullies, mouthing off to teachers and administrators, and stealing food were his preferred hobbies? Did the idiot think he was pissed off and acted out because he just wanted to, for its own sake?

It's feeling something, isn't it?

Those words stuck with him for some reason. Being pissed off, being angry. Yeah. It was something. Being so mad he had to break a bottle across a guy's face? That was something too. Something better than just being trodden all over. Cleaning out the counsellor's fridge out of spite - that was something. Something he could grab onto when he had no steady ground beneath his feet.

Toby curled up tighter around the backpack in his lap, resting his chin and squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want the old guy to think he was having any impact whatsoever.

"I'd like to get some fucking sleep," he mumbled. "Maybe that's what I'd like. If I spend forty minutes a day sleeping in your stupid office, you'll still get your paycheck, right?"

 

[ericrodman101]

Gerry was unable to suppress a smile. This kid was dynamite. Impenetrable. Unshamable. A contempt for everyone and everything, of Himalayan proportions. He almost said 'you want to sleep, then I'll get you a bed', but there had to be limits.

Which got him thinking, as he completed the smile mostly unseen by Toby who had forced his eyes shut. What were the limits to this interaction, the Toby project? He'd taken all the food, so tomorrow there would be one sandwich and one bottle of OJ. He'd been verbally aggressive, but in Gerry's mind there was no limit verbally. Like all the kids who ended up in the guidance office, whatever their behaviour or grievance, they could say what they liked. And Gerry's approach was pretty much to give it back as good as he got. If it shocked some of them, so what? If it produced rapport, result! And if it did nothing, well try again the next day and repeat.

Then there was vandalism and violence. A little vandalism could be therapeutic, so it was important for anything breakable to be cheap and light. Kids had thrown chairs through windows before, they'd smashed lights, and trashed the place, but that didn't make a temporary mess in the guidance office all that different to the permanent state of much of the school.

Violence was a real issue. Toby was lucky not to be locked up after the bottle incident. Gerry knew how to defend himself, but laying his hands on a kid was the absolute last resort. He'd let kids knock him down before when he thought he was making progress. Everyone entering Fillmore passed through the metal detector, but a chair or laptop or a stapler could do real damage in the wrong hands.

And if the worst happened, there was the panic button under Gerry's desk. In the decade since its installation he'd never used it, but it worked on test, and he trusted someone was monitoring it.

Besides, Gerry hoped the bottle incident was out of character, and Toby was mostly mouthy. All the same, he wasn't planning to let his guard down too far.

Maybe letting the kid sleep, at least for a day or two, was a good idea. If Toby needed sleep and wasn't getting enough rest wherever he spent the night, a power nap before class was positive. And Toby gave off all the vibe of a wild animal, one eye cocked at all times for danger. Sleeping in front of a school teacher might even be a demonstration of trust.

Gerry smiled again. What a load of bullshit self justification, he thought. The kid'll probably just brain me with a chair and abscond with my wallet, and the last thing I'll do for him is sign the police statement.

Five minutes to go.

 

[tamgreen]

Toby kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, blocking the world out. He desperately needed some sleep, but he knew it was a lost cause today anyway. In just a few minutes he'd have to go to class. Besides, he had too much stress weighing on him. He wouldn't admit it, but he was starting to regret what he'd done to get himself expelled. At Central, he could have done another year and survived. He hadn't been ready to leave high school and enter adulthood, so that was his stupid, pathetic plan. Just keep failing and do it over again. Stay a dumb kid as long as he could.

But here, at Fillmore (Killmore) - he couldn't survive that long. He had to get out, and maybe the only way to get out, besides do such terrible things that even Fillmore would expel him, was actually graduate. Fuck.

He hadn't been trying much when it came to schoolwork, but what if he still failed just as badly if he did try?

He could quit school altogether. Just never come back. They couldn't force him. But then what? Get a job, like his mother nagged him? What the hell would he even do? His behaviour was inexcusable, and he had no skills. Sell drugs? Even one single experience of that had been harrowing. He was too soft for the environment he lived in; too rough-around-the-edges to get by anywhere else. This old man on the other side of the desk with his sandwiches and his fake smiles couldn't fix that.

Toby's eyes squeezed tighter, and so did his grip on his backpack, for the final minute of their session.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He dared to raise his head to steal a glance at the clock, only to confirm the session was now over. He shifted his gaze to the counsellor, his eyes looking even more tired than before. He'd hated that he had to be stuck in here for forty minutes, but now that it was done, he dreaded having to leave. The whole world was waiting for him outside this room. The whole, ugly, hateful, dangerous, frightening world.

"So... I guess I go to class now," he spoke up hoarsely.

 

[ericrodman101]

"Yeah, time for class," Gerry said with as little emotion in his voice as he could muster. Toby was one helluva mixed up kid. All this sullen pouting and rejection, yet for a moment Gerry had detected a softening, a hesitation, as if the idea of going to class was not as distasteful an option as Toby wanted him to think.

Gerry felt himself softening too. He wanted to console Toby, wanted to convince him things are not that bad. There's always hope. But not today. Getting through forty minutes without a punch-up or leaving the building was a victory. As much if not more than he could hope for as the kid's guidance counsellor.

And he'd got the kid to eat.

Yes, it was enough. Tomorrow would be time for....time for what? Gerry would have to think about that.

He nodded slightly as he watched Toby stand, look about, and move toward the door. A slight, almost unnoticeable smile, just enough, Gerry hoped, to signal affirmation.

But Toby left the room, giving nothing more away, just a slouching figure with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Tomorrow then..." Gerry said, instinctively, worrying even as he said it that thoughts of tomorrow and what it could bring might chase Toby away. But then, what did that matter? Toby would be one of countless kids lost to the system and thrown on the scrap heap. It was just that Gerry didn't like losing. He knew he was no great teacher, no inspiration. Just an example of how easy it is to get along when you kept your head down, did your nine to five, and enjoyed the rewards of living in a safe, stable, secure society with your wits about you. Which as just about all he could teach someone like Toby. The kid didn't seem witless. Quite the contrary. He'd got this far without killing himself or anyone else, and was now taking himself off to class when if he wanted, Toby could simply leave.

Food for thought, Gerry thought. Toby is without hope, but he's not a hopeless case. Unlike....

He pressed the button, knowing the light would flash outside to summon....he looked down at the file. Jesus fucking Christ! Danny Oswald, Danny the Dick. What would it be today - another unwanted pregnancy, an STD, alleged sexual assault? The smartest thing he could do for Danny would be leave him in the room and lock it from the outside.

 

[tamgreen]

Toby gave the older man an inscrutable look as he shuffled out of the office and back into the lions' den. He had English next, which was always a terrible snooze-fest, but before he went anywhere else, he stopped at his locker and emptied most of the sandwiches and juice into it. He took a bottle of OJ and one sandwich and sucked them down immediately.

God, was all food supposed to be this good? Even the juice felt practically like a drug as it entered his system. When he had juice, he was used to it being from concentrate and super watered down. This OJ tasted like sunshine in a bottle. And the sandwich was thick, tasty, and satisfying. Enough that he grabbed a second one and devoured that too. He was a little bit late for English as a result, but then, so was the teacher.

Starting his day with a full belly gave Toby a short-lived burst of optimism. For a few hours he was committed to actually making an effort, and then there was a pop quiz in math. It didn't seem to make a shred of difference to his teacher that it was his first day - according to the teacher, the two schools followed the same curriculum, so he had no excuse for not being just as prepared as any other student in this class.

He wasn't sure he got a single question right, but at least he didn't write fuck this all over it.

Later, near the end of the afternoon, he turned a corner too quickly and collided with a husky blonde football player with a crooked nose, who was none too happy to have a little shitstain like Toby in his way. Toby was slammed face-first against a row of lockers, and immediately a rivulet of blood poured from his nose. His gut fight-or-flight response unfortunately went for the first option, and he made an ill-considered swing at the jock, which of course failed to land, and instead earned a swift retaliation that left him with a black eye on top of his bloody nose.

Great start.

Once his day was over, Toby ended up getting off the bus early and taking a long walk, no more eager to be at home than he was to be at school. He walked through a park and paused to watch parents with their children, imagining what it would have been like to be that little kid on the swings being pushed by his mom and giggling as if life were nothing but fun and games, or that other little kid riding on his dad's shoulders, confident in the solidity and safety of the man who held onto his ankles.

He ate another sandwich as he walked home, thinking of the guidance counsellor. Did the man have children of his own? Grandchildren? Did he make them sandwiches like this, or even better ones? Or was he a lonely old guy no one liked because he worked at the shittiest school and had to yell at shitty kids all day and was probably miserable all the time?

* * * * *

The man who had spent the night with his mom was still there when Toby got home. He was lying across the couch in his underpants smoking a cigarette and watching TV. The man gave Toby a dirty look, as if it were his apartment and Toby were intruding.

"What are you doing here?" Toby demanded, not seeing his mom anywhere around.

The man grunted. He looked pretty out of it - definitely on something. Toby soon spotted the telltale needle, spoon, and lighter on the coffee table next to the ashtray.

"Can you go somewhere else?" Toby urged. "I need to do homework."

"Homework... right," the man mumbled skeptically. "Your mom told me you're a fuckin' retard. Fuck off."

"You fuck off - you don't even live here!" Toby exclaimed. "Where's my mom?"

"She should be back soon. And she won't want you here."

Toby sighed and went to the kitchen, loading his remaining sandwiches and OJ into the fridge. When he turned around, the man was standing in the kitchen doorway, startling Toby. He hadn't heard the guy get up, and he'd seemed too high to even stand upright.

"What?" Toby exclaimed nervously.

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke into Toby's face. Toby cringed and shrank back from it as the man reached for the fridge and pulled it open with his free hand to see what had been put in there. Immediately he grabbed one of the sandwiches.

"Those are mine!" Toby protested, trying to grab it back, but he felt a sudden sharp pain against his wrist and pulled back with a hiss. The man's lit cigarette had burned him, whether accidentally or on purpose. The guy just chuckled and took a big bite of the sandwich.

"Thanks for the snack," he said through a full mouth.

"It's been in my locker all day - I hope you get salmonella, fucktard!" Toby snapped, running his burned wrist under cold water at the kitchen sink.

"You've got a mouth on you," the man said, and grabbed Toby's chin with the same hand that still held his cigarette, tucked between two stained fingers. "You've got your mommy's mouth."

Toby held very still, not wanting to get burned again. The man's eyes were bloodshot and a little crazy. Where the hell was mom?

"Why don't you put that mouth to better use, hm? Your mama says you need a job. Sucking dick's a job. Huh? You suck a dick as good as your mom does? Twenty bucks a pop to start. How's that for a job, faggot?"

Toby squirmed as the man grabbed him by the hair and pointed his head downwards - the man had sprouted a massive erection that tented his underwear so far that the waistband pulled away, giving the eighteen-year-old a glimpse of an unruly bush of pubic hair and the thick base of a shaft.

"That look good, faggot? You want that?"

Toby gulped, staring down at the glimpse of cock, as the cigarette smoldered perilously close to his smooth cheek.

"No," he whispered in response.

The man snorted in derision and shoved him back against the counter, popping his cigarette back between his lips.

"Fuckin' liar," he muttered out of one side of his mouth.

Toby grunted as the man's large hand grabbed at his crotch, finding the shameful semi-hardness beneath the boy's jeans. Yes, he was kind of turned on - he didn't want to be. He was scared, embarrassed, angry, horrifically uncomfortable, and fucking aroused. What was wrong with him?

As his mother's one-or-two-night stand laughed pungent cigarette smoke into his face, Toby managed to pull away from his grasp and grabbed his backpack, hastily zipping it shut as he ran for the door, fleeing the apartment at top speed.

He glanced back a few times to make sure he wasn't being trailed before disappearing into the dim, claustrophobic, smelly stairwell. For a few minutes, on a landing between floors where someone had obviously pissed in a corner at some point, Toby stood breathing hard, trying to swallow back the threat of panic that shook him. A minute later he reached into his pants and started rapidly tugging himself. If a nightmare like that could make him horny, there was definitely something wrong with him, but right now he just needed some sort of relief and didn't question it.

Keeping his ears alert for approaching footsteps from above or below, Toby masturbated frantically, feeling depraved and completely disgusting. When his climax approached he bit his lip and turned to shoot his load on the wall, where it joined the piss previously deposited there by someone else.

The rush of dopamine was enough to calm him a bit for the moment. Toby quickly zipped up and continued his way down the stairs and out of the apartment.

Halfway down the block Toby ran into his mother, along with a small mob of her friends. He didn't like her friends, and felt immediately uneasy. Almost all were carrying booze, and they were talking and laughing obnoxiously.

"Oh good, you're leaving!" she declared when she noticed him. An open vodka bottle hung from one of her hands, swinging casually.

"Nice to see you too," Toby retorted. "What's up with the fuckin' asshole still hanging around upstairs? He practically raped me!"

Several of her friends had a good laugh at his claim.

"Ugghhh, Tobes - you're so fulla' shit!" his mother groaned.

"I'm not!" Toby insisted. "Can you make him go? I need to do homework!"

"You're not doing homework in the apartment tonight," she snickered. "It's fuckin' party time!"

The group of guys and girls surrounding her, many of which didn't seem much older than he was, hooted and hollered in excitement at this. Toby was livid. Her parties were awful, and would trash the place even worse than it was already trashed. She was right - he definitely wouldn't get homework done at home.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"God, I don't know - be a normal eighteen-year-old, maybe? Go find your own party. Go fuck a girl. Go crash on someone's couch. I don't care, okay? Just don't come home til tomorrow. Have fun - you're such a downer. Here, you want? See, I can be a cool mom."

She opened a tin to offer him a variety of pills, with cute shapes and bright colors that made them resemble children's vitamins, but he knew what they were. He grabbed a couple - who knew how desperate he'd get? - and dropped them into his pocket before passing by the group and heading off in a random direction.

Over the next couple of hours, Toby managed to find some kids he knew from Central and sold them the tablets for enough cash to buy himself a fast food dinner, which somewhat made up for the sandwiches and juice he knew would be all gone by the time he got home. At least there would be more tomorrow.

He found a public library and stayed there til closing, trying to do some studying but mostly just napping. By the time he had to leave the library, daylight was long gone. He wandered until he found a quiet park and sat on a bench until he was sure everyone else had left. He then moved to the playground and crawled inside a plastic tunnel, where he shivered and hugged his backpack until exhaustion overcame him.

* * * * *

It was still dark when Toby awoke to the barking of a dog nearby. He was sore and cold and didn't want to stay put anymore, even though he still had a few hours before he'd have to be at school. He headed in that direction anyway, limping a little from a bad leg cramp. He had to wait a while for a bus at this hour and nodded off a little on the way.

He reached school before anyone had opened the doors; gone was his hope of warming up and relaxing in the school library before his day started. Instead he curled up on the steps leading up to a side door, waiting for a janitor or perhaps a security guard.

 

[ericrodman101]

Gerry got through the rest of the day on automatic pilot. After Danny Oswald - and yes, it was another sexual assault allegation, but a guy this time. Can you believe it? - each visit to his office for guidance was more of the same. He felt like the mythical IT guy who solves every problem by asking 'have you tried turning it off and on again?'.

In the breaks he tracked down Toby's teachers for a brief chat. Nothing unexpected. The kid was pretty quiet, basically non-cooperative - he'd written 'fuck this' on his math quiz - and there was a report of an incident where he swung at some football jock twice his size and been knocked down for his troubles. What surprised Gerry the most was finding out that Toby had stayed at school all day.

Before departing, Gerry made some more notes on Toby's file. He wanted to know more about home and whether there was anyone supportive in Toby's environment. It sounded a hopeless case, but if Gerry verified that, he might be able to find alternative accommodation.

Then there were the kid's clothes. Dirty and threadbare, which pretty much answered the home support question. The nurse kept a cache of secondhand shoes in case someone needed replacements - good shoes, no trash. It amazed Gerry how many kids discarded perfectly good shoes when they went out of fashion, but the donations kept coming. Some of the teachers even wore them.

He reminded himself to buy a sandwich and OJ on the way in - just one of each mind. He didn't want to be cleaned out again.

And something kept nagging him about music.....

There was a message on the answerphone from Andrea. Back Wednesday. No other details. She'd cab it from the airport, he expected. She'd long ago stopped asking to be picked up, and Gerry stopped offering.

With Andrea away again he microwaved a TV dinner and settled down for an evening of porn. And for a change, Gerry decided to stream it on the flat screen. He made sure to double check all the blinds were drawn, changed into his track pants - nice and loose, room for accidents as well as enjoyment - and selected Pornhub. Little Riley Reid, in too tight school uniform, fingers herself in her friend's bathroom, Mick Blue, masquerading as her friend's brother but old enough to be Riley's father, comes in. It's all 'what the fuck' and 'you're a big girl now' and 'don't mind me peeing in front of you'. Riley takes Mick in every hole. Shame, Gerry thought, Mick didn't have any horny friends over to treat Riley, but then it was only a cramped fucking toilet.

And he couldn't concentrate anyway. Couldn't get Toby out of his mind. Mouthy fucking Toby Keller. Christ he hoped the kid was warm and dry....

Next morning Gerry woke on the couch, track pants around his ankles, Pornhub frozen on the blue screen. It was later than he thought. Hurriedly washed and in yesterday's clothes, he stopped by a gas station and bought two sandwiches and OJs - might as well have my breakfast too - and stupidly found himself running early. The main doors of the school were still locked, but the janitor should have the side doors open.

Toby was curled up on the step. For a moment Gerry wondered who'd dumped a pile of rags, and then whether a hobo was sleeping rough. But it was Toby. The realisation stopped Gerry in his tracks for a moment. He was dumbstruck at the wretchedness.

"Toby," he said as he stepped alongside....but what next? A gag? Empathy? What could he say that wouldn't piss Toby off? Anything at all?

The kid looked up.

"I've got your breakfast," Gerry said, stepping over the kid and trying the door. It opened.

 

[tamgreen]

Toby was startled to full alertness when he heard his name. He looked up with complete surprise at the guidance counsellor - what was he doing here so early? Or had Toby actually fallen asleep and it wasn't so early after all?

The boy quickly lowered his face as he pushed himself up unsteadily, knowing what a miserable sight he must be. Same clothes as yesterday, no comb for his hair, his nose still swollen and red, and his eye blackened from the previous day's encounter with the aggressive football jock.

Gone were Toby's thoughts of spending time in the library this morning. The promise of breakfast was enough to have him following after Gerry like a puppy, or perhaps more accurately like a young calf or foal, considering how unsteady he was on his skinny legs at the moment.

Would Metzler make him jump through hoops to get the juice and sandwiches today? Or would he just be able to take them again? Toby was definitely not up for any bullshit today. He just wanted to eat something and go to sleep. He could hardly ask for anything more than that in life, and particularly today.

"Do you have anyone before me?" he asked in a hoarse, drowsy voice. "Can I come now?"

 

[ericrodman101]

Gerry sensed Toby following as he walked down the empty corridor. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of a floor polisher, but no one was to be seen. He'd been surprised by the sorry sight of Toby's clothes. The boy was still wearing what he'd worn yesterday, but he looked even more untidy. Slept rough, Gerry guessed. He'd seen some hard cases in his time, but this was awful.

Their footfalls echoed in the empty building as they made their way to Gerry's office. Once or twice Gerry did look back to check on Toby's progress, but in the half light and with the hoodie drawn up, he was unable to make out the boy's face. They came level with Gerry's office and in a sheepish voice, Toby asked to come inside.

"Sure," Gerry said, "you're up first anyway, in..." He looked at his watch. "Shit! Two hours. Is that really the time."

Gerry stepped inside, switched on the light, and turned round. Toby's condition shocked him. Swollen nose, black eye, uncombed hair. The kid looked spent and exhausted. For a moment Gerry hesitated. There was nothing he wanted more than to show Toby he sympathised. Was on his side. That he meant well and there was nothing to fear. But that meant giving in to his first instincts which was to hold him as he'd hold any wretched young person, hold and protect them, offer them the comfort of knowing someone else was there for them.

All his training as a guidance counsellor said not to touch the students. Professionally, it was a risk not worth taking. How many of his peers ended up reprimanded or jobless because they'd succumbed to emotion? But not to offer comfort went against every grain of Gerry's humanity. He'd been tested before, many times, and always managed to act the professional, even when it hurt. But today....even as he debated with himself whether holding Toby would shock him, cause the boy to flinch or run, Gerry reached out anyway.

 

[tamgreen]

"I have no idea what time it is," Toby sighed, shuffling into the office and dropping his backpack next to the chair. He felt the man's eyes on him, and a tickle crawled up the back of his neck. He turned his gaze cautiously to the older man and furrowed his brow.

Out of the corner of his slightly swollen eye he saw the man's hand move. Toby looked down to see if there was a sandwich in it. When he saw that the counsellor was only reaching out with an empty hand to touch him, Toby returned to that weird mix of confusing emotions that had fucked him up yesterday, when that creepy asshole his mom fucked had grabbed his junk - grossed out, scared, and excited all at once. Reflexively he pulled back, as if Gerry, too, had a smoldering cigarette in his hand that might burn him.

You suck a dick as good as your mom does? Twenty bucks a pop to start.

"Fuck off!" he burst out - as much of a reflex as as pulling away.

Indignant and wary, though obviously not as confident as he wanted to be, Toby backed up until he connected with a wall and crossed his arms tightly. He froze and stared like a cornered rabbit until he was sure the man wasn't going to try again to grab him. Gradually his body relaxed.

"I just... want my breakfast... and to go to sleep for a while," he finally said, softly. He cautiously held out one hand, expecting sandwiches and OJ.

 

[ericrodman101]

It was always the wrong move, the wrong reaction, always. Gerry knew it so clearly even before he reached out. But he was never going to react differently...oh Jesus. Toby cringed, swore, backed into the corner, bumping into the wall, arms folded, tense, cornered. Oh Jesus, kid, someone's done something terrible to you...

Gerry stepped back too, both hands raised to signify no threat.

"Breakfast...yeah. In my bag."

He turned, opened his bag and extracted the sandwiches, then the OJ.

"Ham and cheese? It's all I've got," he said holding it out to Toby. "Eat, sleep, rest, whatever you need. Sorry. I was worried about you."

Shut up, Gerry, shut up shut up shut up....

Toby stood his ground, making no attempt to take the sandwich. Gerry laid it on the edge of the table, then sat behind the desk, making a wall between them. Neutral ground. Then he placed a bottle of OJ next to the sandwich before tearing the wrapping off the second ham and cheese.

Still Toby just stood. And as Gerry raised the sandwich to his mouth he realised how tense he was too. Breathless. His gut knotted. The whole incident felt unreal. So much could have gone wrong. Maybe it had. Although Toby was still in the room. That was a good sign. Yes?

 

[tamgreen]

Toby stared at the sandwich, then at the bottle of juice, then at the counsellor, evaluating the man's odd expression. His eyes cut to the door of the office. Sure, he could leave if he needed to. There was nothing preventing him from doing so. He could run, just like he had from the apartment. Just run and run and run, away from this room and away from this school. Run until he hit a wall. An actual wall, instead of sky, made of plaster, like in "The Truman Show". Bam. Joke's on you, Tobes - just messing with you. None of it was ever real. Time to wake up; time to start over. Control, Alt, Delete. If only.

But his mouth watered and his stomach growled. He'd get what he came for. Breakfast - and yes, maybe even a nap. He couldn't trust Gerry anymore than he could trust any other cunt on this wretched fucked-up planet, but the guy had backed off, and more importantly, he remained a food source. This wasn't trust. Just survival. Take what you need and don't get attached. Not again. Don't make that idiotic mistake again.

...Now listen, Jack!

Straighten up and fly right
Straighten up and fly right
Straighten up and fly right
Cool down, papa, don't you blow your top

Toby gave his head a shake. Fuck, that song wouldn't leave his head. He wished it had never come up.

With sudden determination he stepped forward, swiped the sandwich and juice off the desk and took a big step back. He looked down at the items in his hands and then over at the little fridge that lived in Gerry's office. He pulled it open briefly, but of course, it was just as empty as he'd left it yesterday.

"Is this it? That's all?" he exclaimed, squeezing the two items in his hands. "Fuck!"

He glared at the sandwich in the counsellor's hand, which the old man obviously intended to eat himself, and then dropped moodily into the chair on the far side of the desk, taking an indignant bite of his sandwich and chewing it for a very long time as he dwelt on how annoying this bait-and-switch was.

Well. He'd gotten by on less. He could stretch out this meal to last the day. Carefully he ate exactly one third of the sandwich, and drank exactly one third of the juice, and tucked the remainder into his backpack. Once he'd zipped his backpack shut, he pulled it jealously to his chest and hung on as he slouched down low, closing his eyes and letting his chin rest on his chest as he closed his tired eyes.