Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

coughed for lack of a better option, eyes lowered. Words from somewhere close to the surface poured out: “You’re not trying to pick me up, right?”

Mr. Beaman jerked his head back the way a chicken did when it walked, reeling his arm to his side. “Ah, no. I’m not—”

“That’s good.” Rusty pushed open the door. “Thanks for the coffee. See ya tomorrow.” He glanced back once he reached the parking lot and Mr. Beaman remained in place, looking out the wire-reinforced windows of the doors how a horror movie kid looks out from the attic.

On the high curb across from the school’s property line, Rusty sat on a clean looking spot on concrete and pulled his cigarette pack from pocket, stretching his right leg way out to do so. His hand shook and his guts felt like Jell-O. His mind was so far from the real world, he didn’t hear when the trio of football players shouted, “Scar face eats shit!” out the window of a late model Mustang as they passed. He didn’t acknowledge the strange girl with green pigtails and faded jean overalls when she ran up on him to show off her tickets to an upcoming Stompin’ Tom Connors concert in Hamilton. He didn’t so much as glance as the four red-eyed boys in hoodies and loose jeans walked by in a huddle, coughing, a harsh hash oil scent following them like Pig-Pen’s dirt cloud.

Rusty simply smoked and sipped from his travel mug, taking in the rare high note of decidedly decent coffee during school hours, until the warning bell rang and he pushed to his feet and crossed the street. He was trying not to think about anything at all, but failing miserably.

—

The only constant Rusty was truly thankful about concerning his return to school was that he’d already achieved all the necessary physical education and arts credits. As confusing as general science was, at least he didn’t have to don the purple and grey gym shorts and tee or blow on a communal instrument, didn’t have to participate in drama exercises, and didn’t have to reveal his abhorrent painting skills. Still, the dead frog he and his lab partner—a tiny girl named Alley Jones who said about two words per class—had to pin and slice was some nasty business. A few weeks earlier, someone at the Fall Street Café told him they’d outlawed dissecting animals because PETA threatened to blow up schools. Rusty believed it at the time because it had seemed as if there was zero chance of its reliability mattering; thinking about that as he looked at the gooey innards in the steel pan, the use of the word outlaw should’ve rang some nonsense bells before what he saw and touched proved the news false.

“You all right?” Rusty asked.

Alley wore a green hue over her typically china pale complexion. She nodded and whispered, “What’s the yellow ones for?”

“No idea,” Rusty said. The insides of the creature were mostly dark tones, things seemingly in place within the assumed guts of an animal, like stuff you saw on Friday the 13th or Evil Dead, but there were also vibrant yellow cords. “Maybe it has to do with waste or acid, like…I don’t know what the hell use I’ll have for this. I mean, what job does cutting up frogs matter?”

The teacher had stepped up behind him in time to hear the comment. “Some students will go on to be scientists. Some students will need to—”

Rusty interrupted her, said, “Students from a general science class going to go on to be scientists?” He looked around the room: a handful of stoners, a few shop kids, a few more country boy football players, and a scattering of underachievers and people lacking the mental capacity to learn much more than mandated minimums. “Which one of us? Maybe picking up roadkill. See stuff like this picking up roadkill.”

“You could always drop out again,” the teacher said.

Her name was Mrs. Betts and, though he’d had her four other times in his harried high school career, Rusty had only learned her name a month earlier. He’d always called her Mrs. Botts. Honest mistake.

“Guess I could.”

“Save me the effort of grading your dimwitted answers.”

He was doing all right in her class, and despite her bluster, she didn’t want him to fail, he could sense things. Experience gave him a perspective afforded to very few high school students. He saw through her thin veil of frustration—she wished she had a future scientist to teach, ached for that kind of reward, but instead, she got Rusty.

“Guess that’s true, but then I’d never see you and that might break my heart.”

Mrs. Betts rolled her eyes. “You could work harder, explore thoughts about where learning these skills might lead instead of naysaying.”

“Yeah, but, it’s just, I mean, how smart is cutting up a frog?” Rusty had meant something else, but it was out.

“Smarter than you, I suppose,” Mrs. Betts whispered and continued her rounds.

From the table behind him, a tall and fat boy said, “Yeah, scar face. You shouldn’t even be allowed around us. I hear you got a criminal record.”

Another boy, country ignorant, but not fat like his mate, said, “Probably for touching kids. Little boys.”

Rusty turned, face scrunched. “Are you serious? I mean, how come you think you gain any standing by dissing me? I’m not in your social,” he swung his hand in circles, index pointed to the ceiling, “thing. I’ve ascended, kid. Out of your reach.”

The big one folded his arms over his chest, as if his size came from weights instead of a steady diet of Doritos and off brand cola, Mom’s macaroni and cheese, and sitting in front of the TV after the bus dropped him off. The skinny one mimicked the big one, but added, “How ‘bout we kick your ass.”

“You are serious,” Rusty