“What were you thinking, Thunder-ears?” Gnat whispers behind his book while pretending to read. “Light disappearing? Impenetrable darkness? People falling over each other? You two disappearing into thin air?” He smirks. “I thought you’d be smarter than this, Firehead. You keep messing up, just like that interview yesterday. You have to learn to keep your head down; you draw too much attention to yourself.” With an uncanny display of self-control (if I do say so myself), I suppress a retort.
The injustice of his words still stings. How was it my fault that I was there when Wilma and Betty were about to attack Shadow? How could I not help her when they were about to break her in two? The same goes for that interview. How was that my fault? The fact that everyone was so eager to embrace all the malignant, vicious garbage and lies about me with such bloodthirsty relish was in a way more shocking than the lies themselves, although not entirely unexpected.
Self exoneration seems to be the underlying mechanism of social media. We are all desperately trying to deflect from ourselves by getting all righteous, wound up and furious about other people's alleged behavior. No checks, no empathy, just relief that it's not us.
This time it was no different. The buzz that had followed me everywhere during my first week at school and had decreased gradually over the past few days was back at typhoon level.
For a moment, Gnat’s silent, but then he explodes. "We are toast, Spark-brain, cannon fodder. They are out to get us."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm not joking. Think about it. First Slug, then that Shadow-girl, and you. I will be next, I’m sure of it." Completely baffled, I dropped my book just a bit too low. “Kwintens and Monteque in the back, one more word and you’ll have to write a thousand times: ‘I have to keep my mouth shut while I’m preparing my essay on the glorious German campaign in North Africa 1943.’”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberlehrer,” I mumbled almost too loudly, raising my book and turning back to Gnat.
“There is no us, and there never will be.”
“Duhu, as if I don’t know that. But try telling that to the rest of the school. Everyone is talking about it; us against them.”
“Them?” I reply. “You mean the Flintstones?” Unexpectedly, a rare smile breaks through on his face. Always a disturbing sight, that strange mix of fun and malice.
“You call them that? Like the old cartoon?” And when I reluctantly nod. “Good one, Hothead.” And his smile is gone again. “It doesn’t matter what you think. I hear rumors. They’ve been embarrassed by a few small kids. They can’t have that. They are planning to make an example out of us.” For a moment, he looks combative, like he’s ready to take on all four of them all by himself, but I know better. Gnat is not stupid and certainly not brave. He may pose as a tough guy, but I have never seen him do anything even remotely courageous. He’s more of a theory person—a conspiracy-theory person.
I hate to admit it, but he kind of makes sense. Of course, Fred and his Flintstones can’t tolerate any opposition, however small. Students that defy their tyrannical reign have to be “corrected,” or other students might get ideas too. Still I’m not ready to capitulate just yet. “How are you so sure?” I ask, confused.
"Keeping your ears open in the toilets, Nuke-hair. You wouldn’t believe all the things that are discussed at the sinks." I look at him with such a mixture of astonishment and disgust that even he falters.
"Well, I mean... eh... sometimes I need to get away from this circus, right? Privacy is hard to come by in this authoritarian school. The toilets are just the best option."
"But... but... how does that even work?"
"I made myself a 'closed for maintenance' sign. That gives me all the time I need. But that’s not the point. When I sit there, reading a book or playing a game, I overhear all kinds of stuff, mostly nonsense, but also about us... a lot. So, I don’t think it’s serious, I know it’s serious. We are in danger."
I quickly look away to conceal my embarrassment. I’m way too prudish to envision people in toilets without turning red, let alone Gnat, but after a few seconds, I have to admit that he’s right. We already are a group. Not because we want to be, but because other people think we are. Damn, this is getting out of hand fast! The only thing I wanted this year was to keep out of trouble, finish school, and move on. Well, I can savely conclude that that ambition is officially flushed down the toilet by now (pun intended), so lets be pragmatic.
Given the current situation, I feel it’s irresponsible to leave Gnat, Shadow, and Slug to their own devices. That’s not how Gran raised me. “People who turn their heads to see if they can help will never get a knife stuck in their back, Tinderstick,” is one of her more morbid proverbs. You have an obligation to help others. It’s one of her principles. Period.
“Okay,” I concede. “It is what it is. It’s best we stick together then, whether we like it or not. But...” I add, “I won’t go to the toilet with you. I have my limits.” Gnat doesn’t even realize that I’m joking.
“Of course not, I’m not your babysitter.” Despite his derogatory tone, it’s abundantly clear that he’s relieved. He knows full well that he doesn’t stand a chance against The Flintstones on his own. Nor do we. We are condemned to each other.
“Nobody needs to know that we do this, if that’s your concern. We can call it our No-club, and it will be our secret. The first rule of No-club is: you don’t talk about No-club.” He smiles at the obscure movie reference. “In fact it will be easy,” I add. “Thanks to our dictatorial school schedule we are always in the same place anyway.”
Totally unexpectedly, Slug joins the conversation. “I... know... what... we... need... we... need... a... signal... to... warn... each... other...” Slowly, he turns in his seat towards us. I didn’t even realize he was listening to our conversation. “I... can... do... a... great... peacock... you... know...” Without warning, a painfully high shriek escapes the back of his throat. Some students dive instinctively under their tables, some drop their pens and books, and everyone covers their ears, looking around in bewilderment. In the deep silence that follows, the voice of Scroptz bellows through the room. "Robert Winslow Stanislaw! Pack your bag and take your screaming to the canteen. Write 2,000 times: I may look like a prehistoric animal that went extinct eons ago, but that's no reason to sound like one."
Unfazed by Scroptz's scorn, Slug gets up from his chair and starts to gather his things, unhurried as he does everything, before moving excruciatingly slowly towards the door. The grinding of Scroptz's teeth is almost audible at the back of the class. I'm not even sure if he does it on purpose, but when I see a hint of a smile crawl over his round innocent face, hardly noticeable, like an animal moving too slowly for the predators to detect, I just can't help but laugh. In a weird and totally authentic way, Slug is cool.