ix. | matison.

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ix. | matison.

MATISON'S MAGICAL THUMBS...
FASTER THAN FOSTER'S EVER SEEN

MATISON WESTCOTT the cautious


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    "ARE YOU SURE that he's okay?" Matison asked Foster the next week after Foster explained what had happened.

    Matison looked at Alexander as he walked over to the Matison, Foster, and Chandler. He had bags under his eyes bigger and darker than Foster's. His normally bright blue eyes were bloodshot. Basically, Alexander looked like he hadn't slept in months and was slightly going insane.

    "No," Foster said as Alexander sat on the ground next to the bench the rest of boys were sitting on. He leaned against Chandler's legs and looked as if he was going to fell asleep before Chandler shook his leg.

    "What?" Alexander asked sleepily. He rubbed his eyes and looked behind Matison.

    "Where's your boyfriend?" Alexander asked.

    Matison turned around and saw Lucas walking up to them.

    "Detention," Lucas explained shortly.

    Matison's face fell quickly.

    "With my dad?" he asked, concerned.

    Lucas nodded. "I think," he said.

    "Fuck," Matison muttered.

    Over the break, Mr. Westcott had gotten on Matison's case about Charles even more. Everyday, he would ask about what Charles was up to, what Charles had done in Vegas, what Charles was planning to do with his life, anything and everything you could wonder about a person, Mr. Westcott asked about Charles.

    "What's the 'fuck' about?" Chandler asked, his dark blue eyes flicking between each of the boys. This was one of the first times Matison had ever heard anything in a sympathetic and concerned tone come from Chandler. Matison was a bit surprised.

    "I'll explain," Matison said quietly as he quickly hopped up from the bench and began walking inside the school. Once he was out of sight from his friends, Matison broke out into a full-blown sprint down the hallway.

    By the time he had made it to the outside of his father's office, Matison was sure he had knocked down at least four people. Some guy even cussed after him because he made him lose a game of 8 Ball. As far at Matison was concerned, that was not his problem.

    Once Matison had calmed his breathing, he turned his ear up to the wooden door of Mr. Westcott's office. He held it there for about thirty seconds. When he heard no noise coming from the inside, Matison opened the door quickly and went in, shutting it.

    Matison did a quick scan of the office, making sure no one was hiding in it. He saw no one.

    He dropped his backpack onto the floor by the door and walked behind his father's desk, seeing what he had been working on. Right front and center was Charles Lytton's student file.

    Matison inhaled sharply, knowing what he was going to read wasn't going to be good. Once his eyes met the page, tears of anger pooled in his eyes.

    Charles Lytton: a conniving, evil, manipulative bastard.

    That was what was written on a sticky note, which had been freshly pressed to the page.

    Matison pulled it off and shoved it in his pocket.

    12/2/18: I would like to expel him. Today was the sixth time. But I can't because of the parents.

    Matison was confused about the mention of Charles's parents, but, continued on reading.

    1/17/19: He's trying to get himself expelled. I'm sure of it. I might be able to actually do it this time.

    Matison's breath caught in his throat at he read that.

    "No," he muttered. "He can't do that. He can't leave now."

    Matison then did something that he knew was impulsive and he knew was going to get himself in serious trouble.

    He grabbed his backpack from the ground next to the door and quickly shoved Charles's file into his backpack. As he was doing so, Matison noticed that his friend's file was a lot thicker than what he had remembered most student's were.

    That then got him thinking.

    Matison put his backpack down on the ground again and walked over to the filing cabinets lined up against the wall. He opened the second drawer of the first one and looked inside.

    All of them were fairly small, with only about fifty or sixty pages of paper in each.

    Except for one.

    This one looked very much like Charles's: it had to have at least a hundred or so pages. Matison pulled out the file and looked at the name.

    Ashford, Foster

    Matison narrowed his eyes and opened the manila folder, thumbing through a few pages.

    Suspicious, a freak of nature, — Matison laughed a bit at that, as he agreed silently — dangerous.

    Matison was confused at the last adjective. He had never found Foster dangerous. Scary? Yeah, especially when he hadn't had any coffee yet. Dangerous? Matison had never seen him hurt a fly.

    Matison shoved Foster's file into his backpack as well.

    He ran his finger across the front of the cabinets, looking at the labels, trying to find "C".

    C for Collins.

    If Matison's logic was correct, the five boys that Matison had become friends with would have much more information in their files than other students.

    Including Matison himself.

    He found Alexander's in a matter of seconds.

    P for Pevovski.

    He had found Chandler's.

    S for Steffek.

    There was Lucas's.

    W for Westcott.

    That was the only one Matison couldn't find.

    He searched through the "W"s at least three times and he didn't find anything. Not even his sibling's. Speaking of siblings —

    Matison went back to the drawer that had Foster's file and began looking for his brother's, Forrest.

    There was nothing.

    And it wasn't because Mr. Westcott recycled filed when students graduated. Matison knew for a fact he kept each and every one of them.

    What the hell was going on with this?

    Matison then heard voices outside of the doors of his father's office.

    Without thinking, he ran behind some armor decor (and yes, his father did have a suit of armor in his office) in an attempt to hide from who he thought was his father.

    The wooden doors opened and, sure enough, his Mation's father walked into his office with Charles on his heels. Mr. Westcott walked around to his side of the desk while Charles sat on the other.

    While Matison's father began digging in his drawers, trying to find something, Charles looked at something beneath the desk.

    Matison then remembered.

    His backpack.

    "Fuck," Matison muttered. He then clutched his hand to his mouth, realizing someone might've heard him.

    Charles and Matison then made eye contact.

    Matison held his index finger against his lips as he began carefully backing up further into the corner he had situated himself in. Charles nodded his head slightly as Mr. Westcott stopped digging in his drawers and looked at Charles again.

    "Mr. Lytton," Mr. Westcott started.

    Charles then used his natural defense mechanism of blinking.

    "You've got to clean up your act," Mr. Westcott said.

    Matison had finally backed up far enough that he hit the wall. And he hit the wall just a little too loud.

    His father's head snapped around at the speed of light to try and find where the noise came from.

    Matison then got an idea.

    He pulled out his phone from his pocket and opened Messages. He went to Rumpelstiltskin, also known as Charles. Then, using his strange gift of some of the fastest thumbs Foster had ever seen, he texted Charles to grab the backpack and make a run for it when Matison distracted Mr. Westcott.

    Charles's phone buzzed. He read the text and grabbed Matison's backpack from under the desk.

    Matison then threw a few old books off of the bookshelf beside him. They all fell apart and Matison felt bad... for the books.

    Mr. Westcott then stood up and began walking over to where the Matison was.

    Charles bolted out with Matison's backpack.

    Thank god one of his friends was forced to do Track during the spring.

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