☽ Peter ☽

I wouldn't classify myself as claustrophobic. In fact, it's the inverse. Large rooms are imposing, but like a corn maze, there is ample space to hide within them.

Coach Hayes' office, on the other end of the spectrum, is cramped. It doesn't help that his room is currently occupied by six other people, all of whom are huddled around Hayes' desk in mismatched chairs, staring at me from the corner of their eyes.

I scratch my nails against the side of my seat. It sounds like a vinyl notebook cover; like the way static would feel. And even though I don't particularly like the noise, it's almost an involuntary motion. If I stop, it would only make the fidgeting worse.

My mind is tangled. I keep my eyes forward, as turning even slightly to the side sends me into a frenzy of worries. I don't want to make eye contact with Sam or his father, but I also don't want to look at Coach or my mother. As for Evan, his arms are crossed over his bright red sweater, and it distracts from the bruises on his face. His father—(trying to) hide a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket—shares somewhat of a resemblance to Evan. They have the same face shape and similar hair types. But Evan is burly, though right now, his shoulders are slumped, and he sinks into the fabric of his sweater.

"Let's get started," Coach Hayes says, grabbing a pen. An amoeba-shaped blot of blue ink appears on the white page. "I want you to explain this to me from the beginning. What was said? What was done? Mr. Fields, you can go ahead."

Sam's father is staring at me. I know without even looking in his direction. My hand clutches the side of my chair and digs into the plastic until I can feel my heartbeat thudding through my wrist. I'm sure that he recognizes me from the hotel—knows that I know—and the illusion that I was nobody is gone. "Frankly, I think this is ridiculous. My son"—he points to Sam—"was attacked."

"Attacked," Evan's dad repeats under his breath. "Really? Who threw the first punch?"

Hayes taps his pen against the paper and waves his hands to get them to quell the discussion. "That is not what we're here for. If we could try to keep it... civil, that would be appreciated."

Evan scoffs, shifting restlessly. I tilt my head to see what the logo on his sweater says, as the second half of it is upside down. It looks like an art university.

"Would we say that this started in September?" Hayes asks.

"I think it goes back further than that," my mother answers, glancing at me. It's what she usually does when we leave the house and head to a restaurant, for example. I always read the menu beforehand, and I know what I want. But just like today—sometimes the words extinguish before they can form, and I'm left hopeless. There are times where my mother speaks for me instead of waiting for permission, but this time I welcome it.

"I can't see how this is relevant," Sam's father says. "And please excuse me, Mrs. Delacroix, but I can't see how you've become part of this."

"Doctor," my mother corrects with a sneer. "Are you really going to suggest I don't need to be here? Unless you don't have an accurate version of the events."

"Can I ask you something? Why was nothing done before?" Evan's dad interrupts.

Hayes has fallen into a lull. He buries his head into the notes as he writes. Without looking up, he flips the page and says, "That was off school grounds, as I understand it."

Evan scratches his neck. "And since when has the hockey rink teleported to being on school grounds?" he replies sarcastically, and I can't help but smile. I chance it to scan across the room, and my gaze connects with his. Evan's eyes are downturned, lined in a burning fire.

"Obviously, the rink is considered part of the school," Sam says.

It seems that Evan is looking to argue with him, as his eyes roll to the back of his head and he purposely raises his bandaged hand to push it through his hair. "Do you need me to define 'on school grounds,' Fields? It's in the dictionary, but I can dumb it down for you."

Although Evan got the brunt of the fight, he hasn't bothered to cover it like Sam has. The deep red surrounding Sam's eye is heavily guarded with medical tape and bandaids, and he's making a conscious effort not to turn his cheek towards the group. It's difficult to pinpoint when exactly it happened, but I can't fathom what drew me to Sam Fields like a moth to a flame. Maybe it's the distance I've put between us; the way I'm regarding him from across a room that cages him in semi-darkness. Maybe it's my mind playing tricks on me, but seeing him face-to-face doesn't stir the same emotions any longer.

I don't feel like he's focusing on me because he cares. It's not like the sun was born to shine directly on me. It was a well-planned attack (to use his word choice). And the worst part is that it worked on me.

Hayes glares between them. "I want to get back to the point. Here's what's going to happen: Fields can stay in the room. You two"—he gestures to Evan and me—"can wait outside with your parents. I'll come and see you when I'm ready."

I sigh; my mother stands and I follow suit. We head down the hallway to the open windowed area like an atrium. It's lunchtime, and the bustle of students circling the gymnasium meets my ears.

Evan and his father choose a space on the other side. My brain autofocuses on the squeak of shoes against the floor and a door shutting from somewhere to my side; I can't hear what they're saying. I watch them for a moment before his dad ducks out of the hall.

I fold my hands on my lap. Nicole always pokes fun at my khaki pants, and it's true that I wear similar pairs on a rotation, but I do it for two main reasons. The fabric, while scratchy, is the same every time. And the pockets are roomy; I can fit my phone and a backup pair of gloves inside them.

"We don't have to do this," my mother says quietly. "If it's overwhelming, we can go home. I won't mention it."

"Je sais." (I know) It comes out soft and I'm mostly saying it to myself. A pinch louder, I tell her, "I know that, and I want to do it. I could back out, but I think I want to be there."

"I understand that, mon fils," Mom mutters as she kneels next to me. She moves in a fluid motion, unlike the way my hands won't stop shaking. "I can see why you kept it to yourself. But I'm missing some important parts."

And so I finally tell her everything. I start from the beginning, and I don't avoid the finer details. When I'm finished, my mother has taken her seat on the floor.

"I didn't know it was that bad," she admits. "Aucune idée, Pierre. Really, I had no idea. If I had any indication that there were rumours like that... esti, je ne sais pas ce que j'aurais pu faire. (Damn it, I don't know what I could have done.) It's not easy, don't you see? I want to help—that's why I wanted to go to the lake house—but I realize that at a certain point, there is nothing I can do. Have you talked to Suzanna about it?"

"She knows some of it. But since she originally wanted me to go to the party—I don't need to make it seem like it's anyone's fault."

My mother gets to her feet. "It's never anyone's fault. Not for this. Nothing can stop it, but Suzanna can work with what's left." She smiles weakly. "I'll be right back. I want to check up on how the meeting is going. It should be nearly over by now."

As soon as she disappears around the bend, I fall silent again. Because it was my fault, despite the unconvincing attempts to prove otherwise. Not one of them holds steadfast; I hold the truth inside of me like a pearl clasped inside its shell. This isn't as spontaneous as getting side-swiped out of nowhere—it's not accidental.

I wonder if the dust has settled yet. If it will ever get there, or if it'll linger in the air and make me sick with it.

I look up. Evan is watching me back. I wonder how long he's been staring—judging me—and I wonder if I care.

Like the last time, and every time before that, he doesn't approach me until I give him permission. He doesn't broach through the noise like I expect him to do.

He sits at the opposite end of the bench. I shake my wrist as I shift back and forth in my seat; flooding my senses as I calm down. If I don't do this, it'll only make me feel worse. The questioning glare in Evan's eyes reminds me of Nicole, but he's smiling. Smiling like he's not the one who tore up his hand, throwing a punch all wrong—like he didn't just wreck his chance at avoiding suspension.

"It's fine," he says at last, even though it has never been fine. "Two hundred and nine days. It's almost halfway over. Two hours. Forty-six minutes. Fifty-seven seconds."

"Fifty-six," I say weakly. Fifty-five. And I could do this forever; I could keep counting until all the light in the world has gone out. Historically, a second comes from the Latin term—pars minuta prima. The first small part, which can be further refined to seconds, or the second small part, (pars minuta secunda).

I am not certain how it doesn't chain him to this first small part locked within a finite moment that he can't get back. Time mocks him when he says it out loud—when he tries to preserve a single second.

"Does your father know everything?" I ask.

"Enough." Evan's eyebrows draw together. He leans his back against the glass; on the other side, I see his father doing the same. Their backs are aligned; I don't say a word. His father is not how I would imagine Evan in the future, a few years from today. I wouldn't picture him like that. "I guess you told your parents?"

"Right now."

"You didn't tell them before?"

I shrug. "It didn't matter." I press a finger to my forehead. My heartbeat pulses in my ears and it tries to escape and roll out of me. "J'en peux plus," I whisper.

Evan turns to me halfway. In a soft, heavily broken accent, he says, "En Anglais?"

A smile forms on my lips. "I can't do it anymore," I say, louder so that he hears me this time. "I've had enough of it. I don't want to focus on this for another second—I won't do it. It's dead to me."

"No more Sam Fields," Evan agrees. "We'll make a code name for him. Something that makes no sense to anyone."

"Like what?"

"Like a made-up code," he says, "in binary or, like... in chemical names."

I think about it for a while before I reply, "Sulphur Americium?"

He chuckles, shaking his head at me. My mother reappears from the hall to let me know it's my turn. A bulletin board lines the outside of the gymnasium; an Astronomy Club poster peeks out from underneath registration forms for a field trip and a rainbow of flyers made for class projects.

"Yeah, or maybe like the atomic numbers, but in order," Evan says as I stand up.

"KHAl," I tell him with a smile.

In Coach's office, the unoccupied chairs watch me. Stacks of papers rustle around as Hayes searches for something. He doesn't seem to notice when my mother and I enter, and it isn't until the chair scrapes against the floor that he pauses. A blank permission form flutters to the ground and finds its home under his shelf.

"I think I've got a full picture of the events thus far," Hayes says. "What I need from you is... less concrete. I want to share with you my plans for Fields and McKenna. Considering we can't punish them for September—which I truly apologize for—my suggestions are as follows"—he flips the sheet in my direction—"neither of them will play at the next game. For Sam, as the captain, in the meantime, I'll have to find someone to stand in for him. As for McKenna, I'm thinking about sending him to a guidance counsellor. An in-school suspension would show up on a record. He's a bright kid, and so is Sam. I don't want to condemn them."

"Are you asking me to decide on their punishment?" I ask softly.

Hayes takes the paper and slides it back into his file folder. "Of course not. In the end, I decide what happens. But in the past, it's easy to forget about the person most affected by all of this. I welcome your thoughts on whether you think this is enough."

"Ah, well..." I clear my throat. "I think it would be a compromise."

He pauses, then answers: "Did you see the fight?" And when I shake my head, Hayes says, "I'll bring McKenna in now."

I exit the room. On my way out, I pass Evan. He glances at me as if asking a silent question. How bad is it?

I just smile, as if replying, It could be so much worse.