InsaneJournal

The Weird Kid
"What is dat, your anal virginity, your dignity, your self-respect. Really, what else do you got to lose? Why fight it, Pickles?"

"Whet the hell, Seth?! Why me anyway?"

"Anyone else's parents would call the cops if I humiliated 'em like this," he points out. Pickles makes a face, knowing it's a very good point.

"We're gonna be late to school. I wanna succeed. Maybe later...."

"Later? What the fuck does later mean, you know? Been waitin' for you to ask me for more help. I know that grade is suffering; I asked. You're just too dumb to get along without some help. I'll help you graduate, get out. You think you'll be a pro musician? Know how statistically unlikely that is?"

"No," Pickles mutters, then adds more strongly, "But I know I have talent. And a voice like a rack angel. So don' gimme dis crap." He slings his backpack over his shoulders and heads out the front of the house. Seth follows close behind to the bus stop.

The other kid at the bus stop has a walkman on his belt, and he looks like he's really enjoying whatever he's listening to. It sounds loud and uncontrolled. Pickles wishes he could be loud and uncontrolled. He wants to be somebody. He wants to be famous, fuck 100 girls a month, drink booze until he can't move, get high. He wants that rockstar lifestyle. He wants no one to tell him no anymore. He's had about all the "no's" he can take, though he has a feeling he'll have to put up with a few hundred more by graduation.

He knows Seth is right about the musician statistics. It makes sense, and Seth doesn't give out statistics that are wrong. And Pickles has absolutely zero connections. He glares at the other boy, who is playing the air guitar and having a great old time. He has the urge to kick him for it.

"You wanna stay in school, don't ya?" Seth asks.

Pickles looks over at his brother determinedly. "Yes, I wanna stay in school. Git my diploma, jest in case I need it. But I prabably won't. I have more musical talent in my little finger than you'll ever have. And you can' even sing in tune."

Seth is glaring, and he's about to say something really cutting, but Pickles isn't about to take that back.

"Heeeere'sch the busch!" the weird kid finally says, loudly. Pickles and Seth glance over at him, sufficiently distracted. The kid gets on first, now playing air drums.

Seth shoves Pickles forward toward the entrance to the bus. "Ye're sittin' next to me."



The way home is much like the way to school, except not as angry and a little more sexual. "Gonna take yur ass today, finally," Seth insists. "Ya owe me."

"I haven' asked ya fer anything," Pickles replies, trying not to react too heavily to the hand laid possessively on his shoulder.

"Don' matter. I am the king of our lil' castle. Don' you ferget that."

When they get off at the bus stop, he takes Pickles by the hand, dragging him toward their home. Pickles goes along for a bit, and then stops, taking a chance. There's an open garage, complete with an entrance to the house. He's not really sure how he'll explain himself, but does it matter? He pushes his way into the house and sits down on a large plaid armchair.

An old woman comes into the room, looking at him. She clears her throat. Pickles clears his throat too. "Ma'am," he says with a little nod.

She narrows her eyes, but heads back into the kitchen to finish wiping down the counters.

Finally, Pickles gets up, once he sees, through the slitted blinds, that Seth has given up for the moment. "Can I use your bathroom, ma'am?" He watches her scrub.

She turns to look at him, sizing him up. She shrugs. "First door on the left. Schould be open." He blinks at the fact she has a speech impediment oddly like the weird kid's, then heads to the bathroom. He really does have to go.

The house is clean, normal, just like his own, but he has a feeling if two siblings lived here, there wouldn't be a favorite.

He looks at himself in the mirror for a little while after washing his hands, smoothing his hair down, trying not to remember the way Seth had forced him into a skirt not too long ago. He'd actually looked pretty girly—he'd tried it on in the mirror later because he had wanted to see how much he'd looked like a schoolgirl. The answer was a lot. The TV in the living room is turned on, loudly, and he hears the old lady yell, and he hears the TV program get softer. He sighs, pushing the door open.

He blinks, looking at the back of the head of the person sitting on the couch. The kid. It's the weird kid. That fluffy hair would be recognizable anywhere.

He stands there, watching the kid watch a documentary on the Spanish Inquisition. The kid chuckles at a form of torture, and Pickles can't help but laugh too.

The kid whips his head around, mouth forming a little "o" of surprise. "Uh, ckan I help you? Uh...busch schtop kid?"

"Pickles."

The kid mutters to himself, heading into the kitchen, rifling through the refrigerator.

"William, what are you doing?"

Pickles is kind of wondering that himself.

"I'm being a good hoscht, Grandma! Could've warned me that we had company."

"Thisch ischn't a place for you. What doesch he want?"

"Picklesch."

Pickles is sitting on the couch, watching, when the weird kid brings him some pickle slices on a plate. He looks at him questioningly.

"What, you don't want them now?"

"Whet?" The redhead looks confused.

"The picklesch. No wonder your brother'sch always pushin' you around." He sets the plate on the coffee table.

"Oh! No, that's my name. Pickles."

"Oh."

Pickles picks up a couple of the slices and eats as the documentary continues. The weird kid takes a seat next to him, eating a couple himself. "Scho...what are you doing here?"

"Avoidin' my family."

"Why?"

"Yah wouldn't understand. Doesn't matter. I won' do it again, I jest needed a break."

"Okay."



Pickles doesn't go home when an hour passes, or two, or even three. He listens to music in the weird kid's bedroom, he plays him and totally loses at Trivial Pursuit and Chinese Checkers in the living room, and the old lady starts working away in the kitchen. It's just spaghetti, but it somehow smells better than when Pickles's mom makes it. More like home.

An old man comes through the front door, obviously the old woman's husband, as he pecks her on the cheek when she takes his coat. He takes a look at Pickles, nods, then sits down next to the weird kid.

"He'sch from the busch schtop," the weird kid explains, without being prompted.

The old man sniffs. "Spaghetti." He looks at the table. "Who won?"

"I did. Psch, don't act like you needed to aschk that."

The old man grins, then gets up, making his way into the kitchen to help set the table.

Pickles wants to cry. He wants this family. Why couldn't this be his family? Why did he get stuck with the one he has?

"Dinner time! Drop what you're doing and get in here! Dinner time!" Her voice is loud and obnoxious when she's nagging. Pickles makes a face. Still, at least she seems to care.

"Schouldn't you, like, call home?"

"They don't care," Pickles says, looking down at his hands as they sit in his lap.

"All parentsch care. Uh...moscht."

"Did yours care?" Pickles asks carefully, looking at the kid intently.

The kid gets up and turns the TV off, then helps Pickles up. "I think scho. Maybe. My dad schpared my life."

"Spared your life?"

"I wasch right there when he killed my mom. There wasch blood on the high chair. He didn' tousch me."

Pickles feels a little creeped out, and sad, and heads toward the smell of home, the spaghetti.



"Son, it's time you went home," the old man finally says as the sky outside gets very dark. "William, why don't you walk him over."

Pickles is filled with a feeling of dread. "I don't wanna leave."

"Your mother isch worried schick," William's grandma insists.

Pickles wishes it were true. It's not. He says his goodbyes, taking one last longing look at the outside of the house as they start over.

"They really don't care?"

Pickles shakes his head. "They only care about my brother. I know a lotta kids think their parents play favorites, but mine really do. I tried to tell 'em he hurt me, more den once, bad. They wouldn't gimme the time o' day. Night. Whatever."

"Sucksch."

"He's gonna hurt me again tonight." He shivers and wraps his arms around himself, even though it's not the least bit chilly outside.

"Sucksch," the boy, William, repeats.

"Yee-uh." He slumps forward as he heads up the driveway and into the house, like the weight of the world is on his small shoulders.



The next morning, William tries to make eye-contact, even tapping the redhead on the shoulder, but Pickles can't look at him. Seth has his arm resting on Pickles's shoulder. William had always thought it was a big brother type gesture. Now, it just looks like a bully type gesture.

"So, Pickles was at your place last night? We worried."

"Yep. Think he had fun." He tries to make eye-contact once more, then makes a face, giving up. He looks over at Seth. "My grandpa wantsch him over again."

Seth nods.



After school, William waits about a half an hour before knocking on the door to Pickles's house.

"Hello? Can I help you?" the red-haired lady at the door asks.

"I'm jest here to see Pickles."

"He's in his room. Are you helping him with his algebra?"

Something about the assumption she has made makes him feel like he should answer in the affirmative. "Uh...yes?"

"Good. Sethy has his own homework to worry about." She invites him in. "Wipe your feet, and it's the second on the right."

As he nears the room, he can hear the sounds of a struggle, or at least that's what he thinks he's hearing. He can't equate the sounds to anything else. There's pain, movement, insistence, power. He knocks on the door. The sounds quiet.

"Mommy?" Seth says a little breathlessly.

"William Murderface," William says. Nothing happens for a good minute. He knocks again.

"We don' need ya," Seth calls. "Tell 'im, Pick."

"Ya should leave," comes the small, distressed voice. Murderface's eyes narrow.

"I'm here to help him with hisch algebra, Scheth. Lemme in there."

There's the sound of rustling, rummaging around, and then Seth appears at the door, shirt untucked. Murderface looks past him, ignoring him. Pickles's hair is a little mussed, like there was a struggle, and he wipes at his mouth. He nervously waves to his new friend, eyes holding a hint of desperation, a slight cry for help.

"Your mommy schays you have other homework to do." William stares him down, and Seth blinks before he does.

Seth pushes past him.

William enters the room, locking the door again. He looks over at Pickles. Pickles says nothing. Whereas earlier that morning he had been unable to look at him, he feels like he can't look away now.

William heads over to the desk, leafing through the chapter of the algebra book Pickles is working on. "What are you having trouble with?"

Pickles sniffs, blinking wetness from his eyes. He shrugs. "Eh, jest about all of it. 'Cept FOIL." He pales a little, and Murderface raises an eyebrow.

Pickles looks away again.

Murderface takes a look around the room. The contents of the room include two band posters, one of which has been crumpled and then laid out again as best as it can be. There's also a guitar in the corner, sitting there quiescent at the moment, though it looks as if it is well used. There are a lot of picks in a case next to it. The bedspread is a boring all-blue. The desk has nothing on it but homework. He has a feeling Seth's room looks a little different. Less bare.

Pickles wipes at his eyes, wincing when he shifts. "Uh, maybe it's nat a good time."

William frowns. "At least he's not beatin' you up anymore."

"He wasn't. I mean...yeah, thank goodness for small miracles. Nat that he won't jest start again when you leave."

"True." He takes the book over to the bed, sitting next to Pickles, shoulder to shoulder. It's then that he realizes the other boy is trembling slightly. "It's jescht algebra."

"I'mma nat upset about the algebra!" he says suddenly, quite loudly.

William covers his ears for a moment, "Jeezy!"

Pickles buries his face in his hands. Murderface looks around the room, then at Pickles, then at the book, then at the room again. What the hell was going on in this household? Crazy.

"Ya should go. I wanna be alone," Pickles mutters, voice muffled by his hands.

William stretches out next to Pickles, lying out on the bed next to him. "Naw. Told Grandma where I wasch goin' already. Man, thisch bed ain't bad."

"It's Seth's old one."

William nods, letting his eyes close. "He beat you up often?"

"Eh, often enough."

"Sucksch. You're not a bad kid."

"Thanks, I guess." He sighs. "Will, I gatta take a bath."

William peeks an eye open. "Why? Bathsch are for schissies."

"I...jest don' feel clean."

William chuckles. "Guesch you really are a girl, huh?"

"I'mma nat a girl! I jest need to get clean, is that a crime?!"

William sits up. "Holy...no, it'sch not a crime. Go ahead. Schould I wait for you?"

"Yeah, shouldn't take long. I do actually need help. I didn't finish payin' up for Seth's trouble, so I won' get no help tonight." Pickles gets up with a wince, stretching. He's limping slightly, which makes Murderface a little concerned.

After about fifteen minutes of reading through the algebra chapter, Pickles comes in, dressed in just a large towel. He blinks when he sees Murderface, as if he'd forgotten he was there. He moves to the closet to turn on the light and slip inside. There are bruises on him, including ones that had to have come from a hand.

When Pickles comes out of the closet, he looks calmer. He sits down, hair smelling like some kind of fruit. Murderface finds this a little gay, but, hey, it's his new friend, so he's not going to comment. On top of all that, Pickles seems a little down.

"I would never volunteer to take a schower. Pfft."

"Yeah, I can tell, Murderface," Pickles says, causing him to scowl.

"Maybe you can pay me for my help too. What do you do?"

Pickles's eyes get wide. "Uh uh, that is private information, bucko. Get wit' the helpin'. That's what friends are for."

"Friends don't keep secretsch."

"If I wanted to tell you, I'd tell you. Ya really don't wanna know." He curls his arms around himself.

"Why, how bad can it be?"

"Can you guess why I had to take a shower?"

"Not really. I don't get it."

"Even you take a shower when you get really dirty, right?"

"Yeah, okay. Yeah, but I'd have to be pretty fuckin' dirty."

"What about after sex?"

"No. I like cum. Schmells good."

"Eh! This is impossible." He pulls away, leaning against the wall, looking sad again.

"What is? I don't get your point."

"Abviously!" Pickles yanks the book out of his hands. "Go get me meh homework! Go!"

Because he's limping, and only because he's limping, Murderface heads over to the desk and grabs it.



"You might actually be a better teacher than Seth is."

"I'd hope scho. And I didn' give you any bruisches. Boy am I glad to be an only child."

"I don' got no bruises. At least, according to my dad."

"Your dad?"

"He says I'm makin' it up. Mom says that too."

"Fhuckin' weirdos."

"You said it!" Pickles curls up on his bed, motioning for William to curl up next to him. He smells a little ripe, but it's better than lying next to even the cleanest rapist brother ever. "Thanks for helpin' me." He pauses. "Whoa...whet are ya doin'?" He pulls back from the light touch to the side of his face.

"He schmacked you, on the schide of the face." He reaches for the light mark again, tracing it with curious fingertips.

"Yeah, well." Pickles looks uncomfortable. "Let's nat talk about it."

The hand lowers, and Pickles is grateful, even though he kind of liked the intimacy. Everyone assumes he doesn't want affection. He wants some. He wants to get normal touches like that, ones that don't mean anything, just because he's a human being in pain, or, well, just a human being.

The hand places itself on Pickles's arm, just above the elbow. Intense yellow-green eyes look at him. "You're sixschteen, right?"

He blinks his eyes against the effect the touch is having on him, swallowing. "Right."

"Move out."

"Where? I ain't got no money."

"What about my housche?"

"Whet, jest like that?"

"Yeah. Jescht like that. It'll be an adventure!" He smiles. It's a nice smile. Pickles has only seen him grin in triumph before. This is not triumph, it's a gentle expression, one that is so inviting he can't possibly say no.

"Okie."

"We have a guescht bedroom we can set you up in, for now. When you find schome place of your own, nothing'sch keeping you there."

Pickles's arm tingles with the urge to reach that short distance across and place his hand on Murderface, or to hug him, or something. He settles for smiling a soft, shy smile. "Help me get my clothes?"