The Fox and The Hare

Michael came to school with a black eye and a split lip.

He looked like a mess, I wouldn’t lie. And I was, as soon as I saw him, quite worried, as I would be with anyone who came into school with a black eye and a split lip.

So, anyway, of course the rumors had to start, because what was a semi-small school like the one I attend without the drama, the rumors? It wasn’t high school now was it? Nope. There were three of these rumors that really stood out above all others (and believe me, there were a lot of rumors.

The first one I heard was that he had gotten into some fight with his drug dealer Saturday night because he refused to pay x-amount of money for his cocaine. Of course, when someone doesn’t want to pay however much it costs to get cocaine (I wouldn’t know, obliviously) it ends up in a fight, a brawl, nothing more than that. Just boys being boys, fighting over stupid little things that could get you killed. I never really understood anyone would want to even try that stuff, anyway; it never seemed appealing to me at all, but then again that’s just me and this is just some rumor - nothing more than that. This one wasn’t the truth, because I knew well that Michael didn’t do drugs (no matter how many times I thought he might), he just smoked - a lot.

The second rumor was that he had gotten into some over twenty-one club over the weekend in the city with his friends. He was as drunk as can be and yet still able to stand straight and dance right with some macho-man’s girlfriend. When the said macho-man saw his girl (which annoyed me because people can’t be owned, they can’t be someone’s girl, or someone’s boy. They’re dating not possessions to be owned) dancing with Michael (and apparently, at this moment, as I heard from Olivia, they were practically “fucking” each other on the dance floor) he got seriously ticked off and a fight ensued. Another useless brawl; boys being boys, right? This rumor wasn’t true either because Michael wouldn’t have gotten beat up, he would’ve been the one beating someone up over something stupid. It was just that kind of thing, really.

The third and final one was that he and Jessica Phearsen were making out in Michael’s car Saturday night up on some cliff that doesn’t exist because there isn’t a cliff around here for miles and miles and miles. Michael had apparently tried to “feel her up” (whatever that means), trying to get her to fuck (as Michael would say, not I, though) him and she said no. Apparently he kept trying to go at it and she clobbered him. Of course this didn’t really happen because the rumor had been started by Jessica herself who had been home sick with mono for the past few weeks because of her boyfriend. There also wasn’t a cliff around here, period, and because Michael would never let a girl “clobber” him because that just wouldn’t happen. He’d never hit a girl, or force anything onto a girl, but he would never have one “clobber” him, maybe a slap if he really deserved it, but nothing more - he never took what he didn’t deserve.

It was so pathetic, pathetic how rumors start. How they spread and spread and spread just to make someone look bad. Horrible. How in the world do people find it fun and entertaining to make up such things that are so completely far from the truth, never mind actually listen to someone saying such things and tell someone else that as well? How can people actually enjoy making up lies just to see what people will say? Maybe it was just an accident on how it started, maybe just an inquiry but even if it were, no would should have been wondering it. It was Michael’s business how he managed to get a black eye and a silly little split lip. And nobody else’s.

I cant say that I didn’t wonder it, though, when he walked into calculus. I couldn’t say that I didn’t have all these thoughts going through my head (along with how dangerous he looked, dangerous in a good way, that is) on how he managed to get harmed like that. It makes me seem like a horrible person since the last paragraph was about how nobody should’ve been wondering it since it wasn’t their business. What I can really say, I did feel just a bit proud when I had gotten the courage (grew a set ‘a balls, as Michael would say) and asked him how he got hurt.

He just looked at me for a moment before answering, “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, Delilah,” and he patted my head much like how someone would pat a dog. And it wasn’t that he patted my head like that, or the fact that he used my name (though, I have been positive that he hadn’t the slightest clue who I was, and not in the “Oh, I love him and he doesn’t even know who I am,” way but the oblivious way of things as I am oblivious to quite a lot of things) but it had been that he had actually answered me in that way; that, “You’re too cute and I’m not going to actually tell you because I think it’ll ruin your innocence” kind of way, I guess. I had been expecting an “Oh, I just got into a fight over the weekend, kicked the guy’s ass, Delilah,” or even a “Mind your own business, Delilah,” but never: “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, Delilah.”

That simple phrase had left me in some simple form of shock for just a few seconds, just enough for Michael to notice and let out a chuckle, leaning back in his seat as if he really did find it funny that what he said had surprised me; had shocked me. He patted my hand this time lightly and told me once again not to worry my “pretty little head.” That was then, I think, that I started to subconsciously worry about him. He should have been none of my concert. I couldn’t help it though. Normally, when someone says not to worry about it, then it’s something you need to start worrying about it.

Around that moment, Ms. Browning hushed us and told us that if we didn’t be quiet and stop disturbing the class (and we weren’t disturbing the class until she interrupted us, honestly), that she’d give us extra homework: the ultimate threat. That extra homework would be for Michael and I only, that is. I never minded homework, it reinforced what we had learned that day, but extra homework just because of a few murmured words and chuckles wasn’t something that I was interested in. So, of course, I silenced up, my cheeked a bit flushed from being told that in the middle of class and started to scribble down notes.

Michael, on the other hand, hadn’t even comprehended the warning at all and proceeded to speak of random things, like how stupid this class was; how stupid most of the school was; how he was going to do something or another tonight. Needless to say, this didn’t amuse Ms. Browning at all. Normally, Ms. Browning would have never even thought of giving someone extra homework, but today, something must have crawled up her ass (as Michael would say). He had too, telling her whatever had crawled up there clearly wasn’t doing any help. Now this may not have gotten me in trouble (since I wasn’t in this tidbit) but it had gotten Michael sent to the office, where he remained for the rest of the period.

I may not have found out how Michael had gotten that black eye and split lip, but I did see him at lunch sitting with some friends of his. He didn’t smirk to me, he didn’t stare me down, he didn’t glare or do any rude gestures to me as one would most likely be accustomed to when dealing with Michael Monroe. He smiled at me with this crooked smile of his I never knew he had (or the actual ability to do something with his lips that wasn’t making foul words, kissing, smirking or grinning with that stupid grin of his), and I could swear I heard my heart skip a bit and butterflies started to swarm.

Here’s a lesson: got for the bad ones - they’re real.