High Life

THIS IS GOING to sound evil, but I loved what was happening.

Whether it stemmed from an unconscious desire for justice, or plain inability to empathize with a certain archetype of males - I haven’t decided yet. But I was excited for the events that would transpire.

Alex, Marc and a few of the others were ready with the duct tape. Starting at the shins, they made their way up past his stomach, many hands surprisingly nimble as they wove Patrick into a cocoon. Patrick's piercing 'what the hell's and 'I'll call the cops' were greeted with laughter and hefty catchphrases.

The rip of duct tape unfurling seemed to fill every inch of the assembly hall. Empty seats and seemingly frowning portraits of our school's founders added an ominous aftertaste in the back of our throats. But we'd sprayed the CCTVs, there was no going back now.

And then Patrick's threats lost traction, turning into meaningless, choking pleas for mercy.

If only his teammates were here to witness this moment. Central High had its rules, laws, hierarchy, and food chain. Patrick may be 'king' or whatever, but he was at the mercy of our hands right now. That was all that mattered.

It took less time than expected. Marc's teeth bit down, severing the roll of tape from its winding tail. Patrick was now strapped, and immobile for now. Patches of dust rubbed off on his football jersey. We feared the worst for the flagpole as we watched him struggle against the tape.

But five minutes of observing Patrick’s movements made us realize he was as futile as an insect caught in a web.

"Yeah, that's it," Marc announced, addressing Patrick directly now. "You can struggle all you want."

A frenzy of similar statements arose from his cronies as they fed off each other. "Believe it or not we're about to do you a real favor."

I just hid behind Marc, waiting for my turn to speak.

"We know what you did, and it was a dick move," Marc announced to Patrick. "In case you were wondering what this was about."

Patrick must have guessed as much, launching into aggression: "You're a bunch of sick fucks! Let me go!"

Marc glanced at his watch. "I'm sure someone would find you tomorrow morning. You only have to wait for, hmm, 15 hours."

Patrick's eyes widened in realization. He changed tactics. "I - I'm sorry Andie. I... I was drunk. Give me another chance, I'll make it up to you. I'll give you whatever you want. Please!"

"Well, it's just too late. The damage has already been done," I said with a bittersweet smile. "Not just damage to me, though. I’m doing this for the others too."

He looked stunned for a while.

“What?” I asked back. “You don’t think we girls talk?”

Patrick whimpered. "Let me go, I'm sorry, okay?"

"Okay, got it," Marc sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight while shaking his head. "I'm sorry to insist that the only way to teach you pompous 'golden kids' a lesson is through retribution. We're just going to make of you an example to the rest of your friends. Hopefully our school would become a better place after this."

"Are you really going to leave me here for 15 hours? I have to get home - I have a sick grandmother..." Patrick pled, choking up variations of apologies.

Marc cut him off with a bark of laughter. "Leave you here? My dear Patrick, we're not even done with you."

A knowing chuckle was shared by all.

"Boys." I finally uttered the magic word.

The rest got to work, though the next part wasn't as easy as planned. Their tape job had been a solid one, efficiently exemplified, and getting to Patrick's jeans called for an almost brutal display of force.

Patrick screamed obscenities as Alex and Jensen reached under, working against the adhesive. They tugged Patrick's jeans down, at which point Patrick must have realized what was about to transpire, as he let go of all punctuation.

Each shriek became a natural extension of the one before, not a breath taken anywhere between.

Patrick's trousers were yanked down around his ankles. The Superman boxers beneath would have been enough to embarrass anyone, but this situation required something beyond the whole nine yards.

Something damaging.

Alex sent his boxers down to join his jeans. And Patrick's screams cut out all at once. One last dying echo was heard by the in-zone. Patrick was exposed, no way around it, though the rest did all they could to make sure he knew it. Pointing and laughing, doubled over in exaggerated delight, it was open house on Patrick's genitalia.

"I've seen bigger dicks on four year olds," Alex exclaimed.

"Pedophile," Marc coughed out.

Patrick said something, something that got lost in the raucous laughter of my friends.

"Wait," Marc held up a hand, effectively shutting everyone up. "Patricia said something. What was that, little girl?" Marc leaned closer, cupping a hand over his ears.

"You - You have no right to do this to me." Patrick said weakly.

I extended my arm towards Alex.

Alex complied instantly, moved with swift motions to hand me his iPhone.

"We're going to take a little picture now, Patrick." I took a few steps back, positioning myself. "You don't have to smile or anything, just be yourself."

Patrick's began thrashing against the duct tape, and I almost took a cautious step back. The fear was still there, the terror. But upon hold: a pitch-perfect rage that seemed to radiate from Patrick in toxic waves. It was pure hatred. A dark plague that couldn't possibly be coming from the same pathetic creature apologized so fervently moments ago. And now, his voice barely trembled under the weight of his own fury.

"I'll make you pay," Patrick said. It was a menacing voice. One that would have been taken seriously if the owner wasn't taped to the point of immobility.

Marc shrugged. "Careful what you threaten, little girl. Might just email a copy of that picture to your sick grandmother."

All at once, I could sense my resolve weaken. And somehow, the same uneasy relapse poisoned the entire crowd of us.

But I brushed it off.

"You can of course try to make me pay," I said to Patrick, in a gentler voice, but not necessarily one with a less malicious undertone. "I'll be leaving town tonight. So... try your best to take your revenge before my 7pm flight, okay?"

Patrick's face regressed into its previous incarnation as the others returned to the fundamentals. Cocky smirks, giggles, unchecked swagger. Hyperactive taunts brought comatose tears to Patrick's eyes. It was a comical sight to behold, to come to think that even golden quarterbacks have the ability to cry.

"Alex," I called over my shoulder.

He walked over, grin painted with a fresh coat of excitement. I gave his iPhone back.

"Make as many copies as you need to. Make it viral if him or any of his friends misbehave."

Patrick shut his eyes again. His breathing began to slow, jaws working as though trying to summon an invisible, ultimately imaginary force within himself; a desperate comic book wish gone unanswered.

"I hope you take this time to properly think over what you did," I told Patrick. "It's going to be a long night, sleep tight."

I was the last person to leave his side.

WHEN I TOLD Patrick I had a 7pm flight, let's just say it might have been the first mention of my departure. To anyone.

After Retribution de Patrick, I made my way to the car park with Marc at my side. Our arms would brush occasionally, hinting at a double-edged attraction on the verge of becoming something potent. That was when Marc popped the question.

"What did you mean when you said you had a 7pm flight?"

I didn't deign to reply at first. I wanted to take in as much as I could before I left this town for good. I didn’t want anyone to treat me any differently in my last moments at this place. Central High was something I'd known all my life, along with the people who frequented the institution.

It was a plain building - nothing out of the ordinary, but it was a functional one. It focused on convenience rather than aesthetic value. I'd spent a huge portion of my teenage years at Central High. I could call this place home, but it wasn't quite. It certainly had its shortcomings, but it also had its quirks. And I grew to cherish them.

The skies were like dishwater, murky. It filled our guts with foreboding.

"What did you mean? Are you leaving?" Marc pressed.

I let out a shaky breath. "Uh huh," was all I could manage.

A long beat of silence followed. "What? Where?"

I finally turned to look at Marc - which was a gigantic mistake on my end. Because I'd conveniently forgot how my heart can sometimes be a peach to Marc the fruit knife. I could feel tears pooling in my eyes, not disimilar to the way they pooled in Patrick's eyes, moments prior.

"What the fuck," Marc went. Firm hands grasped my shoulders, imposing something of a death grip which pressed against my collarbones. "Are you kidding? What's happening? I have so many questions. Andie, talk to me."

"I'm leaving, there's nothing to discuss." I wanted to sound strong. But all I managed to accomplish was to sound pained.

"Why the fuck did we just terrorize that little girl for then?" Marc sounded bewildered, like he couldn't wrap his head around what he just did. It had this unspoken 'what the fuck did I waste my time on' undertone. It was scary. My heart thrummed - Marc was so big sized - in that moment, I felt what Patrick might have possibly felt.

I gulped. "To teach him a lesson. Someone’s gotta do it, before he ruins more lives."

Marc's laughter was so sardonic, mirthless, it raised a lump in my throat. "Teach him a lesson? Fuck, I can care less about what he does to anyone. I only did those things back there for you. Everything, Andie, everything is for you."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you begin to fathom how much there is at risk, for us?" Marc went on. He was furious, but he was manically grinning. It was the worst possible combination.

"We're troubled kids with criminal records. If the authorities so much as find out what we did, we get expelled. Do you understand? But I figured it'd be well worth it, because I thought we were a team and we'd endure shit together and I naively figured it'd all be worth it in the end. Is this a hard concept for you to grasp?" Marc asked. "Now ask yourself this. Why in God’s damn name did I go through so much risk just now, if you're going to up and fucking leave? Not just me - I'm talking about me and all my friends."

I didn't know what to say. I have never heard Marc say so much at once before.

"I don't give a fuck about what the kids do in school, but now I gotta watch that your Patrick cunt doesn't spill beans so I wouldn't get in trouble for helping you 'teach him a lesson'."

"Marc," I pressed my lips into a tight line. "I wasn't the one who made this decision. Up until last night, I didn't even know I was leaving."

He heaved a heavy sigh, broad shoulders slumping down. "Whatever."

And then he was gone. Marc walked with this swagger to his gait, one that added to his appeal and his overall manliness. I stood on cemented floor, watching his retreating form. The first raindrop fell on the tip of my nose.

Then the second, and third. And very soon, I was a lonely form in the car park amidst the heavy downpour.

✖

I resembled something of a drowned cat when I stepped through the front door.

"Andrea," my mother greeted, her features painted the color of shell-shock upon gleaning my physical state. “You’re drenched. Do you not have an umbrella?"

I sighed heavily. "Let me take a quick bath. I'll be down in twenty."

My house was luxurious, it was bathed in grandeur. I grew up with polished granite, crystal chandeliers, along with mirrored hallways reflecting mahogany picture frames displaying entrapped moments. Fresh flowers adorned our end tables, Persian rugs, Vietnamese porcelain and our Grecian themed garden existed as a testament to how 'wealthy' my family was.

It wasn't something I'd ever complained about. Up until last night, I'd underestimated the power of money when it came to uprooting people from lives they'd known for 17 years. The future that tomorrow promised was a daunting one, but I was learning to expect the unexpected.

I definitely took more than 'twenty' in the bathroom. It showed in my mother's impatient facial expression. Her hands shook when she poured tea into two teacups. I gingerly took the seat across her.

"When I first held you in my arms, I had high expectations. Perhaps more so than the ones you imposed on yourself," my mother started.

I blew gently on my own tea, not daring to intercept my mother.

"But even adults can learn a thing or two," her eyes met mine. They were blue, electric, and cold - like ice. It was a different temperature from the blues of my own irises. Marc always said my eyes were like the ocean.

My mother's voice became slightly strained as she continued to speak. "In any case, the past is in the past. It's not somewhere I want to revisit."

"I'm sorry, Mother." I gulped.

"We try our best to fix our past, and we look nowhere but the future. I'm not the best mother around, I'm hardly there for you - but Andrea, I try my best to be. Our mistakes don't define us, it is our future that defines us. This is why I think it would only be suitable if we transfer you to a better school."

"Thank you, Mother."

"A school that would place you amidst people of your kind. One that is renowned for upholding stringent virtues, on top of birthing individuals with self-respect and respect for others. I pray and I hope Richmond Park Academy would be sufficient to curtail your wild streak."

"Thank you for giving me the opportunity to grow, Mother."

My mother offered me a tight lipped smile. "You can thank me when you finally yield good grades and form connections with people who will help you in the future. This isn't entirely your fault, we as parents should have foreseen the incompetence of public schools. We can only hope you grow to be a useful individual to society with what little time you have left in school."

"Yes, Mother. My flight is in an hour."

She again, smiled. "María has already brought your luggages to the car. There is no rush, Andrea. Your father's private jet can and will wait."

"Let me at least change into something nicer," I smiled back.

My mother's smile did not waver. "By all means."

Conversations with my mother were always suffocating. Air beyond the dining room was fresh, rejuvenating and not at all polluted with the cloying sweetness of my mother's perfume. I could see where my mother was coming from. My father and her, they wouldn't have climbed to such great heights if it wasn't for their 'dispel the weak and work towards greatness' ideology.

I didn't know what to expect at Richmond Park Academy. When Mother highlighted that I would be amidst 'people of my kind', she really meant to say that the school fees were overpriced, hence Richmond Park Academy filtered out poverty-ridden scum. I didn't know what to expect.

Throughout high school, I avoided the middle-to-upper class like plague. If there was one thing I learnt from growing up in a rich household, it gets old. Thus the past few years of my life saw me in acquaintance with the downtown kids. It was the term adults used when referring to kids with inevitably screwed futures.

But these downtown kids, they were accepting. They took me in during my darkest times. And I became the likes of them. I found in them sincerity, altruism and solace otherwise absent in the bourgeoisie demography.

My parents lost their minds when they found out I'd been draining my bank account to fund activities like betting on cage fighters, gambling and purchasing an Ecosse Superbike (something my parents had sold upon knowing of its existence).

As part of my transformation (read: punishment), Mother had consulted Grandmother (read: most anal, most religious, most conservative woman on this planet) for advice. Grandmother came over last night, took one look and shook her head.

Quote, unquote, "Her clothes must go. Along with that ridiculous hair color and her heavy cosmetics. God made us in his own image. To adorn your physical attributes with nonsense like 'cosmetics' and 'piercings' is a direct slap in both your parents' and God's faces. Her androgynous nickname must also go."

I walked into my house as just 'Andie', dressed in what Grandmother called “prostitute clothes”, with features caked and contoured to perfection. I was an attractive individual, one with an aura of mystery that piqued the interest of most males on school grounds.

I left my house as Andrea Schaeffler (namesake of Saint Andrea the martyr), plainest Jane in town, bespectacled and freckled for the first time in over a decade. Grandmother - bless her soul - had gone shopping for my new clothes. This was another thing money could do, it could change your entire wardrobe in a day.

I resigned myself against the leather seats of the chauffeur-driven SUV. Perhaps, it was time to stop fighting. If this was what maturing felt like, then it must be time to be a less disappointing version of my parents' daughter.

So I resolved to change. For the better.