35. And So It Begins…

The image goes dark and then…

The dean tumbles down the stairs, the noise so loud it must wake the students still on campus for the summer session. He readies a story, sure someone will open a door and find him, but nothing happens. For the space of five precious seconds, nothing moves or makes a sound.

Still gripping the bloody block of glass, he quickly retreats down the hall to his room. They gave him the same room he had as a student when he returned to observe. That was what he told the headmaster, in any case. The ridiculous man believed that he was considering a teaching career. Lord. As if he'd ever stoop so low.

He did well at university but failed to embark on a career after graduating. His father set him up on a few interviews: One to clerk for a judge, hoping to spark an interest in the law, another for a wealth management firm, and still a third at his own medical practice. As if he wants to spend his days under his father's scrutiny.

He takes the block of glass to the bathroom sink, cleaning it as well as his own hands. Should he return it to the table? Yes. That seems the most sensible. He dries it off and then carries it in a towel to the door. When he opens it, he finds the new housemaster leaving his own room in running shorts and a t-shirt.

"Good morning. Up early as well, I see." The man is in his early thirties and is fit and happy. How odd in a housemaster. "Are you getting in a workout before school too?"

Dorian looks down at his Oxford shirt, trousers, and loafers before staring at the man haughtily. "No." He keeps the hand holding the award behind the wall, out of sight.

There's an awkward silence before the man finally says, "Okay, I'm going to hit the track."

Dorian watches the man, who thankfully jogs to the other end of the corridor and the far staircase, the one closest to the track. He waits a moment and just as he's about to return the award, another door opens and a girl starts knocking at the room next door.

Dorian closes the door and considers his options. He loves the weight of the glass in his hand, the potential power. He can't wait to tell Brandon what he's done. He's right. There's something so satisfying, so savage, about blunt force trauma. Brandon had that experience with the Civics teacher. Now he knows too.

He admits, at least to himself, he prefers using his bare hands. He strangled Pearl, the nosey bitch. It might have taken over a decade to pay her back for ruining his summer, but it was worth it. He wasn't even cheating. He barely glanced at her test. Of course, that didn't stop the dean from calling his parents nor his father from refusing to allow him to stay home alone over the summer while they traveled. "Apparently, we can't trust you." He'd been looking forward to the freedom all year and then it disappeared because of a stupid girl's groundless claim. If he could, he'd choke her again.

What his father will never understand is that his current endeavors are far more entertaining than a career. What drudgery an office would be. Of course, seen in a certain light, one could call what he and Brandon did a career. A calling, perhaps. A vocation.

He pulls up the blinds, opens his window, and scans the empty grounds. It's still early, the sky going gray. He throws the block of glass, and it sails out the window, landing in the pool with a small splish. There. That's taken care of at least. Time to wake Brandon with the news.

The image goes dark and then…

The same room but different. Textbooks piled in the desk. His blazer tossed over the chair. Whispers, ideas becoming profound and revelatory by virtue of being uttered in the dark. Brandon isn't sure. Dorian explains. Right and wrong are constructs, a way to keep the populace in line. Children are taught from an early age to do what benefits the majority. But what about those special few who see through the construct, who recognize the hypocrisy? What about the ones who can think for themselves, who make decisions based on what they know to be right, rather than what society dictates?

Brandon is trying to follow but is floundering. "But there are rights and wrongs. Killing is wrong."

"Unless you're killing a killer," Dorian counters, excited to finally have someone to discuss these things with. "The government puts criminals to death. So, it is wrong or right?"

"But that's punishment for doing wrong," Brandon says, scratching at the pimple on his chin, still trying to understand.

"True, but who decides what's right and wrong? Soldiers kill and we give them parades. Police kill unarmed citizens with impunity."

"With…yeah. Impunity," Brandon echoes.

"Without punishment," Dorian clarifies. "In some parts of the country you can shoot someone for ringing your doorbell. You can shoot someone for making you fear for your life, even if they've done nothing threatening. My point is, laws are made by men, and men are biased and fallible. It's like that moron we have as headmaster, or worse yet, the dean. Men who weren't smart enough, important enough, to get good jobs but they're in charge of us? They get to determine what's right and wrong?

Dorian, lying on his bed, staring up into the dark, slams his fist on the bed. Brandon is sitting on the floor, leaning against Dorian's bed, looking over his shoulder at his friend.

"You and I are far more intelligent than those two and yet we have to follow their rules. The same goes for these teachers. Why are we bound by what small-minded, mediocre people say? Why is our future determined by jumping through their hoops? Who are they?"

"Especially Collins," Brandon says.

"Good. Yes." Dorian is pleased that his friend is finally catching up. "Collins is a prime example. Collins made you all do that ridiculous group assignment. All your grades were pulled down because Ainsley decided to go off on a tangent about museums stealing artifacts from other cultures." He scoffs. "It's an Art History final assessment. She already brought the topic up in class and Collins shut it down. So what does she do? She does it again on a project where you all share a grade. Now that's a wrong."

"Yeah. Collins thought we were all in on it. I needed that A," Brandon complained, not for the first time.

"The whole idea of group work is asinine. They always say that we need to learn how to work together. No, we don't. My father is a surgeon. Yes, there are other people in the operating theater, but he calls the shots. He doesn't stop to ask the surgical residents or the nurses if they agree with what he's doing. He doesn't take a vote. He's in charge and he tells them what to do."

Brandon nods in the dark.

"My mother chairs the Carmel Mental Health Awareness charity. She has to coordinate a dinner dance every year and says it's like herding cats. She has to deal with everyone on the committee wanting a say in the event, even if they're idiots and their ideas are ridiculous. One woman suggested food trucks and a night of roller disco at a local rink."

Brandon grins. "That sounds kind of…stupid. Totally."

"She always says it would go far smoother," Dorian continues, "if she could just make the decisions herself and be done with it."

"Yeah," Brandon agrees. "I hate groupwork."

Dorian pauses, trying to get the discussion back on track. He made an unfortunate detour into group work to help Brandon along and now his friend seems stuck there. "What I was saying before, though, about us not being tied to what society says. You understand that, right?"

Brandon looks confused but says, "Yes."

"Good. Good. I've been thinking we should try an experiment." Dorian's mind is spinning with possibilities.

"What kind?"

"Well, if it's correct that we are better than the average idiots around us, it follows that the rules created to keep those idiots in line don't apply to us. Right?"

"Uh." Brandon doesn't finish the thought.

"So, who has wronged us? Much like society or the headmaster creating rules and laws to punish wrongdoing, we, as superior individuals, should set our own rules and punishments. Right?"

"Oh. Yeah." Brandon perks up, his eyes glowing. "Yeah, okay."

"Good. Now, who has wronged you?" As much as Dorian wants to go first, he knows he needs to let Brandon have this. He can tell his friend isn't entirely convinced. Besides, Dorian has been taking his pound of flesh for years. He believes, though, that having someone to share it with will make it more enjoyable for him.

Brandon ponders for quite a while before responding, "Spencer."

Dorian nods in the dark. Of course. His friend is obsessed with Spencer McCutchin. Brandon was in the middle of asking Schuyler to the Winter Formal when Spencer, older, richer, and better looking, walked up, laughed at Brandon, and threw an arm around Schuyler, walking her to the dining room for lunch. Yes. That sort of humiliation deserved recompense.

"What kind of punishment were you thinking?" Dorian asks.

"Holding him down and shaving his head. Maybe spitting on him. No, acid! We make acid in the Chem lab and then throw it on him." Brandon is positively glowing at the thought.

"I like where you're going with this, but remember, we don't want to be caught. He'll see us if we do those things. The police will be called in and there will be a huge investigation. What can we do to Spencer that won't come back on us?"

"You mean like laxatives in his food?" Brandon asks.

"No. That's a prank. What does Spencer love?"

"Himself," Brandon sneers.

"True. What else?" Sometimes it's exhausting needing to lead his friend like this.

"His car?" Brandon suggests.

"Yes. He is quite proud of that, isn't he? So what can we do to his car to punish him?" Dorian knows what he'd do but he's interested in what his friend comes up with.

"We could slash his tires," Brandon suggests with relish.

"We could. Of course, that makes Spencer the victim and then the dean, or maybe the police, will look for whoever did it."

"Yeah, that's true. Sugar in the gas tank?" Brandon says.

Dorian waits.

"I wish I knew how to cut brake lines," Brandon says on a huff of laughter.

"Now that's interesting…"

Blinking, I glanced around the studio. Declan was still beside me, but Osso and Hernández were out on the deck.

"Detective Hernández got a call, so they went out there to take it. Neither wanted to disturb you," Declan said.

Since neither seemed to be on the phone now, I flicked my fingers, opening the back door. Both detectives looked over and I waved them in. They closed the door after them and resumed their seats.

"What did you see?" Osso asked.

"I know who they are."