The Barefoot Violinist

Cory Huyssen

For Cory Huyssen, school was a stage, and he was the star performer in a role he never auditioned for. He had the looks, the status, and the letterman jacket that acted as a free pass for anything. He was untouchable. And he hated every minute of it.

His morning had begun in the echoing silence of a too-big house. No good morning, no clatter of pans—just the hum of a refrigerator in a kitchen that was never used. His parents had left for the city apartment again, leaving behind a check and a note on the marble countertop. Everything he could possibly want, he thought bitterly, steering his car into the school lot, except for someone to actually be there.

The irritation was a low burn in his veins. He felt caged, gilded and miserable, and if he had to sit in this golden prison, he wasn't going to suffer alone. Somebody had to pay for the hollow ache in his chest.

He slammed his locker shut, the bang a satisfying punctuation in the dull hallway noise. And then he saw him. Bennett. The quiet boy with the violin, his head down as if trying to fade into the walls. Something about Bennett's quiet intensity, the way he seemed utterly uninterested in the social hierarchy Cory ruled, rubbed against his raw nerves. Look at him, Cory thought, the justification forming easily, a well-worn path in his mind. So pathetic. A useless waste of space. The world will eat him alive. I'm doing him a favour. A slow, menacing smile crossed his face as he moved in.

The confrontation was a brutal, practised routine. The hand on the shoulder, the cruel taunt of "fairy," the precise punch that drove the air from Bennett's lungs. Shoving him against the lockers, he barked the slur—"FAG!"—letting the word hang in the air like poison. For a moment, the hollow feeling was gone, replaced by the electric thrill of power. He sauntered away, the admiring and fearful glances of the other students a temporary balm.

"Hey Cory!"

Jake, his teammate, shoved the same blond kid back into the lockers, and Cory laughed, a sharp, approving sound. "Good choice!" he said, clapping Jake on the back, his eyes lingering on Bennett's defeated form with a grin that felt more like a snarl.

The twins, Tyler and Mason, fell in step with them. "You two really need to stop doing that," Mason admonished, though there was no real heat in it.

"Yeah, save that aggression for the field," Tyler added, glancing sideways.

"Oh, come on, it's just a bit of fun," Jake said, and Cory nodded his agreement. "Nobody's really getting hurt." It was easy to believe when you never stuck around to see the aftermath.

Alone in English class—a subject he loathed because it required a kind of focus he couldn't muster—he shoved his earbuds in, drowning out the substitute teacher's droning voice. When a "surprise quiz" was announced, he groaned inwardly. Then, just fifteen minutes in, he saw him again—Bennett, walking up to hand in his paper. Cory snorted. Of course, he's giving up, he thought, mistaking brilliance for defeat. He didn't see the teacher's stunned expression; he only saw a target, and felt that familiar, gnawing irritation return.

At lunch, surrounded by the roar of the cafeteria, the emptiness seeped back in. He was at the centre of the "Untouchables," his usual table swarming with teammates and cheerleaders. A blonde draped herself around his shoulders possessively, and he shrugged her off, a familiar revulsion curling in his gut. They were all just props, part of the set dressing for his performance.

"Hey, pussy magnet, what do you think? Party Friday?" Mason asked, using the nickname that felt emptier every day.

Cory forced a lazy grin, the mask firmly back in place. "A party? Why are you even asking?"

"You're a senior... citizen now," Mason joked. "Might get worn out."

"Lame, asshole," Cory shot back, the laughter feeling brittle in his throat. He was surrounded by noise and people, but as he looked around the table at the grinning, vacuous faces, all he felt was the profound, screaming silence of his own big, empty house.