R3 (History Plays, Book 7)

24: and every tale condemns me for a villain

Richmond

Getting dressed is interesting. Getting showered is more interesting. Going back to school is even more interesting.
I put on my uniform, painfully, and my jacket, even more painfully. It's black so the blood stains only make it a bit stiff, you can't tell from a distance that it's blood. Except for the rose patch, which is now a sick deep red instead of shining white. I smile. Better off this way. Richmonds are bought with blood.
My grandparents aren't up when I leave. I drive the chopper to school, my injured arm hanging loose at my side. Yeah, I barely stay on. Anyway.
Coach Bill is waiting for me outside. We walk wordlessly down to his office.
"You go to a hospital for that face?" he asks.
"Am I off the team or not?" I ask.
"I have spoken with the team. They are going to forget that you started a fight and attacked them—,"
"They threw the game."
"Which is not a reason to punch people in the face, Richmond," he growls. "One more stunt like that and you're done. Are we clear?"
"I'm not off the team?" I ask, frowning.
"No. Richmond. You are not off the team. You, and you alone, were sensational on the ice last night. Off the ice leaves a lot to be desired. You can't fight your own team mates. And hitting people does not solve problems, is that clear?"
"Clear," I practically spit the word.
"Were you hurt other than that?" he asks.
"No," I lie. I'm just going to be playing right handed now it seems.
"Okay. Good," he nods, "If you ever raise your hand to your teammates again, you are off. No scholarship, nothing. I told you I would talk to them. And I did. What they did was wrong but what you did did not make it right. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
Almost numb, I get ready to go to class. I'm shocked I'm not clearing out my locker. It's the like my first day at Globe Prep, though.
I look at no one. I don't make eye contact and they don't with me. I hear whispers about my face. I know people stare at the red rose on my arm.
"Wait---" Lizzie tries to talk to me. I walk away from her, carrying my bag in my good hand.
"Look, listen, dude," Clifford and Beaufort are with her.
"Please, listen to me---Henry," Lizzie sighs, near tears, cutting me off so I can't get to my locker.
"Don't fucking talk to me," I snarl, moving past her.
"Listen, we were on your side," Clifford says.
"I'm sorry," Lizzie says, actually crying.
"You fucking knew," I say, turning to look at them, "You all fucking knew."
"Buckingham said he was going to cut you in on it. I didn't know he hadn't yet," Beaufort sighs.
"I didn't think it would be that big of a deal," Lizzie sighs, tugging on her hair.
"Lying to me---is a big fucking deal. I thought we were friends. I thought we were a team," I scoff, "But it's always going to be the rich kids puling the strings, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry, okay? We didn't mean to hurt you," Lizzie says.
"You hear my mom fucking scream when Grant nearly beheaded me? Because Buckingham and your dumb asses," pointing at Clifford and Beauffort, "Were off practicing figure skating or whatever the fuck you were doing instead of stopping them from plowing into my goal?"
"I'm sorry," Lizzie says, wiping tears from her face.
"Sorry doesn't change what happened. I know who's on my side now. That's all," I say.
"Can it just be over?" Lizzie asks.
"It is over. But forgiveness doesn't mean acceptance of utter bullshit," I scoff, "I know where loyalties lie. That's it. Now I know where we're at. I am on my team."
"Henry—,"
"Don't fucking call me that," I walk away from her, blood rushing in my ears. I'm done. I know where we stand now. I'm not off the team. I can still play like this.
"Richmond!" Blunt, Herbert, and Brandon rush up to me. It takes me a solid minute to realize they are all three wearing little black denim vests.
With red rose patches.
"We're your gang now."
"Yeah we're not going to let anyone hurt you again!"
"Look."
And that, dearest reader, is the moment I realize that not only did I join a cult (something I specifically did not want to do ever). I am now the leader of a cult.
Beaufort and Clifford show up the next day with red rose patches on denim vests, as identical to mine as they can manage. I still don't talk to them but that doesn't stop them at all.
Things are, tense, to say the least.
Buckingham says nothing. But the white roses spread even farther.  Richard just grins at me. We both know he scarred my cheek for life and he adores that I'll always bear his mark. He also adores that I've fashioned myself against him. It means he's worthy of disdain and he likes that.
Practices are more tense, to say the least. The team is divided nearly fifty fifty, white and red roses. We stare at each other. We don't dare fight in Coach's presence nor do we even know what we are fighting for.
Buckingham doesn't address me directly. Anne is quietly a white rose though I don't know if she's patched things up with Richard or not.
Lizzie refuses to take sides. She rips the white patch off her jacket. She looks at me then looks away, angry. I'm angry too, that's fine. She's allowed to be angry and I'm allowed to be right. She makes comments about us all stopping fighting and we all maintain we aren't fighting. Of course we are.
We play discretely well. The team is fluid but we are rote. My people are defending me. Buckingham does his duty but that is all and he's more than happy to let me take hits or be bombarded by opposing teams. They continue throwing games, but they are subtler about it, and my red roses quit going with it all together, fighting hard to prevent whatever outcome Buckingham is trying to engineer.
My arm hurts worse every day. I play with my opposite hand. Richard laughs. He and I are the only ones who know I'm going out every damn day with a broken arm. I take more Tylenol in a few weeks than I have my whole life. Just when I think the bones are starting to heal and one good hit from an opposing team mate snaps them again. I say nothing. I'm sure Buckingham knows because once he smacks my left arm with his stick. I grit my teeth and  say noting but he sees the pain in my face and nearly smiles. That's what I get for refusing to buckle under.
And Richard? I think he thinks the entire situation is hilarious. Fucking psychopath.