The Last Knights of Cambria Book 1: Echoes of Gideon

Chapter 12: I sit through a disciplinary meeting dressed as medieval knight

So it wasn't my INTENTION to wind up in a dumpy old office with middle aged disappointed people, me dressed just vaguely like an escapee from a Renaissance fair. But that's what happened.
It was an unseasonably warm day in September. I'd been out practicing sword play in the heat, in chainmail and some plate because I'm trying to get used to it. And so anyway I was getting a touch of heatstroke, Gareth noticed and instructed me to go get cooled off somewhere. He took the mail and plate, and I was pretty dizzy and feeling clammy, so I figured he was right. And I thought, you know what will fix this? Air conditioning. Nice modern air continuing and a can of pop at the New York Public library.
Well.
As it happens I'm a "missing person" because I "haven't been seen or heard from in four weeks" and "police have been notified". And so. I.
Wearing regular clothes that go under mail, a dagger, boots. Leather gauntlets. Gloves. The ring about my neck. Covered in horse hair, because I was riding earlier, with a sun tan consistent with wearing a helmet and visor.
Am arrested by New York's finest, and brought to a CPS office for middle aged people to be disappointed in me, all the while I'm worried that Gareth's gonna worry because he was going to come and check on me in a minute and I really need to disappear, but they won't leave me alone because they think I'll try to bolt which is 100% true I will. My Middle-Ages-bachelor-longbowman-mom is going to be worried about me and I feel bad. To be clear, Dancer called him our confirmed-bachelor-disaster-archery-mom first and it got stuck in my head and this is my variation.
Perhaps I can play this off.
"Gideon, you haven't been home in over a month," my mother is crying.
"Oh, wow, that long?" I ask, lightly, trying to take off the gloves casually before anyone notices what sort of gloves they are or my outfit in general which is you know, not normal.
"He hasn't been at school either," a truant officer says, "Librarians recognized him around the library however they said he comes and goes."
"Where have you been living?" My mother sobs.
"Places in the astral realm," I say, nodding because that makes things seem more true. This office smells like paint yet it clearly hasn't been painted since 1960 so that's kind of incongruous, but I don't think anyone wants to know that or my thoughts on it.
"The reason we're here is given Gideon's diagnoses he's a vulnerable youth at risk of trafficking," a CPS woman says, swatting a fly as she sits on the edge of her desk. We're all packed into a little office, with some air conditioning, but not a lot. Not enough air conditioning for all of the poeple in here.
"We should just take him to a hospital," my mother says.
"Cold coke is doing great, warm day," I say. It's fifty degrees here, unseasonably cold. I'm dabbing the coke on my face and sipping it.
"Why haven't you been going to school?" My father isn't worried about me that's really great.
"Didn't feel like it? You yourself have said I've had enough education, ask me three things about life in feudal Japan? Hmm? Nobody?" I ask, "Come on, hasn't anyone wanted to know anything about feudal Japan? I should rent myself out to parties I can do the East India Company as well, loads of material—,"
"Shut up," my father snarls.
"He's the one who hit me by the way— jot that down," I say, waving to the CPS people, "Well, recently. He's done other stuff before but last time I was home it was a smack with the edge of my cork board he was throwing away which is stealing because that was my property. I got it myself, a teacher gave it to me—,"
"He's not mentally stable," my father says.
"Gideon," my mother sighs.
"Can I use the bathroom? Alone?" I ask, hopefully.
"He's trying to escape," the truant officer is smart I'll give him that. I mean he's got mustard on his polyester polo so he's not overly smart but he knows his stuff about fifteen year olds trying to teleport back to 1400s Wales.
"Gideon, baby, who have you been living with?" My mother asks.
"No one, I'm on my own. I'm completely fine. Do I not look fine? I'm happy. I am living my best life. Don't you want me living my best life?" I ask, hands on my chest.
"Your best life is being homeless staggering in and out of the library reading books about—-England—and telling anyone who will listen things they don't want to know about history?" My father asks.
"Yeah. Your best life is apparently getting stoned and playing beer pong with overweight hairy middle aged men why is my thing weirder? You require crack to have as much fun as I'm having for free," I say.
He quivers with rage but cannot hit me.
"Oh yeah, you can't smack me here. Can we pause—? Like I have so much material I forgot how much fun it was to chat in front of CPS—-," I'm going to keep talking, but my mother interrupts.
"Gideon. You need to answer us. Who have you been staying with?" She asks.
"No one. I just told you. Living my best life reading books everyday."
And. It is in fact a little sad, when I think about it, that it takes all of fifteen minutes to convince them, based off my previous behavior, that yes it's entirely probably I've spent the last month checking out massive books, reading them, returning them, and eating scraps and hiding in corners of a huge library. I realize it's sad. That's how sad it really is. Like I'm aware of it. It takes them like maybe ten minutes collectively and then they're like "no, wait, that tracks, cancel everything, this damn kid would do that, all right then."
"I don't want to go with him," I point at my father.
"We gathered," a CPS worker says.
"He'll stay home—Gideon, we'll set your room back up—," my mother says.
"I ah—don't really want to stay with her either," I say, "You've still got Stan haven't you? Haven't re-homed him? I re-homed me so it's fine. I just won't be around."
"Gideon, I want you around," she says.
"Then why didn't you give me a safe home?" I ask.
"I have."
"Saying that doesn't make it true."
"Don't be like this."
"Like what? Like how I feel? Like telling you how I feel because it hurts you to hear it, but it hurts me to keep it. I'm done. I'm not keeping it anymore it is fine. I've been doing fine. I'm happy like this and I'm not going to hold onto how I feel just so you don't have to feel like a bad mom. So. Let's just move on. Hey, CPS, you know you have a lot of people you try to help. A lot of good work you guys do. Why not throw this fish back up stream? I'm doing fine, do I not look fine?" I point at myself.
"He's been living someplace, look at him. He's lying," my father of course.
"Are you staring at my body now? You're all witnesses to this?" I point at the CPS and truant officers.
"Gideon, you need to go to school, and you need to come home. We'll set your room back up, and we'll make sure you like your classes and you have your accommodations," my mother says.
"Oh, he is not going home right now. We need to get him to a hospital, see what's in his system. And he needs psychiatric assessment, I'm not releasing him to go home with anyone today," the CPS worker says.
"Your system is underfunded and flooded with youths who need these services. I am fine! They don't want me, I don't want to live with them, I'm doing all right," I say.
"Gideon, you are not going back out on the street you could be killed," my mother says.
"I'm looking forward to being killed, I think it's going to be the greatest day of my life," I say.
And that was not the thing to say.
My mother starts sobbing.
"He's trying to get attention," my father says, "He's always been like this we spent three years and five thousand dollars trying to get him diagnosed with ODD."
"He needs inpatient psychiatric assessment, minimum two weeks," the case worker says.
"I've been asking to use the bathroom for fifteen minutes isn't this like abuse? Aren't you the anti-child abuse people?" I ask.
"Yeah, go on and take him," the CPS person nods to a truant officer.
I smile nicely and walk with them out the smudged glass office door, into the dingy hallway of the government office building.
And then I bolt.
"HEY KID!!"
I dart for the nearest stairwell. I was never fast, but damn if jogging every morning in mail hasn't done me some good. Wearing nothing I feel light as air. And I'm running for my freedom.
I hear the clatter of feet behind me and I hit the first floor flying, dodging around happy family's and many sad ones, heading for outside. Get outside put on the ring, don't take it off for a couple of weeks. I'll be set.
I jump over the turnstiles and slam out the glass doors. Only a couple of people chasing me. They don't care that much.
The street is as ever busy, and I'm noticeable given my current outfit, but not that noticeable. I run halfway down the street before slowing into a jog. I turn into an alley, tugging the ring off my neck. I slip it on my finger.
And I'm back in Wales. Inside the outer ward. I pant, leaning against the stone and laughing. I'm safe. Home.
"Hey, where've you been? I've been looking all over, we thought you'd fallen in the moat," Gareth says, stepping out the doors and seeing me.
"Sorry about that," I pant, "Didn't mean to scare you."