Black Gloves

Chapter 4

Present. Home.

The smell of sausages sizzling downstairs caused me to bury my head further into my covers. Something hard was pressing itself into the small of my back, I fished a hand beneath me to withdraw my phone, tapping its screen to awaken it: 11:59 AM Monday 2nd September, 2012. I rolled over. In my grogginess, I could make out the vague murmur of distant voices in the kitchen. I sat up slowly, stretching my arms and running my fingers through my hair, shaking the last remnants of sleep from my body. I had retired to my room at 6pm yesterday evening to take full advantage of a comfortable bed; the one I had been lying on for the past 72 hours was more like a plank of wood than a mattress. Before I went to sleep, I had a quiet take-away with Russell, who filled the silence with tedious bits of events that had occurred whilst I had been away. Such as Number 82's cat being run over by Number 65's Volkswagen. I feigned interest. We did not discuss my pending trial.

I brushed my teeth and pulled on my bathrobe before descending downstairs. Therein the kitchen sat Mr. Fitzhugh, who was holding a sausage within napkin I knew he had no intention of eating.

"Good morning, Iva. Or should I say good afternoon."

"Good morning."

I rootled through the cupboard for some cereal.

"I made breakfast, Iva." said Russell hastily.

"I don't eat meat."

The silence thickened as my father looked around the room, uncomfortable. Mr. Fitzhugh cleared his throat.

"So, coco pops?"

"What's wrong with coco pops?" I asked, pouring milk onto the cereal that now filled my bowl.

"Nothing at all, I thought you might have been more of a ‘Special K’ kind of girl."

I smiled. "Are you calling me fat, Mr. Fitzhugh?"

Fitzhugh looked alarmed. "No, not at all, I..."

"It was a joke. You know, ha-ha?" I added over my shoulder as I left.

I seated myself down on the sofa, a few seconds later Fitzhugh had sat next to me. He glanced down at the newspapers still spread on the coffee table.

"Why are you reading this rubbish?" he muttered, scrunching the papers into a ball and tossing it aside. "I thought you didn't read tabloids?"

"I don't. They were already there when I got here."

Another pause. “They’re not particularly fond of you.” I didn’t have to ask whom he was referring to.

“So I gather.” I stirred my cereal nonchalantly.

“They are intrigued, however. As am I.” Said Fitzhugh steadily.

“Well, I don’t know whether or not you’ve realised this, but I’ve never really cared what people thought of me.”

“Iva.” I met his eyes. “Give me something.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I had given in to a request. At school, teachers had more or less given up asking me to do things. But something in Fitzhugh’s voice made me concede.

“Let’s see...” I began, taking a last mouthful of breakfast before setting the bowl down on the now clear table. “I’d been at St. Benedict’s High little over a week. I hated the place, as I did with every school I found myself dumped in. Its buildings were old and greying, the people mind-numbingly boring. Absolutely tedious. Their conversations consisted of little more than idle gossip and bitchiness, void of any substance whatsoever. And that’s just the boys. I think in the brief sentences I spoke to them, telling them to leave me alone, I lost IQ points.”