Dangerous Confessions

I Want To Go To Yours

"Well, this was certainly disappointing," I said flatly as I was handing back my students their graded book reports.

"If I recall correctly, and believe me I do, I gave you permission to ask whatever stupid question you had in mind; those were my exact words, but you wouldn't do it. Apparently, you decided to answer them all by yourselves and wrote that on your papers instead. My god, I'm actually scared of grading your exams!"

Declan's book report was the only one I placed facing downward on his desk due to the simple reason that it was the only one graded with an A; also, the word "Brilliant" was brightly scribbled on it with gigantic, red letters. And it really was. But my ever-present nightmare that went by the name of Stephen Mulhern decided in the spot that he should be aware of Declan's grade too, so he snatched the damn thing off the table before I could do anything to stop it.

"What do we have here, Donnelly? Hey! Look at this pretty note! You got an A! Guess you're a real genius, now, aren't you?"
"Can you please give that back?" Declan asked calmly. The rest of the students observed the interaction with amusement, knowing something interesting was about to happen.
"Hell, no! I want to know what you did in order to be up to Mr. McPartlin's standards. What exactly is that makes this book report so brilliant," Stephen retorted and all Declan did was sit back on his desk with his arms crossed. "Do whatever you want," he said, and his tone wasn't even slightly disturbed.

I could have put an end to Stephen's bullying right there, not just for Declan's sake but also because even if his comments were slight enough to be ignored, he was still implying that there was something going on between the smaller boy and I in front of the entire class, but I have to admit I was both impressed and proud of Declan's reaction; I sort of wanted to see if Stephen would really manage to get to him.

"You want this back, don't you? Well, come here and get it."
"Keep it of you want; you might learn something for a change."

It would have sounded more than unprofessional if I had laughed, but that does not mean I didn't want to; I couldn't figure out whether it had been in a conscious way, but Declan had managed to hit Stephen with the one thing he couldn't do anything about: his lack of brains. The entire classroom knew it too; some of them just scratched their heads uncomfortably and looked the other way; some of Stephen's friends bit their tongue not to giggle, but most of them were just plain shocked. No one ever talked back to him like that, unless they wanted to deal with the pain and discomfort of a black eye or a broken tooth.

Stephen himself looked a bit stunned too, but being on the very top of the high school popularity pyramid, he wasn't anywhere near to let it show. He cleared his throat louder than necessary and said, "Exactly why would I want to learn something from a fucking-"
"Cut it out now, Mr. Mulhern." I finally interjected.

He turned to lock his furious eyes on mine. "Why don't you tell that to Declan instead? He sure as hell knows how to cut it, if you know what I mean," he spat while tracing invisible lines across his wrist, mimicking a razor with his finger. Everyone laughed. Everyone laughed because it was better if Stephen believed they were on his side.

"Out of my class," I demanded.

After he left, I swear I saw a tiny smile dangling from Declan's lips.

***

"Hi, Mr. McPartlin!" He greeted me happily yet a little out of breath, as he had been running through the car park to catch up with me.

I quickly noticed Declan was clutching Nine Stories tightly against his chest exactly like he was doing when he had left the classroom last Friday, exactly a week ago.

It was a cold evening and after being stuck for seemingly endless hours in a meeting with some co-workers and the head teacher, discussing the implications of introducing new topics to the Literature curriculum, I was so fed up that the only thing I could possibly think of was getting home so I could get my ass in a bubble bath or something of the kind, but surprisingly enough, once that little sweet voice filled my ears, everything else became lost and forgotten in the blink of an eye.

I smiled at him before shuffling his hair playfully. "What are you doing here so late, Declan?"
"Oh, it's not that late, sir."
"Still...shouldn't you be home already?"
"Absolutely not. Here at school is the only place where I can actually concentrate on my reading," he explained while tracing the edges of the book with his finger. I nodded knowingly.

Judging by what I have read on his private file, specifically the list of extracurricular activities he had taken part of, Declan spent most of his time trying to keep his mind occupied and away from reality, focusing on whatever activity that demanded all of his attention and still, his notes would remain intact.

What I found to be quite odd about this case can be easily summarised: any teenager who had been diagnosed with chronic depression would present low academic development in a general way because his equally low self-steam would affect without a doubt the expectations he has of himself; not to mention the disturbed image he has of his surroundings and the inability to distinguish between what's real and what's not. But Declan was exactly the opposite, not only were his grades above average, but he was basically every teacher's wet dream (well, he was mine at least): responsible, well-behaved, always punctual and on top of it all, brilliant as nobody I had ever seen before.

School was the perfect getaway for him, and Declan was quite good at taking advantage of it; I was aware of that. Now, what he was running away from, that's what I wanted to know.

We kept on walking, side by side, trying not to slip with the melting snow that had fallen the night before and was now starting to form gracious puddles all over the concrete floor due to the slight sun rays that managed to break through the cloudy sky.

What happened next was the very last thing I could have imagined and it made my heart skip a beat. His cold fingers graced my hand as we walked before saying, "Actually, I was waiting for you."

I stopped at once, thinking that maybe, I hadn't heard correctly, but it only took a quick look to Declan's innocent eyes to know I wasn't mistaken. He took my hand in his and observed it carefully, and his touch was so soft and gentle, I didn't have the courage to pull away.

"May I ask why?"
"There's something I wanted to give you, only, I couldn't do it this morning..." He fumbled with the pages until he came across a little rectangular-shaped book mark that he placed in my hands.

I honestly didn't know what to do.

"I made it myself," He said proudly. "You know, as a way to say thank you for the book. Look, I wrote something on it! Go ahead, read it!"

I shook my head and let out a small laugh. Declan Donnelly had to be the sweetest person that I had ever come across, and yet I was standing there, right in front of him as if I wasn't the vilest creature on earth. A pang of guilt started to spread very slowly through my entire being.

"A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery... After all, life is a great teacher." I read out loud. "James Joyce, huh?"
"Exactly. Some classes ago, you said that if we were to read some of the work written by the authors of Modernism, we would not be able to understand a word. I tried James Joyce."
"And?"
"Well, that was the only phrase I could understand, but I thought it was beautiful."
"Well, you're sure full of surprises, Declan."
"Aye, well. Normal people usually call that being weird."
"Normal people are usually crap."

That made him laugh. A genuine laugh. It also earned me a delicate smile. "So what does that make me, sir?"
"Special." I blurted out before even having the proper time to consider what was about to come out of my mouth.

His big sparkling eyes looked up at me, but there was no expression I could properly identify on them.

"I think it's time to go home now," he said before taking my hand again.
"Sure. Do you need a ride? Where do you live?"
"I don't want to go to my house, Mr. McPartlin... I want to go to yours."