Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Thirty Five

"Hey, can't make it today, art teacher wants to talk to me about something, also I'll only be able to make it on Fridays after this week bc working on the yearbook and have to use school editing software and only available time is during lunch," Ethan texts Mark in his typical rambling style, a flood of words that barely forms a coherent statement. Mark picks it up as he eats his sandwich in the corner, as usual. He reads it a few times, feeling a sinking weight in his gut. The entire world tilts and sags for a moment, the grey tones growing stronger.

Of course, this would happen. Ethan is getting sick of dealing with his miserable self, and he's trying to get away from Mark. No one cares about him. He's just the kid that acts weird and antisocial. It's best not to associate with him if one wants a social life of any sort. Mark turns his phone off, only for the thing to buzz a few minutes later, while he's throwing away his trash. It vibrates in his pocket, and he flinches like it is a bee in his ear.

"OMG! I got first place in the art competition with my photography!" Ethan texts into the group chat with Mark and Amy. It's rapidly followed up by, "Can you guys make the district exhibition?"

Mark reads it over, deliberating on the message like a binding contract. Ethan's just acting. He doesn't actually want Mark to come. This is just a ploy to save face. Mark understands. Why would he want Mark there? Spending time with someone who drags along like a stage procession- for all to see and gawk at, but miserable in the end. That is not a fun time by anyone's standards. Mark will probably ruin his chances by freaking out or something, then no one would vote for Ethan's. His therapist keeps telling him that Ethan and Amy are just getting busier because that's what happens in high school. Why would his therapist tell him the truth? Therapy is supposed to make people feel better. If the truth hurts, why would he acknowledge it? So, Mark disagrees with him. Mark isn't getting any busier. He has slightly more homework, but that's it. His life is as dreary as ever, snowed in and surrounded by aimless drifts.

"Can't," is his simple reply. It's quickly followed up with a text from Amy.

"I have one of my plays on that day, sorry bud."

"Okay," comes the lack-luster reply from Ethan. Mark doubts he even cares about Mark, he's probably only bummed about Amy. Those two were friends before Mark joined the group. They only added him in because he's a pity case.

Mark curls up further in the corner, burying his face into his knees and beginning to cry. He cries with a quietness that leaves no tremor in the air, no sound waves of sobs to ring out and alert others. Mr. Wooley doesn't hear him, busy typing on his computer. Mr. Wooley doesn't seem him, obstructed by the thick forest of desks and chairs. By now, they're used to each other. They're used to sitting in silence during lunch. The familiar clack of keyboard keys drones on and on, an endless pool of questions and concerns from doting parents. Mark doesn't bother Mr. Wooley, and Mr. Wooley doesn't bother Mark. Today, the ritual is broken.

Someone knocks on the door. It's tentative, shaky. The uncertainty of it whispers through the wood and quietly alerts them that someone has dared to break the routine.

"Excuse me? Mr. Wooley?"

"Yeah, Jack?" the teacher replies, smiling. Mark tenses. He recognizes that voice. He recognizes that name. The teen tries to stop crying, wiping his face on the jean fabric over his knees. His fingers at a loose string, fussing over it like a bird over a nest- fixated on it to a fault.

"C-can I go over the test from last week?" Jack asks. His voice is higher than usual. There's a tightness to it, akin to a less exaggerated version of wheezing out air through a strangled, choked trachea. Perhaps he's choking himself internally, holding back words or cries of emotion.

"Sure thing. I was surprised by yours, actually. Normally, you're on top of things. What happened?" Mr. Wooley says as he stands and makes his way to the filing cabinet. Mark watches his feet through the forest of desk and chair legs, listens to the jangle of keys, the click of the lock, the loud roll of pulling metal drawers forward.

"O-oh, um, I started a new job about a month ago, and things have been really crazy since then," Jack answers. Mark frowns. Jack sounds like he's about to cry. There's a tremor in his voice indicative of attempting, and failing, in controlling his emotions. Mark shivers as the feeling of his own throat constricting rises up, a familiar sensation of miserable failure. The dry swallow as his eyes burn, the burning of a tight jaw, the soreness of bitten lips.

"Ah, I see. Well, work on getting some balance. You might need to talk about changing your hours if this becomes a regular occurrence," Mr. Wooley says, graciously ignoring Jack's high-pitched tone.

"Right. I'm sorry," Jack apologizes, rubbing his face and taking a deep breath. Mark watches the dilapidated tennis shoes shift his weight from foot to foot. One turns in and nudges at the other with nervous sensitivity.

"It's no problem. Everyone goes through ups and downs," Mr. Wooley says gently as he turns to Jack. Through the jungle of chairs, the dress shoes turn, confident and precise, toward those old shoes. They are fraying at the seams and standing so delicately as if on a minefield. The anxiety in those turning, fidgeting feet is evident.

"Here's the key, and here's your test. I marked which ones you missed. Please write down why you missed each one and explain why the correct answer is right in two to three sentences," the teacher adds, handing two packets of paper to Jack. Mark tenses, watching the flighty steps of the tennis shoes slink closer to Mr. Wooley, then step away. They then turn direction, padding along morosely, before freezing. Mark ducks his gaze to the carpet, fidgeting and fussing with that loose thread in his jeans like a dog at fleas as those old shoes stand before him.

After a moment of silence, Jack sits down a few feet away. Mark closes his eyes, calm flooding about him as Jack stays quiet. Pen scribbling over paper fills the air, and Mark gets lost in the quiet noise. Relief washes over him in gentle waves that caress the shoreline of his mind.

All too soon, the bell rings. Mark flinches at the sudden noise and flinches again as a tiny piece of paper flutters to rest in his lap. Delicate and bird-like, it lands perches on the fabric of his jeans, caught in the fraying nest Mark has teased to fruition. The teen picks up the paper with shaking hands, hearing a soft "thanks" from Jack to Mr. Wooley before Jack is gone. Mark turns it to the other side and reads the slip of paper with furrowed brows.

"I'm here if you ever want to talk," is scribbled in hasty handwriting, followed by an email address. Mark bites his lip and stands, pocketing the paper as he stares at the door Jack just left through.