Lives in Periphery
by EleCivil

Chapter One: The Inactivist

“I didn't do it.” Even as he spoke, Evan Court knew that it wasn't a good defense. After all, how many times just that day had Principal Vargas heard a kid say that? But then again, what else could he say? It was the truth. This time, he hadn't done it.

Principal Vargas sat silently, as if waiting for Evan to continue. Vargas's goatee was huge and black, and it sat perfectly still on his stony face, even when he spoke. Evan looked over at his dad, who was wearing a similar stony expression. Just as silent. No goatee, though. That made it a little more disconcerting, somehow.

Evan wasn't going to fall for this. This kind of tactic may work on middle schoolers, or hotheads, or the weak-nerved, but he was made of stronger stuff than that. This was such a transparent trick to make him implicate himself. Say nothing, and let the criminal go mad with guilt until he's ready to throw himself to the floor, pull up the boards and it's the beating of his hideous heart! But that wouldn't work on Evan. Evan wasn't a criminal. He wouldn’t fall for it.

“Look,” Evan started.

No, you idiot, you're falling for it! Stop, stupid, stop!

“I know I fit the profile. I laugh at violent movies. I do things that could be mistaken for antisocial. My attitude toward authority figures is probably unhealthy. My discipline record is...spotty. I've got a non-traditional haircut.” Evan ran his fingers through his mohawk. The sides were growing out and getting messy, and the red dye had mostly faded. “Yes, Principal Vargas, I absolutely fit the profile for someone who would vandalize your car.”

Oh god, I can't stop! I opened my mouth and now words keep coming out!

Evan forced his eyes to do a quick circuit of the room. More robot eyes from Vargas. But, really, he had that same expression when he was congratulating the kid who won the school spirit poster contest. He’s not just stoic, he’s the stoic. Evan's dad, on the other hand? His stoneface was cracking. Judging by the eye signals he was sending, he was thinking along the lines of “You had better be building to something good.”

“But sir, look at my record. On closer examination, this doesn't fit me at all. This isn't something I would do.”

“Mr. Court.” Vargas motioned toward a file folder on his desk. It was rather thick. “I reviewed your records before this meeting. Just this year, you have been in my office for fighting-”

“Self-defense!”

“-Cheating-”

“I was acquitted!”

“-Arson-”

“That was an accident!”

“And, of course, vandalism.” Vargas's eyes were no longer cold and stony, but drilling into Evan.

“Look at the specifics of that case!” Evan shouted, pointing to the file folder. “Um, sir.”

Without looking, Mr. Vargas spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. “You painted 'Equality Now' across the doors of the field house.”

“To protest the unfair difference in funding between boys and girls sports. Title IX states...” Evan shook his head, as if physically forcing himself to stop. “The point is, yes, I’ve vandalized school property in the past. But it was with a worthy message! Ask anyone – Endeavor Findlay Court does not do petty revenge! And that phrase on your car, sir? I wouldn’t use that as an insult. I believe in equal rights for the LGBT community. Whatever it is that you choose to...um. I’m going to stop there.”

The glare Evan's dad was shooting him seemed to be saying “You probably should have stopped five minutes ago.”

“Be that as it may,” Vargas spoke slowly, giving no indication of being even slightly rattled, “You have been suspended several times in the past. I think it is time to take further action.”

“What's the next step?” Evan's dad said, raising a hand to cut off whatever Evan had been preparing to say. “Are we talking about expulsion?”

“Typically? Yes. We would be scheduling an expulsion hearing.” Principal Vargas paused briefly. Whether it was part of his natural cadence or an attempt to be dramatic, Evan couldn't tell. “However, we both know that your son isn't exactly...typical.”

Evan and his father both nodded in agreement.

“I have discussed Evan's history with our counselor, Ms. Morgan. She seems to think that rather than expel your son, he would be a candidate for what we call Tier Two Intervention.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Evan raised his palms and shook his head. “Intervention? That's a code word. I've heard teachers say that before. Are you talking about special ed? I don't need-”

“No.” Vargas cut him off. “No one is saying – yet – that you have a behavioral disability. We would start looking at that if you show no progress with a Tier Two intervention, and you moved on to Tier Three.”

“But you're putting me on that track?” All of Evan's attempts to appear cool and detached were cracking. “Like, this is the first meeting in a series of meetings that ends with 'Mr. Court, your son has been diagnosed with Whatsitcalled Disorder, and he needs to be in a special room.'” Evan looked to his dad. “I don't like this. You know I'm not-”

Evan's dad put a hand on his shoulder. “I know exactly who you are. Now listen.”

Principal Vargas picked up from where he left off, not showing any sign of being shaken from his script. “As I said, there is no diagnosis being made. That sort of thing is done by a psychologist or a medical doctor, not by anyone on staff here. We have simply noticed that Evan's name keeps coming across my desk, and we need to take some steps to ensure that it stops. Tier Two intervention is rather simple. Evan, you are going to be assigned to a mentor. For the next week, you will meet with him daily, during homeroom. After that, your mentor will recommend how often you are to meet, based on your progress. You will also be given a standing pass to go see your mentor, should you feel as if you are about to do...something you will regret.”

“Something I'll regret?” Evan repeated. “I'm not, like...explosive, or violent, or anything. The stuff I get written up for...there's a reason for it! It's because I'm standing up for myself or for someone else. It's not like I'm just flipping out, or...” He stopped. Vargas was still giving him the robot eyes. Nothing he said was going to make a difference. “Never mind. Who's my mentor?”

“Mr. Reid. Room three fourteen.” Principal Vargas pulled a slip of paper from a folder and slid it across the desk to Evan. It was a green hall pass, already filled out with that room number.

“I don't know him.” Evan said.

“That's not surprising. He teaches Junior and Senior level honors classes. But,” He turned to Evan's dad before continuing, “Mr. Reid has a track record when it comes to working with our more...unique...students. Evan being a freshman should not be an issue.”

Evan didn't like the way he said “unique”, but kept his mouth shut.

---

“You're wondering why.” Evan's dad buckled his seat belt. “You think we should have fought that.”

Evan nodded.

“You just started your freshman year. Even if we fought it, even if we won, what do you think these next four years would look like, Evan?” He started up the ignition, and the engine roared in agony before settling into discontented muttering. “You'd be on the watch list of every teacher in that building. You'd be a target. 'He got away with something big, so let's nail him on everything small from now on to send a message.' That file he was reading? You and I both know that's not half the stuff you've gotten into – that's just the stuff you didn't get away with. Can you honestly tell me that you can toe the line for the next four years?”

He was right. Evan had to face it; his dad knew him. He'd always taken after his father. His father was the one who taught Evan that some lines need to be crossed. Evan didn’t need to say that, though. His mouth had gotten its workout for the day.

Evan's dad sighed. “I know that you wouldn’t spray paint...that...on that man’s car.” He shook his head. “Now, if it had been ‘End wealth inequality,’ or, say, the address to The Gentleman Anarchist’s homepage, we’d be having a very different conversation. But again, you know where that line is. I know you’re innocent. This time. That doesn’t count for much. Half the parents that man sees probably say that their kid walks on water and has never had so much as a sinful thought.”

Evan nodded. He and his dad could fight like a sack of rabid lemurs when the right mood hit them, but Evan had to admit that his dad was fair and reasonable a good eighty-five percent of the time. Does that sound judgmental? Evan didn't mean it that way. The way he saw it, most people never got their Reasonable Percentage that high. Evan considered himself to be holding steady at around sixty percent.

“You'll meet with this mentor, and try your best to take it seriously,” Evan's dad said. “And you’re going to try to not burn anything down-”

“That one was an accident!”

“Or make any ‘statements’ that make you a target. Yet. That time will come. I think you know what you’ve got, and I think you know that it brings with it a responsibility. You’ve got a gift, and you’ll use it to change the world. Someday. But for now, concentrate on graduating without a criminal record.”

“But-” Evan stopped. There was no point - his dad knew what argument he was going to make as well as Evan did. And they both knew it would end with the two of them debating the merits of compulsory generalist education for the next three hours. “Never mind. You already know what I’m thinking. Cut to closing remarks?”

His dad smiled. “Deal. You’re different, Evan. That’s a good thing most of the time. But you’ve got to live in a world that doesn’t appreciate it. So! You are going to graduate and go to college and get those papers that will prove to people who don’t know you that you know a thing or two. That will get you in to whatever you want to get in to. Then you can pull out the real you.
“And whatever you do, you are going to do it so screamingly well that no matter who’s running things, they’ll say ‘Endeavor Findlay Court is a nut...but he’s the best at what he does, so we’ll look past that.’ And that’ll do until you find some place, or some person, who doesn’t just tolerate difference, but celebrates it.” He laughed. “And then you’ll call me up and give me directions, because I’m looking for that place, myself.”

“But what if that place doesn’t exist, yet? What if I’m the one who has to build it?” Evan asked. “What if this school...”

Dad grinned as he turned on the radio and turned the car onto the main road. “What if you need to remake it in your image? Well, maybe you can. You're about to meet up with a mentor who specializes in dealing with radicals like yourself. Maybe you'll meet some like-minded people and shake the world a little bit. Just...no vandalism, not even for a good cause. And definitely no fire.”

“I keep telling you, that one wasn’t my fault!”

---

On Monday, Evan presented his pass to his homeroom teacher. Ms. Taylor glanced down at it, then back up at him. Evan could swear that she was holding back a smirk, but he didn't hold it against her. He unconsciously ran a hand through his freshly cut hair. His dad had suggested losing the mohawk to make a better impression on his new mentor. Maybe get a few days off of his sentence by making it look like he was at least trying to reform. Between his new haircut and average khakis and button-down shirt, he could pass for downright normal. He didn't love it, but he figured he could live with it for a week while he convinced this mentor that he wasn't a lunatic. He could fake that.

Ms. Taylor signed the bottom of his pass and motioned to the door. Evan climbed his way up two flights of stairs to the third floor, typically reserved for upperclassmen. It wasn't the first time he had been up there, but it was the first time he had been up there with a pass. Even so, he found himself looking over his shoulder and stepping quietly on the echoing tile floor.

When Evan reached room 314, the door was open. He knocked on the open door and stepped in, looking around. It was a normal enough classroom. Rows of desks. Bookshelf in the back. No teacher that he could see. The walls were bare except for one poster – seemingly handmade, black marker on white paper – that just said “Think.”

“Um…Hello?” Evan called. The room was empty. He leaned back out of the room and double-checked the room number. No – that was right. He was in the right place. His pass said 314. He couldn’t go back to class without getting Mr. Reid to sign it, and he didn’t want any more trouble, so he walked in and took a seat at one of the desks.

After a few minutes had passed, and older man wearing a necktie and thin-framed glasses walked in, his eyes skimming across a stack of papers in his hand. He was rail-thin with gray hair and moved with practiced insect precision. He walked past Evan and sat at his desk, where he began quickly typing at his computer with one hand while still reading the papers held in the other. Evan watched silently as he set down the stack of papers – still reading from them – picked up a pen, and wrote something on a different stack of papers, all while still typing one handed.

Oh my god. He’s a robot. My mentor is a robot.

“Hello?” Evan said.

“Yes?” He didn’t look up. Evan paused. He wasn’t quite sure how to react. “What? What do you need?”

“I-“

“Wait!” He stood and looked up at Evan, straightening his glasses. “You’re not one of mine. You’re too short. No offense. You’ll get taller. Probably. Does dwarfism run in your family?”

“No, but-“

“Hold on! You’re not one of my students. You’re not an office messenger. I’ve harassed all of them far too much for them to come back here.” Mr. Reid spoke extremely quickly, faster than Evan had ever heard an older person speak. “Oh, no. Do you have a green slip of paper for me?”

Evan held up his mentorship pass.

“Thought so. What did you do?”

“I’m innocent!”

“No one’s innocent. Best you can hope for is ‘not guilty’. Possibly by reason of insanity. Have you tried that one?” Mr. Reid shook his head. “Never mind. What did they say you did?”

“Mr. Vargas’s car-“

“That was you?” He laughed. “And you’re here?” He looked Evan over once again. “Too short for the football team. Again, no offense. What’s your connection? Firstborn son of the mayor? Parents on the school board? Rich uncle donated the entire library?”

Evan shook his head.

“Nothing?” Mr. Reid clicked his tongue. “Hard to believe. You pulled community service on a hanging offense.”

“Innocent.” Evan repeated.

“No. ’Not guilty’, maybe.” Mr. Reid said. “But, insanity? No. Not quite. No. Ah! Of course. You’re suspicious and they don’t like you, but they’ve got nothing on you. This time. So you’re here, instead of kicking bricks out to some alternative school.”

Evan nodded. “That sounds right.”

“Of course it does! I’ve been doing this a long time. And, not to sound arrogant, but I’m very, very good.”

“…Okay.” Evan said. “What now?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Good answer. Honest. But tragic, in a way. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“So young, and no idea what you want. Tragedy.” He sat back down at his desk and resumed his one-handed typing. “Excuse me a moment. This is my planning time. Need to answer emails. The boss sends me kids to talk to during planning time, and sends me emails that need responses. It is my belief that he thinks I am, in reality, a set of twins, perpetrating some elaborate con in which we take turns working one job. Terrible con, really. We’d have to split the paycheck, which already isn’t that great. He should know I’m smarter than that.”

“Um…”

“Stop that. If you want to say something, say it. What are you thinking?”

“Honestly?”

“If I want lies, I’ll read the Gazette.” He motioned to the local newspaper, the Curson Gazette, which he had sitting on his desk, still rolled up. “Yes, honestly.”

“I was…wondering about your sanity. Sir.”

Mr. Reid snorted. “Ha! Don’t ‘sir’ me, child. I’m far less noble than you think. And to answer your wonderings, I have taught high school for over thirty years. No one questions my sanity more than I.”

“Seriously, though. What do I have to do?”

“The question you want to ask,” Mr. Reid said, “Is ‘what do I have to do to get out of this?’, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose I could make you fill out some kind of self-reflection form. Or write a few paragraphs on the meaning of ‘respect’ or ‘community’. That do anything for you?”

“Honestly?”

Mr. Reid stopped typing long enough to give Evan an exasperated look over his glasses.

Evan shook his head. “No.”

“Getting better. And that’s after five minutes.” Mr. Reid shrugged. “Good news is that you’re not hopeless. Right. So, the typical mentoring nonsense is exactly that, and you know it. Shame. It’s like voodoo, you know? Only works if you believe in it. So we’ve got to do better. You’re forcing me to step up my game.”

“Sorry?”

“Forgiven. Now! What’s your highest grade right now?”

“This semester? Speech.”

“You’re an agitator, then?” Mr. Reid cocked his head.

“Er…I prefer ‘activist’.”

“And I prefer ‘experienced’. Doesn’t change the fact that to everyone else, I’m old.” Mr. Reid leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. A slow smile began for form, accentuating the smile lines that creased his face, betraying habitual playfulness. “You style yourself an activist? Get active. Do something positive for the school.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do some good. I know! Did you know that I run the school’s peer tutoring program?” Mr. Reid asked. “You’re my new tutor.”

“Hey, wait. I can’t-“

“Consider it reparations for your history of repeated malfeasance. I know from your records that you’re smart enough. That’s why I’m using words like ‘malfeasance’. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that. I usually have to say things like ‘Hey, jerk - stop punching.’ This is refreshing.”

Evan snapped to attention. “You read my records? But…”

“What?” Mr. Reid asked. “You think I wouldn’t look at the records of my new mentee before our first meeting?”

“But, you said-“

“I say many things. Now, don’t panic. I’m not going to just throw you to the wolves. You’ll go through training, and I’ll find a good match for you. Now, until you show me some positive thinking and leadership qualities, you owe me an hour of tutoring time every week. And one of these meetings every day until I say otherwise.”

This wasn’t what Evan had in mind at all. He had been expecting…well, exactly the “mentoring nonsense” that Mr. Reid had mentioned, before. Filling out some paperwork, maybe writing an essay about the social contract. The same kind of stuff teachers and guidance counselors had been pushing on him since grade school. But this was a serious time commitment. Not to mention, Evan hated the idea of forced socialization. He didn’t think of himself as anti-social or even non-social, but he preferred to choose the people with whom he became social. He didn’t like where this was going at all. He was about to say so, when Mr. Reid walked over to Evan’s desk and quickly signed his pass.

“My next class comes in three minutes, so we’ll have to call this meeting complete. See you this afternoon for training.” He said, tapping his pen against the green paper. “Or sooner, if you require more mentorship. Have a good day. Stay positive.”

Evan stood and walked out of the room.

So this is what it feels like to be outmaneuvered.

---