Work Text:
… And fold and crease.
Perfect.
Jon mouthed “you’re going down” to Colin, who sat two rows in front of him; the latter stuck his tongue out teasingly. Next to Jon, Billy had his phone out ready to record. Their seventh grade homeroom was still bustling with kids filing in and getting organized since they still had five minutes before the morning bell.
He closed one eye and aimed.
Colin dodged.
The plane hit another kid in the back of the head.
“Oops,” Jon said.
Billy stifled a laugh.
The other kid—a boy with spiky black hair and a hardened glare—slowly turned. Jon sank into his chair as the boy stalked over.
A sharp sting landed on his cheek.
“Ow! What the heck, man?” Jon shot up and shoved the boy.
The boy shoved back. When he spoke, it was with a pronounced Middle Eastern accent. “You threw that piece of garbage at me first, thus you the instigator.”
“It was an accident!” Jon socked the kid in the shoulder.
Billy was now standing on his desk with the camera. Colin’s eyes darted around nervously and uncertainly as he remained glued to his spot. A crowd had gathered, chanting, “Fight, fight, fight, fight!”
Jon cracked his knuckles (though only one actually popped). The boy rolled up his sleeves.
Jon’s foot collided with the boy’s shin. A fist hurtled toward Jon’s face. He sidestepped. The ring they were in expanded to fit the growing audience. He lunged. They crashed into the desks, pencils and notebooks flying. The kid grabbed Jon in a headlock.
“That is enough!”
The teacher marched through the parting crowd and forced the two apart. “I will not tolerate fighting in my classroom. Both of you go to the principal’s office this instant.” He pointed to Billy. “Mr. Batson, delete the footage before I send you to the office too.”
“Thanks a lot,” Jon said to the kid.
“Tt.”
Jon picked at the canary yellow mac and cheese with his fork, having lost his appetite for the day. By the time he and the other kid—Damian Wayne, he had learned—returned to class, the entire grade knew some warped version of what the other kids told them. Jon wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved the classmates’ taunts weren’t directed toward him, or guilty that they directed them toward Damian.
Colin slid into the seat next to Jon while Billy took the seat across, their plastic trays clacking against whatever the blue-gray tables were made of.
“What’d the principal do?” Colin asked.
“He gave me detention,” Jon said. “It’s all his fault. He overreacted to a dumb paper plane. Ugh, my parents are gonna be so mad that I have a detention on my record.”
Billy hummed. “But what if you didn’t?”
“What?”
He leaned it. “Don’t tell anyone, but I know the principal’s computer password. I’ve been to his office so many times I accidentally picked it up.”
“‘Accidentally’,” Colin said with finger quotes.
“My point is, I can totally clear your records.”
Colin asked, “Then why don’t you clear your own?”
“I’ve seen the principal so much I’m on a first-name basis with him. A clean record would look suspicious,” Billy said.
Before Jon could answer, a haughty laugh caught his attention. He turned to find Damian sitting alone at another table, trying to eat and read his book, while two other kids prodded him about the previous fight.
“Come on, you’re gonna ignore us? Rude.”
“I thought you liked knocking folks around. That’s what you people are good at.”
Damian scoffed and turned the page.
One kid got up close. “What’cha readin’ there?”
“The Great Gatsby,” Damian said curtly.
“I didn’t know you can read English,” a second child leered, “‘cause you sound real stupid when you talk.”
Heat rose through Jon’s head. He clenched his fists and stomped over. “Hey! Leave him alone.”
The first kid raised an eyebrow. “Why’re you sticking up for him? Didn’t he hit you for nothing?”
“Yes, he did,” Jon said, “but just because he did something wrong doesn’t mean you can bully him for things he can’t change.”
The second kid shoved Jon with one hand. “He doesn’t belong here. We can do whatever we want.”
Jon’s eyes traveled to the two backpacks on the floor. “In that case, I can do whatever I want.”
He snatched the bags and sped off.
The kids were on his tail in two seconds, which meant they weren’t bothering Damian anymore.
Jon sprinted to the end of the hall and up the empty stairwell. His sneakers slapped against the linoleum. He abandoned one backpack in the middle of the stairs and dumped the other in a trash can and kept running.
The top floor was mainly the library plus a couple of bathrooms. He slipped into the empty girls’ room and locked himself in a graffiti-covered stall. How no adults caught them, only the heavens know. American schools were just like that. Still, those two kids probably tattled on him by now, which meant another detention in the record books. Billy’s offer sounded even more tempting now.
But at the end of the day, what he did felt right.
He leaned against the pink tile wall and caught his breath.
Jon did in fact get a second detention.
But before that, he had to serve the first one. His first one.
The detention monitor entered, heels clicking (or maybe that’s just her joints). There was a minute of awkward silence as she wrote a list of rules on the blackboard.
“Here are the rules of detention,” she said. “Rule number one: no talking. You will both sit in silence and write an essay on why fighting is wrong. Rule number two: no food or cell phones—if I catch you with either, you will receive an additional detention. Rule number three: you will serve the number of detentions your records show—no less; no exceptions. Do you understand?”
They nodded.
“Good. Take out a notebook and begin your essays.”
Jon glanced at Damian, who sat on the opposite end of the room next to the windows. Though the room was small, so “opposite” simply meant six desks away. His hair resembled blades of grass reaching for the sun. He didn’t look up once as his pen danced across the paper in swift calligraphy, like he was signing a contract.
“Mr. Kent, take out your notebook right now,” the monitor said shrewdly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jon chewed on the end of his pencil as he thought of what to write. He only needed enough to last until Colin and Billy got him out. His leg shook as he wracked his brain. What to say, what to say…
The detention monitor was soon asleep at her desk. Quietly, Jon tore a piece of paper out, scribbled a line, and sent the airplane Damian’s way.
Damian opened his mouth to say something. Jon motioned him to be quiet and read the note.
A few seconds later, the paper returned, folded into a different plane.
I accept your apology. Thank you for standing up for me earlier. I am sorry for overreacting this morning.
Jon scrawled a reply.
Can I tell you a secret?
If you wish. I will not tell anybody else.
My friends are clearing my detention record. You want them to clear yours too?
I do not wish for my mother and father to find out about this infraction, so yes.
Despite the rules, Jon shot Colin a quick text.
A new plane landed on Jon’s desk—this one constructed out of elegant cream stationary.
Can I tell you a secret too?
Sure.
Damian hesitated for a second before throwing the plane.
At my previous school, the other children harassed me for the same things you witnessed today. When you threw that paper airplane, I thought you were aiming for me intentionally.
Jon’s thoughts stopped short of his pencil. What on Earth can he say to make it better? Nothing could cancel out everything Damian’s gone through. He swallowed thickly.
The pointy end of a second plane hit him on the arm.
You do not need to respond. Knowing you did not intend harm is comfort enough.
Colin had just dropped Jon off at detention and was shoving the last of his things from his locker to his bookbag when Billy came by and whispered, “Meet me in the band room.”
In the empty band classroom, he found Billy unlocking one of the smaller cubby-like instrument lockers. Billy shed his blazer and loosened his tie. “Ugh, stupid uniforms.”
“So what’s the plan?” Colin asked.
“I took some inspiration from Jon’s cafeteria stunt,” Billy said. “I’ll keep the principal busy while you take care of the records.” He handed Colin a post-it scroll rolled around a dull pencil stub. “It’ll be easy.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
Billy threw an arm around Colin. “Dude, I’m a detention regular. One more won’t make a difference. I’ll take one for the team.”
Colin’s phone buzzed. “Jon wants us to clear Damian’s records too. You think you can buy enough time?”
“Does an hour work?”
“… I only need two minutes.”
Colin crouched behind a janitor’s cart while Billy stood in front of the principal’s door with his trumpet.
He gave a thumbs up.
Billy responded with an okay sign.
At the top of his lungs, he bellowed.
“IT’S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN!”
The door burst open.
Billy launched into a trumpet solo and booked it. The principal chased after.
Colin waited until they turned the corner before slipping into the office and unfurling the note. His nose wrinkled.
“Who uses their name as their password?”
Damian and Jon had been exchanging airplane notes for the past fifteen minutes when a noise from the hallway caught Jon’s attention. It sounded like running along with… was that an Eighties song on the trumpet?
A red-faced principal slammed open the door, startling the detention monitor awake. Jon hastily brushed the airplanes into his bag.
The principal said, “It’s Billy Batson again.”
The detention monitor darted out without a second glance at Damian and Jon. Less than a minute later, Colin poked his head through the doorway with a grin.
Jon slung his backpack over his shoulder and offered his hand to Damian. “Come on, we’re free to go.”
As Damian took Jon’s hand, he asked Colin, “Is my record clean?”
“Yours and Jon’s,” Colin said. “I also deleted Billy’s last detention to make up for the one he’s about to get. Turns out running through the halls with a trumpet is not the worse thing he’s done—we finally know who tied that horse to the principal’s parking space.”
“This Billy sounds chaotic,” Damian said. “I like him.”
Colin glanced at their connected hands. “I take it you like someone else more?”
“Kent and I found a way to… how do you say?”
“Make up?” Jon supplied.
“Right. Make up for today’s incident.”
“We’re getting dinner on Friday,” Jon said.
He could still hear the faint trumpeting as they stepped outside. A sleek black sports car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down and a twenty-something-year-old with a white streak in his hair said, “Get in, twerp.”
Damian squeezed Jon’s hand once before letting go. “I will see you soon, habibi.”
“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds adorable so I’ll take it.”
As the car left, Jon said, “I think that went well.”
“Dang, I need a boyfriend,” Colin said. “Maybe I should join Billy in detention.”