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Ford twists his wrist to look at the time on his watch. Stan’s detention should be done in about fifteen minutes. He doesn’t mind waiting. It’s easier to read here than at home.
He turns to the next chapter of his book on theoretical physics. He lets himself get lost in the complex sentences and the feel and smell of the pages. He leans back against the inbuilt bench and feels the stone dissipate as he’s sucked away from the deserted schoolyard and into another world: a world of dark matter, black holes, extra dimensions…maybe even a multiverse beyond that. He wonders if there’s a place—in the theoretical multiverse, or in any of the millions of galaxies beyond theirs—where he would fit in. Be normal. When he drifts like this, he can almost picture it: a world of anomalies, a world filled with the fantastic and unexplained. What would it be like to go there? To a world of mystery and adventure away from the mundane and everyday? Away from cigarette smoke, broken bottles, and disappointed frowns?
He can almost see it. Can almost step through the invisible rift and be there.
Then the book is ripped out of his hands and the dream world falls to pieces like a shattered window.
He blinks, confused by the loss at first, then looks up into an unfortunately familiar face.
Crampelter. The guy must have no hobbies for all the time he spends harassing him and Stan. His expression twists into a familiar sneer as he glares down at Ford. “Hey there, nerd.”
Ford’s brow furrows in annoyance. “Give it back, Crampelter.” He tries to grab the book back, but the bigger boy holds it up and out of his reach.
“Got left behind today? Only one seat left on the Loser Bus?”
“Give it back.” Ford stands and reaches for the book again. Crampelter holds it over both their heads.
“Why don’t you come and get it?” he taunts, waving the book back and forth. “You need your big dumb brother here to fight your battles for you?”
Ford’s cheeks burn. “He’s not dumb!” he shouts out Crampelter, focusing on that instead of the embarrassment coiling in his gut. He lunges forward, trying to snatch the book midair.
Crampelter catches him in the stomach with his foot, kicking Ford away and into a wall. The air whooshes out of Ford’s lungs and he doubles over, clutching his stomach and riding out a wave of nausea and breathlessness.
“Your brother thinks he’s a real tough guy now that he’s learned to throw a punch.” Crampelter spits into the dirt and rubs his jaw with the back of his hand. He brushes right over a dark bruise that Stan had given him a few days ago when they’d gotten in a fistfight. “We’re gonna show him what happens when he tries to be a hero.”
A cold prickle crawls down Ford’s neck. When they were kids, Crampleter’s antics never went further than insults and a bit of roughhousing. But they’re older now. Crampelter’s altercations with Stan have escalated to full-blown physical brawls. And right now, as Ford looks into their old bully’s face, he sees the logical progression of a kid used to pull the wings off bugs for fun.
Ford braces a hand against the ground. He has to get up and out of here. He’ll wait for Stan somewhere else, preferably somewhere with more people. He pushes off the ground and rises to his feet.
He doesn’t get far.
His face smashes into warm concrete. His vision blurs instantly; he’s lost his glasses. His mouth tastes like copper. There’s a sharp pain in his back, between his shoulder blades. He tries to roll onto his back. There’s a weight on him, above his waist, and a barrier at both his sides.
He’s trapped.
He struggles against whatever is holding him down, but it feels like his body has slowed down and the outside world has sped up. He can’t keep up. Before he can get his bearings, his arms are grabbed and pulled behind his back. He hears a loud ripping sound and laughter before something wraps several times around his wrists, securing them tightly together. He shouts something—maybe a stop! or a what are you doing? or even a someone, help me! The only response he gets are fingers in his hair, yanking and snapping his neck backward. The ripping sound again. Something rough and sticky covers his mouth and seals it shut.
“Let’s take this somewhere a little more private,” Crampelter’s voice hums. Ford hears heavy footfalls tread closer and closer. He sees two dark shapes enter his vision, just inches from his face. The weight lifts from his back and a moment later Ford is hauled to his feet by a pair of arms on either side.
Through the daze of shock and pain Ford’s panic suddenly cuts through. He doesn’t want to know what plans Crampelter—and his goons, presumably—have for him. His feet aren’t bound; he doesn’t have to go with them. When they try to drag him off, he digs in his heels and refuses to budge. When they try to lift him, he lashes out with flailing legs and feet. He hears a yelp and a curse and knows that he must have kicked one of them.
Slap
The hit is forceful enough to knock his head to the side. He feels his cheek stinging right before he gets another blow to the stomach. He chokes behind the gag. He can’t breathe. There’s a tight pang in his sternum. It feels like there’s a rubber band around his lungs. He already can’t get air through his mouth, and now his nose is rejecting every frantic breath he tries to take.
He feels so dizzy. He shuts his eyes, but that does nothing to help. The world spins like a tilt-a-whirl he can’t get off of.
He’s moving and bobbing and being jostled back and forth. When the temperature changes and the sunlight disappears behind his closed eyes, Ford realizes he’s been taken inside somewhere. The hands holding him upright drop him onto the floor. He whimpers and curls into a ball, trying to ease the fresh surge of pain. He’s hurting, but it’s better to be on the ground. At least he has a solid surface to brace against.
“Aw, is the nerd twin crying already?” one of Crampelter’s minions cackles at his sounds of distress.
“Your brother can’t help you now, six fingers.” The click of a lock turning into place echoes in Ford’s ears like a gunshot. His eyes shoot open and he tries to get his bearings.
It’s dark. There are lots of objects filling the space, but Ford can’t tell what they are. The air has a cramped feel to it that Ford recognizes from the pawn shop: the odor of too many things crammed into too small a space.
When he shifts, he feels an unsteady object teeter against his foot. He kicks at it, hoping for some kind of distraction so he can…okay, he doesn’t have a plan. But he feels more in control doing something rather than lying on the floor and letting his tormentors have their way with him.
Whatever he kicks falls with a loud clack and he can hear one of the boys jump backward. They recover quickly, though. They’re the ones holding all the power.
“That your best idea, loser?”
“Maybe he only looks smart ‘cause his twin’s an idiot.”
“You’d think you’d have learned your lesson the last time you waved those useless twig legs around,” Crampelter scoffs. “Looks like someone’s gotta teach you.”
The weight is back, now on his upper legs. He’s not been taken by surprise this time, so Ford can finally identify the pressure as another body pinning his down. He hears the dreaded ripping sound again—duct tape—and knows it means nothing good. He kicks his legs against the floor, but whoever’s sitting on him leans forward to press Ford’s shins into the ground. He’s helpless as the duct tape wraps once, twice…three times around his ankles. The weight shifts forward onto Ford’s quads so that the one with the duct tape can bind him above the knees too.
When they’re finished, when they’ve climbed off him, Ford flexes in his bonds. He can’t move. Can’t escape. His eyes do sting now. He tries to blink the tears away. He won’t give them the satisfaction of really seeing him cry.
“He looks like a chicken, all trussed up like that,” one of the bullies snickers, then begins bwoking loudly in Ford’s ear.
“He went down so easy, too! What a pussy!”
“Where’s your brother now, Stanford?” Crampelter asks mockingly. “Not coming to save you this time, is he? Finally realized what a weirdo you are and ditched you.”
It’s not true. Ford knows it’s not true. Stan would never ditch him.
“I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be seen with a freak like you.”
Ford’s stomach churns. Freak. He’s heard the word countless times, but it always sounds exponentially worse in Crampelter’s mouth. It makes him feel like a creature, like something you would dissect in science class. It makes him feel worthless.
“That’s why you don’t have friends either. ‘Cause you’re disgusting.”
“You should do everyone a favor and disappear.”
Ford inhales sharply through his nose. You should do everyone a favor and disappear.
He knows he’s weird. It’s not just his hands, either. He likes weird things. He talks weird. He actually likes going to school and learning. He’s not good with people. His dad thinks he’s a wimp. His mom thinks he’s annoying. And Stan…
Maybe Stan wouldn’t draw so much bad attention if he didn’t have a twin. Maybe he wouldn’t get pummeled as often if he didn’t have Ford to protect.
Why couldn’t I have just been born normal?
Ford gets literally yanked out of his self-pitying mess. The lackeys pull him onto his knees. Crampelter crouches in front of him, close enough that Ford can smell tuna on his breath. They’re close enough that when Crampelter holds up an object in the narrow gap between their faces, Ford can tell what it is without glasses.
He squirms, trying to twist himself out of his forced position. He shrieks muffled protests into the gag.
“Stop moving,” Crampelter growls into his ear, “unless you want me to cut you on accident.”
The fear is enough to stop Ford from thrashing around, but not enough to keep him from trembling. He’s never seen Crampelter with a weapon before. Unless rocks and soccer balls counted as weapons. But those were nothing compared to a knife.
Crampelter shoves his head down and leans over the top of him. Ford feels a light pressure travel down his arm, over his sleeve. His breath hitches as he feels the knife push into the narrow gap above his bound wrists. For a terrifying moment he’s sure that the blade is going to dig sideways into his arm. That moment stretches on and on until he loses it and lets out an involuntary high-pitched whine that would have been a please if he could speak.
The knife slices straight down through the duct tape, freeing Ford’s hands.
Ford blinks, confused. Why would they tie him up only to free him when he was finally defenseless? Was this some kind of twisted psychological warfare? If so, it was horrendously affective.
He brings his hands around, intending to rub some circulation back into his wrists. He doesn’t get that far. His left arm is seized and twisted behind his back, eliciting another cry of discomfort. Crampelter grabs his right, rolling up Ford’s sleeve with the dull edge of the knife.
“I’m gonna make sure you remember what you are. Gonna make sure your brother remembers what I can do.”
Crampelter presses Ford’s palm into the floor, holding his wrist in a crushing grip. The stooge twisting his other wrist pushes him forward into a hunchbacked position, keeping him bent and pinned.
The blade flashes and Ford screams.
Stan groans and stretches his arms over his head. Finally, freedom! Old Ms. Carbuncle sure knew how to make detention feel like an eternity. Ford probably hasn’t even noticed how long it’s been—too engrossed in some new nerd book to care about Stan’s suffering.
Stan thinks he’ll sneak up on him. Just for kicks. Just to even things out a little.
“Heyyy Sixer!” he jumps out from behind the corner, pouncing on the stone bench where Ford always waits for him.
But Ford isn’t there.
Stan turns his head right and left, thinking that maybe Ford heard him coming and moved to avoid the sneak attack. “Sixer?” he walks around the area, looking over and under and around everything that Ford could possibly use to hide. “Ford?”
No answer. He’s not there.
Stan flattens down the rising feeling of something like worry in his throat and replaces it with annoyance instead. So Ford hadn’t wanted to wait for him. Too smart and well-behaved to stay behind and walk with his delinquent brother. Stan sees how it is. Oh, he’ll get Ford for this later. He’ll hide his favorite telescope or eat the last pudding cup in the fridge and maybe that’ll teach Ford it’s not nice to ditch his twin.
He sighs and hefts his backpack over his shoulder, walking to the school entrance. He’s almost to the wire fence when he sees a figure sitting on the curb past it. The bubble of irritation and not-worry in his chest pops and he jogs down the walkway to reach his brother.
“Ford!” he exclaims, bending over to catch his breath. “You could’ve told me you were waiting someplace different today!” He lifts his head to look at Ford, expecting some dry quip or—more likely—a huh? Oh, there you are Stan as he blinks up owlishly from his book.
But Ford isn’t looking at him at all. Or at a book. His eyes are glued to the ground. He looks a mess: clothes rumpled and hair askew. His glasses sit crookedly on his nose. Bent again. Stan’s surprised their mom can still twist their glasses back into shape, considering the damage they’ve taken over the years. Ford’s hands are in front of him and he’s wringing them nervously.
“What in the heck happened to you?” Stan forces himself to laugh, ignoring the ache in his gut. “Alien abduction?”
“Let’s go home.” Ford sounds exhausted. He wobbles a little when he stands up. There’s no way sitting on the sidewalk took that much energy out of him.
“Hey, c’mon man.” Stan grabs his twin by the shoulder and turns him in his direction. Now that they’re both standing, Stan can see that the skin around Ford’s lips looks swollen. He’s about to either praise or scold Ford for getting some action while he wasn’t around, but then he feels his hand start shaking.
No, it’s not his hand that’s shaking. It’s the arm under his hand. In fact, Ford’s whole body is trembling like a leaf.
“Stanford…”
“Let’s just go home, please?” Ford’s voice is hoarse. He must be getting sick. Stan feels terrible for scolding him.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go this way; I know a shortcut.”
He reaches down to take Ford’s hand. Ford jumps and pulls his clasped hands out of Stan’s grasp.
“Don’t!” he shouts.
“What is wrong with you?” Stan yells back, a little annoyed and a lot frantic. “I just wanted to help! Why are you acting so…?”
He trails off as he takes a good look at Ford’s hands. He’s not wringing them. It’s just one hand pressed tight over the other, rubbing occasionally. And the fingers of the top hand are stained with something rust-colored.
“Ford, you’re hurt!” Despite his previous bad results, Stan reaches for his brother again.
Ford stumbles backward. “It’s nothing…”
“Like hell it is! You’re bleeding!” He can see in the panicked dart of Ford’s eyes and the tensing of his muscles that he’s about to bolt, but Stan is stronger and has faster reflexes. He grabs Ford’s wrists and pulls the top hand away.
The back of Ford’s right hand is crossed with angry red cuts. They don’t look super-deep, but they are welling with blood. Stan’s about to freak out and demand to know how Ford got his hand messed up, but then he notices something that makes his heart drop into his stomach.
The cuts aren’t just random lines. There’s an F shape along the ridge of Ford’s knuckles and an R disappearing under his sleeve cuff.
His own hand tenses, and Ford must know what he’s thinking because he shouts, “Stanley, don’t!”
But Stan does.
He pulls up Ford’s sleeve as far as it can go. Traveling up his twin’s forearm are the letters E A K.
FREAK
Stan freezes for a good second before he feels his blood boil over. His head snaps up and he looks into Ford’s pale face. It’s no better than looking at the bloody letters. “Who did this to you?”
Ford presses his lips into a tight line and shakes his head.
“Stanford Pines, you tell me who did this right now!”
He shakes his head again. Tears escape from the pinched corners of his eyes and run down his cheeks. Stan is horrified. Ford doesn’t always take pain or disappointment well, but he never cries. It’s a side-affect of being raised by Filbrick Pines.
“Tell me so I can go bash their faces in!” He’s furious and he feels sick and so, so guilty. This would have never happened if he’d been there. If he hadn’t gotten that stupid detention…!
“Please…” Ford’s fingers curl into his Stan’s shirt. “Please just drop it. I just want to go home.” He sounds so small and helpless and lost. “Please, Stan.”
Stan’s anger crumbles. He’s sure to revisit it later, but right now he has a brother to take care of.
“Okay. Okay. Let’s go home. Oh hey, hold on a second!” Stan reaches down and pulls his shoe and sock off. He stuffs his bare foot back into the shoe and wraps the sock around Ford’s injured hand. “Yeah, I know it’s gross. But it’ll do for now, right?”
Ford nods tightly. His body looks ready to fold in on itself. Stan wishes he knew what to do. All he can do is wrap an arm around Ford’s shoulders as they walk home and tell him that it’ll be okay. That they’ll be okay.
He’s not sure which of them he’s trying to convince.