Chapter Text
The thing they never tell you about high school is that there’s a clear, established social ladder. Positions of status are determined entirely with disregard for grades and morality. If you’re too kind, they ridicule you as weak. Demonstrate extraordinary intelligence and you’ll be used. Ironic for a learning environment.
For whatever reason, society seemed to throw out all those rules to make an exception for Bruce Yamada: Perfect student, outstanding grades, multitalented, charming, and absurdly kind. Just all-around a good person. Everybody loves him, and the few that don’t—either out of envy or spite—are too feeble or afraid of ruining their reputation to express their distaste.
Being on top however did mean associating oneself with those that carry the same prominence, kids who didn’t have enough heart to care how they rose above others but only that they had to. Incessant condescending jeers, physical violence, and tormenting people that would so much as look at them the wrong way; Bruce hated it. So, try as he might to avoid those kinds of people, it was inevitable that they interacted with him. That’s just how it worked, and life goes on.
This brings them to now, a regular Tuesday in October. Bruce Yamada is accompanied by one Finney Blake, acclaimed science prodigy and math whiz as well as his friend since childhood. Finn was often a target for bullying and it used to worry Bruce to an unhealthy extent but it’s better now than in middle school when his face was always blemished with a type of injury. Now with Bruce’s popularity extended over him like a protective umbrella, barely anyone wanted to risk getting on his bad side.
Already there was a ruckus from what appeared to be a fight, happening at—Bruce looks at the clock—7:53 in the bright, early morning. Whoever it is is being roughed up badly, the harsh dissonant clang of the metal lockers resounding, but Bruce is just too tired and too occupied with trying to move around the crowd that’s observing the altercation to actually take note of who’s partaking in it. He succeeds after the somewhat struggle of trying to squeeze past the swarm of bystanders with Finney in tow.
“It’s every day with this,” Bruce complains as he makes it to his locker, opening it.
Finney makes a noncommittal noise. “That’s what happens when you force a bunch of angry, angsty teens into an enclosed space for six hours, five days a week,” he states, opening his own locker beside Bruce’s.
“I get that, but they can’t, like, take a break? Ever?” Bruce inquires whilst pulling out a textbook and notebook from the shelf in his locker. Both books display the word “Pre-Calc” on their covers, a contrast to the “World History” title on Finn’s books.
Finn laughs, entertained, “I’m not sure that’s how it works, Bruce. It’s fifty different kids starting it every week. I doubt they’d all stop fighting for one day. That’s,” Finn pauses shortly to close his locker after gathering his books, “pretty much impossible for these guys. It’d be a miracle, though.”
Bruce tilts his head up thoughtfully. “Yeah, a grace period. How nice would that be?”
“Marvellous,” Finn sighs. He jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. “I’m gonna head to class early. Are you coming with?”
Bruce shakes his head, “No, no. I’m probably gonna see if I can get anything from the cafeteria. Kinda skipped breakfast and am regretting it.”
Finn nods in understanding. “Sure, catch you later.”
Bruce salutes, watching his friend walk up the stairs. When he’s out of his sight, he turns on his heel and saunters in the other direction, determined to fulfill his hunger.
* * *
Bruce did end up getting something to eat. He bargained his way into receiving an apple (which was not his first choice, but it was nutritious, beneficial, and tasty, so hey, why not?). Deciding that he had time to linger before he absolutely had to be in class, he went upstairs and into the boy’s bathroom.
Upon entering he immediately wrinkled his nose, the pungent and distinct odor of cigarettes wafting through the air. The third-floor bathroom always reeked of cigarette smoke, so he wasn’t sure why it was always a slap in the face whenever he entered. It was a surprise no authoritative figures have even mentioned a word about it. That’s the crazy thing: Once everyone starts doing it, it becomes the norm; Nobody ever says anything because it’s much more difficult to control the vast majority than just a few individuals.
He finishes his business as quickly as possible, desperate to escape the thick haze of tobacco-slash-chemical-induced smoke. He washes his hands, and to himself, he wonders in disbelief, Who the fuck is smoking this early in the morning?
Bruce’s question isn’t left unanswered for long; The door of one of the bathroom stalls behind him swings open, the personified version of a hurricane barreling out. A flurry of denim and curly blonde hair appear beside him, and oh-
Looking back, he guesses he could’ve predicted that, because standing there to his left is the Vance Hopper.
He’s washing off his bloody knuckles so it doesn’t take long for Bruce to put two and two together. The fight at the lockers. All evidence points towards the blonde.
‘Cause of fucking course it’s him. He’s got a reputation to uphold: held back twice, toughest kid in school, picks a fight with anyone—and he sure as hell wins them, too.
Apparently, Bruce was staring at Vance for way too long because Vance shuts off the water, wraps his hand in a towel, and spits out, “Think you can mind your own business and study someone else, genius?”
Bruce is mortified. If he had the choice, he certainly would not plan for a run-in with this guy. He’s about to slink away, maybe stutter out an apology, but he’s not that kind of person.
Bruce isn’t sure what emboldens him but he retorts, “Far from my favorite subject.” He inwardly curses him and his mouth.
Vance raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m gonna throw you a bone and let that one slide, wonder boy. If my knuckles weren’t already a bloody, mangled mess, they would’ve been on your goddamn jaw.”
Frustratingly for himself, Bruce’s bravado doesn’t cease. “That’s never stopped you before.” He doesn’t even wait around for a response, the logical part of his brain winning this time, as he steps out of the bathroom and all but rushes to his math class.
In his rush, Bruce misses the amused snicker Vance inadvertently lets out as a response.
* * *
Classes drag by as tediously as expected: an abundance of tests, quizzes, homework—the whole shebang.
The bell rings, signaling the start of the awaited lunch period. Bruce and Finney, both coming from the same Literature class, walk the way to the cafeteria.
“I swear, if she makes one more comment about my use of the Oxford Comma, I’m literally going to lose my mind,” Finn grumbles, exasperated.
Bruce is completely in agreement. “How are you an English teacher and not support the use of the Oxford Comma? That’s like if a Trigonometry teacher disagreed with the Pythagorean Theorem.”
“Exactly! Ms. Mullen needs to get on our level of wit,” Finn boasts.
Bruce pokes his shoulder. “Alright soldier, don’t let it get to your head. It’s big enough with your overinflated ego as it is.”
Finn gasps in mock betrayal before cackling. He pipes up, seeming to remember something. “I can’t eat lunch with you today.”
“Yeah, why’s that?” Bruce questioned, lightheartedly yet confused.
“Well, I told Robin I would tutor him in Algebra during lunch break,” Finn says sheepishly.
“Robin Arellano? You’re tutoring Robin Arellano?!” Bruce asks, amazed. Finn nods in confirmation.
Bruce taps a finger to his chin, reminiscing. “Hey, didn’t you have a crush on him in-”
Finn slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shut up!” he hisses, “That’s him right there. Got to go, bye!”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “Alright, yeah, that’s fine just leave me here.”
He scans the cafeteria. He can pinpoint the exact tables he wants to stay away from, the ones with the exact obnoxious narcissistic jerks he’d like to avoid. Another brief scope of the room and he shakes his head. It’s too noisy and he can’t deal with that at the moment.
So he goes to the best available option: the school library, his personal sanctum sanctorum.
Bruce heads over to the section where he knows he can find fiction and sweeps his eyes over the spines of the books, skimming over titles. One, in particular, stands out, which he then takes out of the shelf, checks out, and opens: The Catcher in the Rye , J.D. Salinger.
It engages his attention instantly, so much so that he wanders over to one of the wooden desks and takes a seat without being aware of his surroundings.
“Don’t read that,” a callous voice speaks up.
Bruce startles, immediately looking up and almost dropping his book in the process. It’s Vance Hopper, again. “What?”
“It’s not worth reading. The writing is desultory and quite honestly messy,” Vance states. Bruce gives him an incredulous look, so Vance elaborates, surprising the other boy, “I read it when I was younger and it really discombobulated my psychological framework, not in a good way. I disagreed with Holden from the beginning; Saw him as stubborn and naive with a lack of morals. Didn’t seem fit for a protagonist to my toddler brain.”
Vance seems lost in thought for a minute. “Although, maybe it deserves a revisit. I’m all grown up now, right? So my perspective on a book about teenage adolescence and the cynical view that a teenage boy would have of maturity would change. That’s really what I was missing: a young mind couldn’t comprehend the themes of the book because it wouldn’t have the advantage of relating it to their own experience,” Vance rushes out, astutely.
“Never mind what I said initially, I take it back. Continue reading.” Vance waves towards the open book.
But Bruce isn’t interested in reading anymore. No, he’s way more riveted with the puzzle sitting across from him.
“That was really…profound,” Bruce speaks in wonder.
Vance huffs out a short acknowledgment and goes back to scribbling illegible words onto his homework sheet. Bruce keeps staring at him though, observing. In hindsight, his conscience should’ve notified him that Hey, that’s a little weird. Maybe look away, but Bruce is finding it more and more difficult to. Vance Hopper is a black hole, absolutely and entirely absorbing all of Bruce’s attention.
Vance eventually notices Bruce’s analytical stare. “What,” he spits out, harshly.
“Nothing,” Bruce shrugs, “I just don’t understand why you make it so hard for yourself when you can graduate easy.”
Vance takes offense to it. “Is this because I gave you that puny book review?”
Bruce nods. Vance responds, “Jesus, it was just common knowledge about a popular book. You don’t have to be smart to have an opinion. And not everything’s about grades and shit, okay, smartass? Leave it the fuck alone.”
Yet he finds himself pushing even more. He knows he shouldn’t but he could never stay away from Vance Hopper: a stupid impulse. “Look all I’m saying is if you actually showed up to your classes you’d be outta here in no time.”
No response.
“It’s just,” he pushes it even harder, “you possess such a level of ingenuity frankly it’s outstanding. I’m surprised no teachers have talked to you about it.”
Put too much pressure on anything and it snaps. A whetted blade is bound to dull eventually.
“They have. It’s why the sadistic assholes haven’t expelled me yet.” He puts his palms flat on the desk. “On and on about the wasted potential crap that I don’t fucking care about one bit. Just fucking stop! You and them—stop pretending like you know everything.” He keeps going. It’s evident that he’s far past the point of controlling what comes out of his mouth. “I see right through you, Bruce Yamada. You think you’re so intelligent and gifted because you’ve never broken a law and run from the cops? Wake the fuck up, dickwad. When’s the last time you ever did something you actually wanted to do, huh? I’m tired of you fucks with straight A’s acting like you got it all planned out for you when you’ve done nothing but trap yourselves.”
The tension in his expression visibly decreases as he comes down from his outburst. It’s extremely obvious to Bruce, however, that there’s a multitude of things left unsaid. Turns out Vance Hopper is as transparent as he.
“Smart of you to climb up the hierarchy, I’ll give you that. Everyone thinks you’re infallible and fucking unreachable or something,” he scoffs.
Bruce is quiet for a long time, silently mulling things over before he finally speaks again. “Even you?”
Vance is taken aback. “What?”
“Do you think I’m infallible? Unreachable?”
Vance’s face is indecipherable. “I think you’re full of shit. Staying on top because you’re afraid of grazing the bottom.”
“Didn’t answer my question.”
“God–“ Vance exclaims exasperatedly “–fucking, yes! Okay? Yeah, I do. And it annoys the hell outta me the way everyone sees you as some deity or whatever, including myself. Bruce Yamada: popular, cool guy. Everybody’s under his goddamn spell and everyone loves him. Guess that has no limitations.”
Vance gives him a sharp glare and notices Bruce about to reply, so he quickly shuts him down, saying, “Don’t say a fucking word. Your voice irks me.”
Bruce, in return, has a shit-eating grin on his face. “You don’t want that. You looooove me.”
Vance stands up from his seat, pushing his chair back aggressively, holding a fist up. “Do you wanna fucking go? ‘Cause I’m not afraid of fucking up the school’s golden boy.”
Bruce is unfazed, cackling in his seat. He’s being threatened and he’s laughing.
He eventually stops and they sit in silence: Bruce lightly tapping his fingers on the table and Vance sitting back, crossing his arms watching him. He seems to have forgotten about the half-answered homework sheet sitting in front of him in favor of watching the other’s face intent with concentration as he flips pages. The tables have turned.
It isn’t until Bruce glances up from his book and meets his eyes that Vance scrambles to get back to his homework, pretending like he didn’t just get caught staring. He can feel the blood rush to his face, tinging his usually pale cheeks with color, and he can feel Bruce amusedly smirking as he turns back to his book. He finds it in himself that he doesn’t mind. The two of them, supposed polar opposites, unintentionally sitting on opposite sides.
And when the bell rang and both of them got up and went on with their day, everybody outside of themselves would be none the wiser of the events in the library. And if later they would see one another in the hallway passing, it would be another fleeting moment in their memory, for neither of them acknowledged the other’s presence besides rapid eye contact. And if at the end of the day they would go their respective ways—Bruce to baseball practice and Vance loitering at the arcade—that was fine with them.
And if both Vance and Bruce went home assuming that a single conversation between them wouldn’t change anything, they’d both be terribly wrong and such fools for thinking so; For either boy was oblivious of the irreversible fact that they went home thinking of each other.