Chapter Text
September 2nd
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"Ian, Pauline! School!"
Drowsily, the gentle sound of the Pokemon Sleep alarm clock roused a dozing head from his sleep. Or, really, it would have, if the voice of his mother hadn't gotten him first.
Ian didn't really enjoy getting up. His hand tried to find the phone first, but when the alarm sound got louder, he figured he had better open his eyes. Once the alarm was off, though, he rolled over, stuffing a pillow over his head.
His thighs and ribs felt that usual sort of achey-soreness that came after an evening of practice. Coach Bolin was really trying to get their season on a roll, especially since their last four games hadn't gone the best. Their last game had gone fine, 4-0 against ANC, but this was Varsity. He knew they could do better.
Ian Gillan huffed as he decided he had better get up. Just in boxers, he meandered to the bathroom. After all, his mother would be making another round of she didn't sense the floorboards creaking enough.
As he brushed his teeth, Ian thought about their next game, two days away. It was an away game- to Springfield Township. He was a bit nervous. The Spartans had an undefeated year so far, and even if it was early, he knew they were good. Better than Old Mill? Yes. Could they overcome this? He hoped. But he also knew better. He figured Ritchie had more words about how it would go, before and afterwards. Ian was more prepared for an inevitable toungue-lashing from teammate Blackmore than he was prepared to win on Wednesday night.
"Move." Grumbled the incoming body of a Blink-182 shirt and sweatpants.
Ian did as ordered, but not without looking his sister up and down. Appears she forgot to wash off her makeup from yesterday. She looked a little like what he assumed Bloody Mary to look like when he was chanting her name in third grade mirrors.
He spat his toothpaste out in the sink, but didn't forget to give a cordial morning greeting. "Got run-over before curfew?" His voice was gravelly as he rubbed off any residue from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Fuck off," Pauline mumbled as she grabbed her hairbrush. Jolly Monday, then.
Ian grabbed his own comb before slipping away.
"Can you give me Sweeny Todd's number?" He asked before his head went out. "I need a cut soon, I like what he does for you," he grinned as he acted like he was fluffing his bangs straight into the air.
"Fuck off, Ian!" Pauline growled and slammed the door in his face.
He was snickering, though.
"Kids! Come get your breakfast!" His mother called.
"And get on schedule, then!" His granddad added.
Ian trudged back to his room. If he recalled correctly, there had been a clean pair of pants under the pile of dirty laundry in the corner, hadn't there?
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When he slammed his English book on his desk and sat down, Gillan figured this would be it. Trying to make it through an hour and thirty minutes of- what were they on, now? Media in Capitalism? He hadn't been paying too close attention. What usually happened was, he got an assignment, read the requirements, dug through material he felt would help, and then bit and screamed and fought and kicked his way through making himself write. It wasn't an easy task, but the teacher, bless her soul, watched him do what he could. It seemed to be enough- he had a B.
This wasn't to say that Ian hated writing. He didn't- he actually enjoyed poetry. He thought it was fun. He didn't take it too seriously, either, and he enjoyed it that way. But learning about Sesame Street and Blues Clues, and how it affected markets? It felt a little bit strange for this kind of setting, didn't it? Unfitting. He didn't really understand how those things fit into a capitalist agenda well, anyway, and wondered why they didn't look at more foreboding things, like perhaps Wall Street or accounting firms, or really anything to do with the IRS. Oh, well.
They were about fifteen minutes into a lecture, and the senior was highly considering putting his head down as inconspicuously as he could for a nap. Just to get some of this over a bit quicker, he assured himself. This wasn't in his cards, though. Alas, the crackling of the overhead speaker came on, silencing the room.
"Ian Gillan to the office, please." The voice demanded.
The teacher turned to Gillan's seat, but called up, "On his way."
The announcement speaker crackled off. Every eye in the room was on him.
Uh oh.
He stood up without any coaxing, nodded to the teacher, and tried to smile he was out of any wrongdoings that she or his peers thought he'd gotten himself into. Truthfully, he didn't think he even convinced himself.
While he walked down the tile floors, he had to wonder- what sent him here this time? Recalling his internal catalogues of shit he somehow happened to always get himself into, nothing seemed very recent. He hoped Glenn didn't get him in trouble again with something he did. Glenn was a good soccer player, but it seemed like whatever Hughes did, the rest of the team would get into trouble by-proxy. Mostly David Coverdale, but Ian had his fair share of being questioned by the assistant principal, wanting to know if Gillan saw Hughes sneak out during lunch, or creep around the parking lot, or skip class, or-
"Mr. Bolin wants to see you." The receptionist said as soon as Ian had stepped into the office. "Meeting room."
He stared at her blankly for just a moment- he realized he let himself get lost in thought. But he thanked the receptionist all the same. After all, he knew where the meeting room was, since they had drug screenings here for soccer.
When he stepped in, the large, fatherly form of the soccer coach peered up at Gillan. He had papers in front of him.
"Hey, coach," Ian said as he came in. He stayed standing by the table. "You wanted to see me before practice?"
Mr. Richard Bolin was from Iowa, and had an accent that the team loved to playfully tease. He also had just a Midwestern air about him- even now as he took off his cap, running a hand through his salt and peppered hair, and sighing.
"Sit down, son," he motioned to a chair as his voice drawled out like a cowboy in a western, "I've got to bring some things to your attention."
Ian did as was told, already getting his stomach tied in knots. This wasn't his coach's usual happy and warm demeanor. He almost never used such proper words, and was very down-to-earth and straight about things. This made Gillan feel even worse.
"Is this about the game Wednesday?" He asked. "Robert and I have been drilling every moment- I swear, we-"
Mr. Bolin held up a hand. His mouth formed a straight line.
"Now, son, nobody knows how hard you work more than me," he said, kind, warm. Better. "And you got a good head on your shoulders for that, and I appreciate that kind of hard working gumption on all my players. But we gotta sit down and talk about your grades, Ian."
With those heavy words, he slid over a report card. Name at the top and all.
Gillan gulped. So this was the reason.
"Now, have you been keepin' track of yourself on Sapphire?" Mr. Bolin asked. It was almost torture, hearing how gentle he was about this.
Ian tried to smile, but he made more of an upset huff as he itched his neck. Was he getting cut from the team? So soon? They hadn't even had their fourth game!
"Well, I mean- we aren't even close to the end of the grading quarter...!" He tried to interject.
"I know, I know- and you're not the only one I'm following this year," the coach waved and sat back. "I got Glenn in a chokehold about how he's doin' in math- and I'm about to force him into tutoring after school! But this is what I mean, son, and I want you to know it. This year's the last I'm gonna have most of my team, and we gotta make it count. I can't have my best players kicked out by November because of grades!"
Ian felt a little guilty. The head of his after school life was just trying to make sure the team was successful. Looking out for them. And Ian hadn't considered this at all.
Well. Wait.
He looked back down at his report card. Now that he thought about it, he didn't remember getting that bad of a grade... Any time.
"Uh, wait, but I thought..."
He skimmed the columns.
English- B+
Geometry- C+
Environmental Sciences- C
Choir- A
Physical Education- A
Health- B+
Social Studies- A
Art- F
Ian blinked.
Oh.
He forgot about that one...
"It's just that one grade, Ian," Mr. Bolin patted the senior on the shoulder. "And that's just participation! You can nip this in the bud in a week."
That's what Ian thought, too. In fact, that was why he took art in the first place. It was an easy A. You doodled, you left, you were fine. It was garunteed.
Right?
He supposed not.
"Now, that record says that you got art today, ain't that right?" Coaxed his coach.
Ian nodded. Quiet. Thinking.
"Well, you just keep your head up in there, then! And you won't get no letters sent home about this, you got it?"
Gillan tilted his head. He didn't even really know what they were doing in that class. To be honest, he liked to just go on his phone and watch movies in there. Maybe that's why he was suffering so much.
Erg...
"I'll turn it around, sir," he nodded at his coach. "Don't worry about it."
Mr. Bolin smiled all warm, and nodded back. "That's what I like to hear. Wish you were as easy to talk to as Ritchie," he snickered, and got up. "You go ahead and get back into class. And you keep your head up in Art today!"
Ian left, planning for the same. But he was apprehensive about it. How had he let his art grade slip so bad? He turned in projects! He did what he was supposed to! This had to be a mistake, surely.
When he sulked back into the English room, the teacher was finishing her lecture. He figured he didn't miss much- it looked like they were looking at posters on the smart board. He sat down as she was assigning groups.
The groups happened to be people you sat next to.
Ian wanted to groan. He got India, the girl he dated a year ago. She didn't seem to be thrilled, but she didn't seem upset. She kept looking at him quietly through her long, product-laden hair.
"Ah- what'd I miss?" He asked, leaning over to her seat.
She eyed the dark-haired boy, and shrugged. "Not much."
Fat help that was.
"Are we still talking about capitalism?" He sighed, hand on his head. Maybe he could do this project on baby clothes marketing...
India stared blankly at him.
"What?" She asked. She looked puzzled.
Ian paused. Then he tried again. "Ah, the unit we're on? This whole book's been about capitalism and marketing." He said.
India made a face. "No? This is about propaganda." She stated, belligerent.
Suddenly, this English unit made much more sense. He mumbled and looked down at the assignment paper, feeling a bit more than humbled.
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He didn't know exactly how he got out of his other classes, or even English without too much damage. But the day went on. Lunch came and went. The AM people coming from Middle Bucks Institute of Technology on the transfer bus came into the halls like a river, while a group who was going over there for the PM session filed into the bus. Lockers were opened and slammed. Doors opened and shut. And Ian was apprehensive at 1:28 in the afternoon, because he had to be in art.
It had been eating at him for a while. Ritchie was in the class with him- David and Glenn, too. Jimmy Page was there as well, who Ian knew just because of Robert Plant. There were a few others in that class that Ian knew, but not as friends. Freddie Bulsara, John Entwistle, and... Erm...
The bell rang, signalling class had now started. Ian found the way to his seat.
Oh, what was his name...
When he walked into the classroom, smell of ceramic dust, charcoal, and old wood, he at once saw who he was thinking of. And he remembered the name.
Roger.
Roger was an easy one to pick out in a crowd, but only because of one thing. He had bright red flaming hair- but otherwise, was practically invisible. Very quiet soul. Ian remembered that the boy transferred to his class here in sixth grade, which should have been plenty of time to at least familiarize. But it didn't happen. Roger never spoke much, and was oddly never social. Actually, Ian assumed the boy had mutism until this year- because he finally heard him speak in their class.
He couldn't recall the last name for the life of him. He didn't think he had many classes with Roger, either. He only really started to notice the boy now, because he was a large presence in that art room.
Always sitting alone at a large group desk, the redhead was almost always hunched over a paper. Drawing, Ian supposed. Always drawing. He had a bag with him, and usually had green headphones on. No one sat with him. He always had his back to everyone else.
The only time Roger talked, and Ian found this very odd, was when they all gathered to talk about their projects.
It was a good day to see the boy in action again. After all, they were supposed to be done with this week's assignment.
Erm. Ian forgot what it was called. Scribbling? Dashes? That's what he had on his paper, anyway. Lots of lines. That's what the references were. It had something to do with... How dark colors got? Shadows? He didn't see how, really, he didn't understand it. He didn't think any shadow looked like a lot of pencil line loops in a square.
Sitting next to him at the table, Ritchie Blackmore made a grimace.
"That's your cross hatching?" He hissed like a snake.
Oh, that's what it was called, apparently.
"Yes it is- you like it?" Gillan asked, sitting up and admiring his beautiful artman-ship. Er. Penmanship? He used a pencil... "I think it's rather robust, thank you."
Ritchie scoffed, making Ian feel a little bit unsure. He puffed out his chest proudly to compensate.
"You're useless in this class." Blackmore snapped. "You never know what we're doing. It's value work, not cursive."
Ian shrugged.
"Isn't beauty in the eye of the beholder?" He countered. "Art is subjective."
"And after this, your balls are going to be very tortive."
Tortive? That was a good work. He'd have to Google that later. But for now, it sounded very fancy. People who ate caviar would certainly use that word. People from Abu Dhabi. Using champagne as mouthwash.
"Why, thank you, sir," Gillan purred out, as old-money as he could muster.
Ritchie began to glare.
"Bring your papers to the front of the room," The art teacher, Mr. Braggard, announced.
They had to gather again for this one. Oh, boy. He got up as he noticed Ritchie's squares of... Hatching, was it? They looked a lot different than his. His stomach got a bit tied. Wasn't he supposed to change his grade around today? Maybe that had to wait for Wednesday...
"Freddie, why don't you start us off?" Braggard asked.
Freddie Bulsara proudly held up his paper- every box filled with lines.
"Very good!" The teacher smiled. "The density you used as values transitioned very smoothly."
Freddie smiled. Ian frowned. What? Those words meant things?
"I did my best to have them multiply at a steady rate," Bulsara began to speak.
Ian shifted his weight. They had to calculate lines? That's what the project was? No wonder he was failing. He didn't know math was so involved.
"Before you say anything else, Freddie," The teacher stepped back, motioning to the paper. "I'd like to open discussion for a proper critique. Anyone first?"
There was that dreaded word again. 'Critique.' Ian didn't like that word. It meant that they were going to be here for an hour, talking. Standing and talking. This got to be so hair-raisingly boring. He wanted to see if he could try to watch more episodes of Gilmore Girls, rather than this nonsense. They always said the same things, anyway.
But, well. Who else should step forward, but a thin, lanky redhead boy?
The teacher beamed. "Roger Glover- you go right ahead."
Glover smiled.
"Well, Freddie, I like that you watched and started off with a white space for the lightest value- sometimes I have a hard time of letting the paper be clean on its own. But I can tell that when you did start, it was a very easy pressure, and very loose here," he pointed.
Ian couldn't keep up with the words Roger already said. He couldn't keep up with the rest. But there was a lot he apparently had to say.
Roger had a very whispy way of talking- very soft, and accented. It wasn't like the way Ian talked- or even Glenn, or David- The Black Country and Yorkshire respectively. Ian didn't think Roger was Irish either, though, he looked like a leprechaun enough. But Ian knew Rory Gallagher's County Cork accent very regularly, and it didn't fit either. But that wasn't the point. Point was, Ian half wondered if Roger was a teacher's aid sometimes, because he almost did more teaching than their real teacher here. Like now.
"Did you use an eraser to help the gradients?" Glover asked.
"I did!" Freddie beamed. "You can tell!"
"Well, I always think that the eraser is more of a tool than it's given credit." Roger posed.
"Very well said," Braggard agreed. "Anyone else?"
David Coverdale took in a big breath that let Gillan know he was waking up from a light standing doze.
"I like the heavy parts of the shadows," he huffed. "You got it as dark as it could be, with graphite."
Teacher smiled and nodded. Turned to Ian.
"Mr. Gillan? Anything from you?" He asked. He looked expectant. So did the rest of the class.
"Ah..." Ian looked at everyone. His eyes caught Roger's.
Roger looked at him in a sort of coaxing way. Like he wanted Ian to speak.
"Well, yeah. Looks good, I like it."
The teacher made a sideways smile that looked more like a frown. He saw Roger's eyes fall with the expression on his face.
"Well, thank you, Ian." Brunner straightened himself. "Mr. Coverdale, you next?"
As the critique continued on, Ian couldn't help but feel like he made a social art room faux pas. He wondered why that was.