Chapter Text
It’s a cloudy day at the end of September when students of Parsons Secondary School have settled into their friend groups and reluctantly resumed their studies. For some, this means the ever-looming university applications are upon them. For others, this means the prime time to celebrate their youth and freedom.
Namely, through partying.
”Naib.”
Naib Subedar slams his locker door shut and turns to face a girl with waist-length locs. His insomnia has been chiseling away at his patience recently, and now even exchanging pleasantries with his friends feels beyond his ability.
“Patty,” he says, then lurches forward when a wayward elbow slams into his back. His friend straightens him up, eyebrow raised, and he heaves a sigh.
“Call me Patty and I’ll call you Subby,” Patricia Dorval says. Naib snorts despite himself.
They start walking to their next class—physics, with Ms. Kobayashi—and she hands him her phone. The screen is cracked and brightness set to two percent, as usual, so Naib squints to make out the words.
“You’re invited to Vera and Chloe’s seventeenth,” he says aloud, after deciphering the sparkling black cursive font. “Seriously? The twins?”
”Correct,” Patricia says dryly, waving at one of her other friends as they enter the classroom. Once they sit down, she continues. “Vera and Chloe are turning seventeen and it’s the whole school’s business, apparently. At least in our year. You saw the address she put?”
“... Their house?”
"No, you dolt. It’s the Manor."
Naib blinks, his insomnia fog fading just slightly with his surprise.
There’s only one Manor Patricia could be referring to—the vacant, abandoned one standing lonesome in Secord Woods, grandiose and boastful, but with a pride faded by decades of the bare and weary twentieth century. Despite being a local monument, there are no weekly exhibitions or paid tour visits. Because, like a typical cliche, it is a haunted residence.
"Vera’s a weirdo, so I guess that was her idea,” Naib mutters. “Don’t know why you’re friends with her. Chloe’s pretty cool though.”
"It’s not like she’s the first to party in there,” Patricia says. She pulls out her tattered tablet and starts scribbling down notes. “It’s a popular place for people to get away from their parents or whatever. And I’m not friends with her—Demi is.”
“Now I get why they’re friends,” Naib says. “Every party fanatic needs an alcohol dealer.”
Patricia opens her mouth to retort, but Ms. Kobayashi finally arrives, and first period begins.
"Today’s lesson will be on Newton’s Third Law,” she says. Her smooth voice is overlaid with the droning vents, and the dimmed light of their classroom weighs on Naib’s eyelids. He dozes off just as his cheek hits his notebook.
Lately, whenever he sleeps, Naib dreams.
It must have begun about a month ago, just as summer break came to an end. He was out camping with his mother and sister and had single-handedly wrangled their tent into submission, so he was tired and irritable. He retreated into his sleeping bag for a quick nap—but woke up four hours later drenched in cold, feverish sweat, covering his mouth as a scream echoed in his throat.
“Naib?”
He woke his little sister with his sudden jolt upright. Rani reached for him, smacking his leg amicably.
“I’m good,” Naib croaked, voice hoarse like he really had screamed. “Go back to sleep.”
“There’s some food in the car if you need to eat something,” Rani muttered, dozing off again. “Aama was worried when you just knocked out like that. She didn’t wanna wake you.”
“I’m good,” Naib repeated. His hand moved mechanically to tuck his sister back into her sleeping bag. He didn’t even notice when she fell back asleep.
Alone in the darkness of their tent again, Naib pressed a hand to his chest and tried to slow his heartbeat down. He breathed in deeply, forcing air into his lungs, and closed his eyes to try and recall just what he had been dreaming of.
Throbbing in his arms. A flash of red. Taste of blood. A body next to him.
“What the fuck,” he whispered, putting his sweaty face in his hands. He sat in the silence, listening to the sounds of his mother and sister sleeping, finally feeling the adrenaline recede.
He eventually collapsed back into slumber again and woke hours later to the sun on his face and the smell of breakfast.
Those nightmares, as Naib had reluctantly decided to call them, visited him on a nearly nightly basis, making the start of his senior year messy with in-class napping and careless, missed test points. Once, when his mother ran into his room after he screamed in his sleep, she had gently suggested therapy.
Naib had opposed it vehemently, but nearly a month later with the nightmares showing no sign of slowing down, he’s close to accepting it. He had always been a top student in his classes, but not naturally. His lack of sleep now is due to something out of his control—not all-nighters where he can study, but nightmares that refuse to let him sleep more than three hours a night before his alarm calls him up for the next day of school.
“Naib.”
Patricia’s sharp nudge makes him bang his knee under the desk when he jolts back to alertness. His head throbs with a headache and he winces—especially when he hears the giggling of his classmates.
“Naib,” says Ms. Kobayashi, “do your best to stay awake during the lesson.”
Her voice is firm as usual, but her dark eyes convey something more worried.
“Sorry,” he mutters. he rubs his knee under the desk, ignoring the look Patricia is giving him. When he glances up again, Ms. Kobayashi is still staring at him, and the class is awkwardly silent.
“See me at lunch.”
Someone breaks the silence with an obligatory “Oooohhhh”, followed by more giggles and a “Not necessary, Norton” from Ms. Kobayashi, allowing Naib to slump in his chair and sigh through his embarrassment. Patricia flicks his hand and gestures to his phone. When he opens it, he finds a notification from her—a copy of her notes.
“Thanks,” he says. He rubs his face and takes a deep gulp of his water, keeping himself alert enough to stay awake for the rest of the period.
When the bell rings, he bids Patricia a quick goodbye and rushes out of the class before Ms. Kobayashi can call out to him again. Norton and his band of hooligans shove at him playfully before he can escape.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Eli Clark pulls him aside to ask, catching Naib as he tries to speed-walk to chemistry. “You don’t look good.”
“I’m fine,” Naib says. Eli is one of the few tolerable people who's friends with Norton—academically-focused, part of some environmental movement outside of school, and infamous for his pet owl—so much so that Naib wonders why he even hangs out with Norton.
“You can have my chem notes if you need them,” Eli offers, patting Naib consolingly on the back. “Sorry, I know Norton can be an idiot.”
“I took today’s notes last night,” Naib says, fighting off a yawn. “And why do you hang out with that guy again? ‘Cause he saved your girlfriend or something?”
“Gertrude likes him, and so do I,” Eli says evenly. “He’s really not a bad person, Naib. You two just clash. For whatever reason.”
Naib does not like the pause between Eli’s last few words.
“Why do you take notes ahead of time?” Eli continues. “You used to tell me you didn’t learn anything that way.”
“Well, now I can sleep in class.”
“We have a lab today.” All thoughts of sneaking a nap under Mr. Diruse’s nose disappear. “But instead of sleeping last night, you took notes?”
Naib winces, reminded of the nightmare he had.
He’s saved from responding when their cranky Chemistry teacher appears in the doorway to the classroom. He looks like he wants to snap at them for being late when they walk in—while most of their classmates are already in lab gear—but when he looks at Naib, he blinks once, and his expression mellows.
“Get into your groups, boys,” is all Mr. Diruse says before walking back to his desk.
“Do I look that terrible?” Naib says, groaning. “To think Mr. Diruse, of all people, would feel sympathy—”
“Can you two hurry up?”
Vera Nair’s snappy voice cuts over Naib’s complaining. Eli pats his back again before rushing over to their station, already set up for a titration.
“Why are you so cranky this morning? Didn’t sleep?” Demi Bourbon asks. “I see all that concealer on your face. Plus, titration is easy as hell. You guys can sit back and relax.”
“Thanks, Demi,” Eli says. He and Demi start chatting about the lab and get to work, leaving Naib and Vera to stare at each other.
“Heard you’re coming to my party,” Vera says casually.
“How the hell did you find out so fast?” Naib wonders, flabbergasted. Was his nap in Physics last period hours long and he didn’t realize?
“Tricia told Chloe, and Chloe just texted me,” she explains. “I’m surprised. I didn’t take you for the type to party.”
“I never said I’d actually go,” Naib grouses. “Why did you choose the Manor? Of all places.”
“It’s a cool place to party,” Vera says, eyebrows furrowed. “Not like I’m the only one who uses it. But I’ve told everyone I’m using it next week, so no one will be there but people who’re invited.”
“How much did you pay them?” Naib mutters under his breath. When he stares at the neutralizing base swirling in Demi’s flask, his headache grows worse.
“Excuse me,” Vera snaps, crossing her arms. Naib glances at her again—she looks genuinely offended. “I know I’ve got money, but that doesn’t mean people don’t respect me if I don’t use it. Though I’m sure you couldn’t tell the difference.”
Even half-dozing and in mild pain, Naib recognizes her implication.
That he’s poor. Working class.
“Shut up,” Naib says, straightening up and glaring. “Don’t go there.”
“Guys, come on,” Eli cuts in quickly, “We have to—”
“Is there a problem here?”
Mr. Diruse has made his way over to them, staring not at the nearly-neutralized acid in Demi’s hand but at Naib and Vera, who undoubtedly make a displeasing scene.
“No, we’re fine,” Vera says, turning away from Naib. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Diruse.”
Naib grunts out something similar before heading to Eli’s side.
“Not a bad attempt,” Mr. Diruse says, moving onto Demi and Eli. He takes the flask from Demi and raises a piece of white paper behind it, tilting his head. “Well done. The pink is barely visible. I’d say you’d make a brilliant mixologist, Demi.”
“Thanks, Mr. Diruse,” Demi says, grinning. At least someone isn’t stressed.
Then Mr. Diruse turns to Naib.
“Let’s see you try, Naib,” he says, even though Eli is the one already refilling their base solution and Vera is closer. “You received one of my top marks for that acids and bases assessment, and your explanation of the applications of titration was well done.”
Naib wants to protest, but he knows it wouldn’t be reasonable. Mr. Diruse has a habit of being more lenient on the girls in their class than the boys, at least in terms of regular interactions, and Naib has no energy to correct his teacher’s sexism at the moment.
So he makes an attempt. Eli wordlessly acts as his partner, securing the buret and flask in place.
Naib dumps in three drops of phenolphthalein and starts adjusting the stopcock, willing his eyes to focus. His other hand grasps the flask, swirling it with much less grace than Demi.
Another drop from the buret. Two more. The splashes of pink appear and fade, over and over, so Naib keeps the base going. Another drop. When it lands in the acid, the splash is pink once more—
Stay back, Mercenary.
—but this time, it deepens to red. Red, like the copper taste in his mouth, like the shuddering body under his hand, like the red on the white hand in her chest—
“Woah! Naib, what—”
The flask falls from his hand, the following crash loud enough to douse the classroom in sudden silence.
Eli has a hand outstretched, looking to Mr. Diruse and back to Naib. Vera and Demi both look shocked.
“Sorry,” Naib gasps out, trying to fight off the adrenaline—or maybe it’s panic, fear, shock—surging through him. “Sorry, Mr. Diruse, it was an accident.”
“Get back to work,” Mr. Diruse barks to the rest of their classmates. Slowly, chatter starts up again, this time tenser. Then he crouches down to Naib’s level.
When had he fallen to the ground?
“Naib, can you breathe with me?”
“I’m fine,” Naib says, trying not to snap. He recognizes Mr. Diruse’s attempt to diffuse a panic attack, but Naib isn’t having one. The elevated heartbeat, the unstable breathing—it’s all symptoms of whatever his nightmares are feeding him. He’s not panicking.
“Naib,” Mr. Diruse says again. He looks stern, but his expression is calm. “Take one deep breath.”
Reluctantly, Naib follows his instructions, breathing in slowly. The embarrassment trickles through as soon as his lungs manage to expand without making him cough.
“Sorry,” he mutters again, standing up quickly. He stares at the ground. “Um—I’ll—can I use the washroom?”
“...Of course.”
Under the relentless stares of his classmates, Naib runs out of the classroom.
—
pat.tricia.dorval
tricia
i think i’m going insane
Lol
About time
i’m srs
Oh shit
What’s up?
had a breakdown in mr diruse’s class
in the middle of titrating
So that’s what Vera’s story is abt
what?
the fuck?
Shit
Sorry, ignore that
Ganji’s done his work I can get him to check on you
I’m guessing you’re in the washroom?
yeah
3rd floor
Got it, he’s on his way
so is this what they call social suicide
Dude…
Naib closes his phone and lets his head fall back, thudding gently against the grimy stall. He probably needs to wash his hair three times through to clean out god-knows-what is on the walls of the boys' washroom, but his mortification is much too intense for him to even think about that.
“What the fuck,” he whispers to himself, “is wrong with me?”
He should have taken up his mother’s offer for therapy long before it got to this point. Falling asleep in class, getting called out by teachers, and now having panic attacks in front of his entire class—what the hell is going on in his head that he’s been pushed to this point? Is he secretly insane? And why did it have to happen in senior year, of all times?
Naib’s rapid downward spiral is paused momentarily when he hears the door to the washroom creak open, followed by a tentative, “Naib? Are you in here?”
Ganji’s familiar voice reminds Naib that he’s still in the middle of his school day, in the boys washroom, breaking down about his breakdown. He sighs and stands, brushing his hair back to try and look a little more put-together.
“In here,” he says.
“Oh. Hey, man. You alright?”
“Definitely not,” Naib says with a mirthless laugh. “I just… sorry. Could you stay with me for a bit?”
“Sure thing,” Ganji answers easily, ever-perceptive. “Could we go somewhere else though? Don’t want to catch an STD.”
Naib laughs, this time more genuinely, and unlocks the stall.
Ganji, despite his easy-going tone, wears a similar expression of worry as Mr. Diruse did. He claps Naib on the back and grins.
“You don’t look too hot.”
“Thanks. Martha said the same when we broke up.”
Ganji laughs and the tightness in Naib’s chest loosens just a little. They chat aimlessly as they head outside, the late morning dim with watery sunlight.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Ganji asks when they settle into their lunch spot—a wide shaded area under an oak tree. Naib picks up a leaf and starts shredding it slowly.
“I don’t even know what it is,” Naib says, then buries his face into his hands, leaf forgotten. “And I’m never recovering from that.”
“...You mean what Vera posted on her story?”
“What the fuck did she post?” Naib snaps, his broiling frustration tilting into anger. “Did I do something to embarrass her? Like, have we interacted for more than a few minutes at a time ever? What even—”
“Dude, sometimes people just suck,” Ganji says gently. “Unfortunately, Vera’s one of those kids who need attention or they’ll starve to death. Must be the daddy issues.”
Naib snorts, but his anger is barely abated.
“She was all worked up about me going to her party too,” he says. “And she basically called me poor. What the hell is her problem? It’s not like Margaretha—”
“Oh, aren't they pretty close?”
“—is rich either! We’re literally Loblaws coworkers! And Vera knows that!”
“Well, Margie’s pretty cool,” Ganji says. “And they’ve known each other since, like, middle school. Kinda like you and Eli.”
“Right, but neither of us are rich! Or assholes for no reason!”
“Don’t get too upset, man,” Ganji says. Despite Naib’s anger, Ganji has remained amiable, and the sight of his friend’s calm is enough to make Naib think more clearly. His sleep-deprivation fog creeps up again, replacing his anger and reminding him of his headache.
“Vera didn’t do anything really bad. She just took a picture of her titration setup and wrote something about a group member abandoning the lab. You... you've been tense lately, so—”
“What, you’re on her side?” Naib says. His head hurts, his breaths are fast again, and all his fatigue and frustration fuels his tunnel vision toward Ganji’s confused face. “Seriously?”
“No, that’s not—”
“Hey.”
Naib blinks, and he’s standing over Ganji, the sun casting a shadow over his friend’s face.
Someone places their hand on Naib’s shoulder. He turns to see Eli, his blue eyes concerned, and Patricia behind him.
“Are you guys fighting?” Patricia asks, disapproving. She has Ganji’s bag and drops it on the ground before crossing her arms.
“I told Vera to delete her story, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Eli says, setting Naib’s bag down more gently. “Also, I ran into Ms. Kobayashi. She says she’s looking for you.”
“Lunch hasn’t started yet,” Naib says. He sits back down, avoiding Ganji’s eyes. “I’ll leave in a bit. Why are you guys here?”
“Told Mr. Fan that I have club stuff,” Patricia says. “When he asked why I was bringing Ganji’s stuff, I told him he’s helping out as well.”
“I’m part of the prestigious STEM club now?” Ganji jokes.
“Y’know, applications haven’t closed yet,” Patricia says, turning to the rest of them. “You can still apply. I know you two want some more extracurriculars.”
“No thanks,” Naib says, sighing. Patricia has been trying to recruit him into STEM for the past two years now, ever since she became an executive member. “Track and band are good enough for me.”
“I’ve already got a full-ride,” Ganji adds, grinning proudly. “I got one from Brown, Western, and—”
“And McGill, but you’ve already committed to Western, because you’re secretly a science nerd and want to stay in the province,” Patricia finishes for him, making Eli laugh. “Come on! Don’t you want to build robots and make exploding solutions?”
“Congratulations on that, by the way,” Eli offers Ganji. “I saw your post over the summer but I didn’t know you’d already made your decision.”
“Thanks, man,” Ganji says, pleased. “So how come Diruse let you leave early?”
“Oh. Well…” Naib feels Eli’s side glance. “I told him Naib wasn’t feeling well and probably went to the nurse, and he let me go.”
Their conversation is halted when the lunch bell rings.
“See you later,” Naib says, and books it before his friends can ask one more time if he’s okay.
Naib knows he shouldn’t have yelled at Ganji. He shouldn’t have run out of the classroom either. And he knows he shouldn’t be angered by his friends’ concern—it’s him that needs help. He’s been needing it since middle school. But all he does is run away, ignore it, then bite on the hands that reach out for him.
The truth is, the insomnia isn’t new. Neither are the nightmares. But it’s been three merciful years since he’s had them last, and Naib thought he was fixed.
Clearly, he was wrong.