Work Text:
The morning of Saturday, September 24, 1983, breaks over Shermer, Illinois, with a biting, damp chill that clings to the brickwork of Shermer High School like a wet wool blanket. The sky is the color of a galvanized steel bucket, heavy with the promise of a cold autumn rain that hasn't quite committed to falling yet. A beat-up, 1981 Ford Escort—filthy with the chalky, white residue of road salt from a premature frost and caked in the grey grime of the suburban commute—rumbles up the semi-circular driveway. At the wheel sits a woman whose posture is as rigid as a frozen hemlock. She wears a thick, navy down-filled coat over a sensible blouse and stiff denim jeans, her knuckles white against the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. She vibrates with a quiet, lethal fury, the kind that doesn't need to scream to be felt.
Beside her, Brian Johnson sits with his chin tucked into the collar of his dress shirt, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor mats. He looks like the archetype of the "Good Son," a mid-century ghost in a modern world: cuffed corduroy pants that make a soft zip-zip sound when he moves, a perfectly pressed shirt, and sensible loafers paired with thick brown socks. His hair is combed with a precision that feels like a penance. Underneath the sweater vest and the "intellect" persona, Brian feels the heavy, suffocating weight of his secret—the FTM identity he guards like a flickering candle in a hurricane. To his mother, he's just a daughter "going through a phase" of academic obsession; to himself, he is a boy drowning in a sea of Shermer's expectations.
The gun. The flare gun. She still believes it was for an art project, a tragic misunderstanding of a "creative soul." Brian marvels at her capacity for obliviousness. It isn't about art; it’s about the F in shop class, the crushing pressure of the "State House" expectations, and the soul-deep ache of being a boy that the world insists is a girl. But she sees only a lapse in judgment from a straight-A student. In the middle of the front bench seat, strapped into a car seat like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle, sits Brian’s four-year-old sister. Bundled in a pink parka that puffs out around her face, she stares at Brian with a mirrored version of their mother’s disgust. She doesn't understand the nuances of detention, only that Brian has "been bad," and her tiny, rosebud mouth is pulled into a severe line.
His mother kills the engine, the Escort giving a final, shuddering gasp. She doesn't look at him. Her voice is sharp, a razor blade hidden in velvet. "Is this the first time or the last time we do this, Brian?"
"Last," Brian whispers, his voice cracking slightly. He feels small, smaller than the four-year-old beside him.
"Use the time to your advantage," she snaps, her eyes tracking the rearview mirror as a horn blares behind them. "Maybe you could even study. Lord knows you need to make up for this embarrassment."
Brian reaches for his brown paper bag lunch, the scent of bologna and mustard wafting up. He doesn't roll his eyes; he knows the hierarchy of the Johnson household, and he is firmly at the bottom of the "favored" list today. Behind them, a brawny Chevy Blazer pulls up, its chrome grill gleaming even in the dull light. A man steps out, a mountain of a human in a Pendleton flannel and a heavy Woodrich coat, topped with a traditional walking cap. He is the embodiment of Shermer's athletic elite. He turns to speak to a handsome, square-jawed teenager—Andrew Clarke. Andy is the varsity wrestling star, a boy whose life seems curated for local newspaper headlines. Brian knows him by sight—everyone does—but they exist in different solar systems.
"Go!" his mother suddenly shouts, her patience snapping like a dry twig.
Brian jolts, fumbling with the heavy door handle. He practically falls out of the car, his notebook sliding across the salt-dusted asphalt. The Escort’s engine roars back to life, and as he scrambles to his feet, his mother floors it, the car's momentum slamming the passenger door shut with a violent thud. He stands alone for a moment, the smell of exhaust stinging his nose, wishing more than anything for the forbidden comfort of a cigarette.
As he bends to retrieve his notebook, he notices a figure cutting across the grass. It is a young man who looks as if he were assembled from the scrap heap of a leather factory. Long, greasy hair, a tattered denim vest over a flannel shirt, and boots that have seen a thousand fights. This is John Bender. A Cadillac Seville swerves into the lot, tires screeching as it narrowly misses the punk. Bender doesn't even flinch. He doesn't even break stride. Brian, watching from a distance, feels a strange surge of envy for that level of nihilism. Part of him wishes the car had hit him—maybe then his mother would look at him with worry instead of disdain.
"Hey, smartass!" a jagged, whiskey-soaked voice bellows from the parking lot. A man stands by an old, rusted sedan, his face a map of broken capillaries and bitterness. "You get thrown outta there, you get thrown outta the house! Understand?"
Bender doesn't look back. He just keeps walking, his shoulders hunched. Brian realizes with a jolt of recognition that this must be Bender’s father. The threat hangs in the air, heavy and ugly. Brian thinks of his own home—a prison of expectations, yes, but not a place of exile. Still, he has been saving his allowance, every penny tucked away for the day he turns eighteen and can finally live as the man he knows he is.
Bender suddenly stops on the concrete stairs, spins around, and thrusts a middle finger into the grey sky. "Up your ass!" he roars.
Brian feels a small, involuntary smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. He follows the group into the school, the heavy glass doors swallowing the sound of the outside world.
The library is a cathedral of wood and silence. It is massive, with vaulted ceilings and rows upon rows of books that seem to hold the collective sighs of decades of bored teenagers. A metronome sits on a high shelf, its rhythmic tick-tick-tick sounding like the heartbeat of a dying giant. Brian takes a seat at one of the long wooden tables. He feels dwarfed by the space. He keeps his coat on, the layers providing a meager shield. He looks at the others through the reflection of the glass-topped tables and the polished wood. There's Claire Standish, the "Princess." She is draped in expensive pink wool and soft leather, her red hair perfectly styled.
The rumor mill says she’s been caught in a closet with a teacher, but Brian doubts it. She looks too bored, too curated for that kind of messiness. Andy Clarke sits nearby, looking around with the restless energy of a caged tiger. And in the back, a girl Brian doesn't know—a basketcase in an oversized black coat—sits with her head bowed, her hair a curtain of dark tangles. Then there’s Bender. He slumps into his chair, the very image of defiance. Brian watches him through the reflection. Bender leans his head back, works his jaw, and then—with a casual, practiced grossness—hawks a loogie into the air and catches it back in his mouth. Claire’s face contorts into a mask of pure revulsion. Brian can't help it; he feels a tiny, genuine smile break through his nervous facade.
The heavy double doors creak open. Enter Richard Vernon.
He is thirty-two, but he wears the exhaustion of a man who has been teaching since the dawn of time. He is dressed in his "Tuesday suit"—a grey, boxy number—with a casual sport shirt that signals he is "off the clock" yet still in charge. He walks with a military gait, his expression one of bored sadism. "I want to congratulate you for being on time," Vernon begins, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. He checks his watch with a flourish, ignoring the massive, round clock on the wall. "It is now... 7:06 and thirty seconds. You have exactly nine hours, nine long, uneventful hours to spend in each other's company."
Claire looks like she might burst into tears. Bender just narrows his eyes and performs a "construction worker’s hankie," blocking one nostril and blowing air out the other. Claire lets out a soft sound of disgust and turns away. A half-aborted laugh escapes Brian's lips, and he turns his attention back to the metronome as Vernon places a stack of notebook paper and five pencils on the table.
"You may not talk, you may not move from your chosen seats... you may not sleep. We're going to try something new today. We're going to write an essay of no less than one thousand words describing to me who you think you are. And when I say essay, I mean an essay. Not a single word repeated a thousand times. Do you understand, Mr. Bender?"
Bender looks up, his expression one of mock-innocence. "Mr. Bender understands, Mr. Vernon."
"Maybe you'll learn something about why you're here," Vernon continues, ignoring the snark. "I'll be across the hall in my office. Any monkey business is ill-advised. Questions?" He doesn't wait for any actual Question-and-Answer Time. He nods sharply and starts for the library door when John makes a noise in the back of his throat, raising his hand.
"I have a question."
Vernon stops and sighs. There's no love lost between them. Vernon tolerates him at best.
With his best poker face, Bender asks in a deadpan tone, "Does Barry Manilow know you raided his closet?"
Claire immediately winces, expecting more trouble. She doesn't think she belongs here. Andy and Brian, on the other hand, bite their tongues to keep from laughing. The basketcase doesn't react. Vernon remains unflustered. He has gotten into shouting matches with the boy before, but now John Bender could not possibly rattle, insult, or disturb him.
With a smug smile, Vernon replies, "I'll tell you next Saturday. Anything else you'd like to say to try and impress these people?"
He looks at the others and accepts the challenge. "Got any naked pictures of your wife?"
Brian coughs to cover an inescapable laugh. Vernon's face clenches. He glares at Bender. A hateful stare. Then, he turns and exits through the open library doors. John slouches backward in his chair.
"What a pinhead," he sighs.
Then silence. A lot of silence. John makes it seem as if he's going to go to sleep. Claire sighs and stares at her sheet of paper. Andy cracks his knuckles. Brian takes a pencil and files the tip until it's very sharp. The basketcase studies her hand. It's so quiet in the library and the school that you can hear the linoleum aging. John's eyes are closed. Working hard to pretend he doesn't give a damn. We hear the sound of the mystery girl gnawing on her thumbnail. John opens one eye, then the other. He turns to face her. She's really bugging him. Brian glances up from his pencil, also staring at her when she gets louder. She doesn't look up, chewing her thumb with great determination. She stops in mid-chew as she senses that she's being watched. She finally looks up and notices everyone in the room is staring at her.
“You keep eating your hand, and you won't be hungry for lunch.”
She defiantly bites off a chip and spits it out in John's direction.
John scoffs, "Yeah, you're really balanced." He hums to himself and then adopts a Cuban accent. "Fred, what are you doing on the balcony? Lucy, you have some 'splaining to do." He makes loud 'Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh' grunts, smirking when he notices the innocent curiosity radiating off of Andy and Brian. The smirk dissolves into a grotesque face as he retorts, "Take a picture, it lasts longer."