Sardoodledom: The Broken Rule Part One: SARDOODLEDOM, #1

By Laura Jean Lysander

Sardoodledom: The Broken Rule, Part One, Volume one; Sixth updated, extended un-cennsored, non-bowdlerized edition: A Modern Teen, Gothic Dystopian Dark Noir, humor Thriller Musical Love Story; This is not your Disney dream, yet fairy tale princes and princesses are paragoned and mentioned; a Soap Operetta of young adult epic proportions gone waywardly wanton. Forgotten and rancidly ridiculed, Eir O'Casey, aka Eirloom, Eirlooney, Triple-A, (always all alone) the top brilliant egghead of the school, a unique, comely female student-athlete, is withdrawn and timid, highly sensitive yet strangely blacklisted by her peers, with only one true friend Tina. She forbears her last senior year in High school in Upstate Schenectady NY along with always known since Kindergarten Scaramouche scoundrel Cagey Coz, Tony Cosentino, the bold, brutish handsome Heartthrob and gang ruler of the school... up. until the Polite, perplexing, princely, dreamboat new student enigma Imre Himmel shows up out of nowhere, turning everyone's world and school days upside down...and to everyone's odd surprise, strikes an intimate, quick rapport with Eir, becoming her staunch ally, to Tony's building, barking fury. Mysterious, uncanny, paranormal incidents and coincidences start to occur between Eir and Imre, sprouting a blooming, passionate love and intense respect for each other, as well as dangerously dastardly individuals from Imre's clandestine past and present suddenly appear, tailing and trying to end it all for him. Eir's femme fatale arch-enemy rival Tanyia is tantalizingly out to win Imre as her own new conquest and step all over Eir at all costs. It doesn't end here, this is only the beginning for them all, secrets and sacrifices, envy and esoteric stunners...and a possessed, haunted mansion that may hold the answers to it all...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lysander's Literaries
• Release date: Jul 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201945893

Book preview

By Laura Jean Lysander

Sixth Edition

Digital graphic illustrated editing of Covers by Squire Lysander

A Dark, Demented Supernatural

Mystery Soap Operetta

Comedy Thriller...

In short, a modern teen noir gothic love story.

FOREWARD

A SPECIALLY LONG NOTE: This revision is an Uncensored, non-bowdlerized edition; This is indeed an intense outlandishly overdramatic teen Soap Operetta. If you are anticipating or expecting to read an intricately polished, Classically Gothic, sweepingly elegant tale, lightning bolted and thunder ridden to perfection... please, I must ask you to lower those expectations or discontinue before a flagrant disappointment, or are inadvertently lead astray to believe otherwise. Just turn that tail and high-end on out of here and vamoose. Although I have laboriously worked on this, complaining that I didn’t prepare you for its downfalls will not make it better. This is not that, this is an unperfected, suburban, angsty elaborately overdone in-your-face, left-handed darkly humorous, and not-so-humorous modernized gothic dystopian young love story, and most times, gritty and stark, with some, I guess macabre facts underlining it and scathing scenes, more than average extremely old and not so old, dated, offensive lame slang language and situations, but not within reason of its unfolding sordid storyline, that I privately used to amuse myself in spare time. With gracious apologies if you only wanted the swirling sweet sumptuous romance of elegant, paragonnstic gothic young teen love. Well, wait a minute; it does truly have that, idyllic romance; has beads of it shiningly sprinkled and weaved in and out as it very well should, and with enamored, stellar (sigh) highlights even I am somehow proud of. It is certainly there, as this is truly a tale of innocent, oblivious modern young love and highly too romanticized but at the right moments. I did my absolute best imagery. It’s just not exactly what you might expect it to be as a traditional Gothic tale. It is updated present-day ModGothic, a bit divertingly and bitingly dim if you can put it in those terms. Not your Disney storyline...I love Disney, though.

Now that you know that and you wish to proceed with this...whatever you want to name it, I had a hard time naming this project myself. The main idea and book backstory started in small-scene vignettes and were written long ago in the early 1980s when I was only turning 16, still in High School, hence the reason for the teen character school setting, the ages of the characters, and the young adult plot; I in my youthful ignorance thought I could write a book someday, having high hopes to be a professional Novel writer or poet. My sisters influenced this plot line, for when they would come home from school they would switch soap operas on the TV during the afternoons after arriving from classes, and I wrote this when I had time to after my homework or drama class rehearsals and those soap operas were ON. It was started on regular looseleaf paper spiral notebooks and then when I was allowed to use my mom’s electric typewriter (a real new-fangled tech those days and in our house a privilege to use) she had brought home from her work, I used that. Those instances inadvertently influenced this particular project, as well as my everyday life, neighborhood antics, and events. I continued adding to it in my college years when I had time in between rehearsals, shows, and summer/winter breaks writing in longhand in the notebooks whenever I had free time after juggling simultaneous three jobs, theater work, or some extra paper when I was inspired. I didn’t start to transfer it on a computer or digital, or with most of the included songs until a couple of years before the publication. I honestly didn’t have time for working on it until then, or a laptop to do that with properly. It was just this raveling, ongoing, private ridiculous soap opera I loved to elaborate on in my free time and written in many old notebooks and dis-connected scenes. I amused myself for hours at a time with it, laughing at it, crying with it, never even thinking of publication, as if it was just some silly continual, ongoing awful messy irk of a hobby for me. While I was transferring it to digital and attempting to bridge the gaps of scenes and chapters of chaotic weirdness, I changed the time setting, updating it from the 1980s to the modern present day, adding the tech upgrades of modern use, changing a few, just some instances to fit the mod scheme of things for it was that long ago that I had written it; no cell phones back then, keeping all the plot line ideas still written therein to keep the flavor of the original for I thought it had some basic moral merit to it. I didn’t wish to change all of it around, for me a sentimental block.

Regarding the storyline drama and underlying theme, a modern young adult coming of age Teen Romance with a dark twist,  this does involve serious sensitive subject matter, and at times it is written in possibly offensive dialogue, and dialect written in how a character’s accent would be heard in their actual voice if spoken. Some may find this disturbing,  unneeded, and difficult to read, the unusually vintage wording and sentence structure styling, which many regard as odd or detrimental to the modern storyline, or even distracting to the continuity of the tale, but it isn’t... when you start to get it. It enhances the imagery of the characters, and how they are heard as well as seen and felt.

It concentrates on the fictional younger generation of a specific town and county in the USA, reacting to disturbing climactic life events, inserting supernatural and esoteric occult shocks along with the bullying, physical, substance and mental abuse and illness, harassment, as well as including suicidal thoughts and dire, horrid family secrets, topics used and breeched in Soap Operas of this age and generation all the time, so I didn’t think I went off the deep end for it.

Many of us go through and touch all or at least one of those adverse subjects, or know of those who do (even if we never tell anybody of them) and we do use foul and slang language every day. Here, though, in this tale, it is overly heightened and emphasized for the story and written with a styling that is melodramatic soap opera.

Swearing and verbal abuse and the other mentioned abuses are unfortunate and everyday occurrences that many of us have experienced and sometimes try to hide. Some are offended by it, others just use it as if it were a normal word in the dictionary, it depends on your upbringing. They could be to some, in fact many, 80 percent of the world, a dark and usually even humorous part of life, and we are here to learn how to rise above, release them, if offended by it, to know it is all part of the human experience and the wisdom and strength we receive when we free ourselves finally from any suffering they result in, and no matter how awful it may seem to be we learn from it. I am not saying hey, go ahead, swear like my characters do! Please don’t do that unless you already do it every day and it’s just how you relate. I’m not, it’s just a story and I took great liberty at doing it and am only talking of it because I don’t want the readers to get the wrong idea and to emulate it just because it exists here. For the main characters, only one thing matters in this world fundamentally and beyond, regardless of the circumstances they cannot control and you’ll find that out when you read it, and that... is love.

There is also content regarding a certain belief in this world, the hidden, esoterica, and occult dimensions/abilities and occurrences that are talked about and mentioned within the plot, and the world we may never see and beyond it which seems to becoming more accessible every day and more common in mainstream now. It was and is not meant to sway any reader’s views in any way, to question or change their/your own beliefs or mind about it. It is part of the entertainment storyline. Just to keep an open mind about it for some have and do experience these beliefs, those occurrences or truth. It is up to the reader only to decide what may become of it, and to enjoy the story. None of the characters or storylines had been taken from real-life events or people. It is a work of pure fiction. I have used friends and acquaintances to help my muse, to formulate and define some character traits and some features of them, yet resemblances to anything of any real person’s life, I have not used at all. A thousand pardons if so found and contact me if wished. Please enjoy the story, that is why I wrote it; just remember that for some, there is only one real element or reason that matters in this life and beyond, and for this is once again, love.

The added content in scenes and changes of songs though, in the re-edited editions IS done purposely and evolves with more inspiration. This is, after all, a Soap Operetta, and those go an and on...

Please, at my urging suggestion you can pick a charity, any one you wish that deals with helping children of abuse of any kind, and donate to it after reading this if you wish to, do read the second part, Darkened Promise, for it gives you more added insight and continuation of the storyline and upon the back story and its secrets, and the ultimate ending...if any. It would make my writing this derelict, forever-edited Soap Operetta worthwhile, for that is what it calls attention to, that is the hornet’s nest here, as well as the forbidden ignorance of innocence. I started adding more music and songs to it only as I updated it digitally from the paper editions before publication, except for a few songs already in the storyline from the start, and thought upon working out a two-part Musical and Screenplay from it as well for future torment of the masses, with way too many songs to use but they are there anyway, unedited out. Out of all my projects this one was truly the hardest to write, and I struggled with it (still am by the way) as much as my characters suffered taking part in it, due to the nature of the content and the language, and the time and mounds of old, faded handwritten scraps of paper notes I had accumulated over years with it, and trying to piece it all together with a proper plot line without holes. I did my best, and when I find the holes I fill them up with even more drama and twists. I am relentless in perfecting something that cannot be perfected, but I do my best.

And I, as a writer, a good one? You can roll your eyes at that I sure do, chose to do this to challenge myself that even someone who abhors and shies away from the dented macabre and the ‘dark side’ of life could write such a demented tale, could write it, and it was important for me, to face my fears of the unknown and darkness, to confront them. and for those people who may honestly go through these unfortunate incidents to have the support, love, and help they truly deserve. For most who personally know me and my nature, I would not be considered someone to write such a tainted, torrid tale, or this type of work or project and it would be surprising to read it with me as the author knowing my scruples and demeanor. Thrillers and horror were never my favorite except for The Hammer Films, always exceptions due to their immense, elegant, and eloquent detail to set design, costume, and flair for the thrill; gore personally kind of gets to me; details written to it and other dark actions unnerve me, dwelling on it in written form for me is uncomfortable, but I did go there at times, and after getting to the end of this Forward and continuing onward with this still needing to be edited forever project I supremely congratulate you, for you sure have the patience of an angel and a sense of humor to die for. Thank you, and delve into the suspenseful action of the tale. Enjoy.

Prologue

"IF YOU WANT TO KEEP A SECRET, YOU MUST ALSO

HIDE IT FROM YOURSELF"~ GEORGE ORWELL

AIR RICHENED WITH THE smell of newly fallen, decaying leaves, Tony pulled in a lungful of the heady aroma as he was crouched down, scraping up, piling more of the fallen leafy foliage atop something he was hiding upon the brush-ridden floor. It was close to the forest embankment side of the suburban road. Emotions tensed, overflowing as never before, he was intensely mumbling under his breath, caterwauling and serenading to himself, sorting out his hidden feelings... and agenda. It was a song he had come across in his mother’s plethoric cache of sheet music she had accumulated for years upon years as a  performing studio musician, singing and playing piano for the county’s churches and other festivals and private events, and one he could honestly identify with, its dark, forbidding truth surging into him and outward as he trilled it alone; it was Streak of Madness, Obsession, from the Broadway Musical Jekyll and Hyde...

The muffled sound of an incoming, approaching vehicle’s screeching tires rubbing, and sliding against the road pavement sliced, cut into the quietness of the early evening, the tepid twilight peace Tony so revered and it oddly startled him, jerking his attention; he abruptly stopped his secret crooning which no one ever heard him do and snapped his head towards the commotion. It wasn’t a loud cycle roar at all, it was a panicked, spurt of someone hi-ending out of somewhere onto the road sound, from the overgrown acres next to him, and it was where the noise was originating from was what alerted and bothered him, for just a half hour ago he had arrived, and was about to enter within there secretly himself. 

Tony stopped kicking away the crimson, lemon-yellow, and browned autumn leaves and moistened dirt near his booted feet and paused, silently listening, letting his salient, acute hidden senses creep outward for more detection. It was coming from where he’d thought it was, and exactly where he was on his way into and he froze in freak silence, hearing a quiet, purring sound break from behind the huge trees, and then seemed to pour pealing out onto the street, as if someone was almost skidding once more.

The bike...or vehicle in question, (that’s what he thought he had heard) then came rolling ‘round the corner, from the overgrown shrubbery, clump of trees, and ancient, old, unseen hidden graveyard beyond it upon the forlorn property no one entered into anymore, from the small dirt path which was once cobblestoned and worn, now overgrown and buried with leaves and grass encircled by a Victorian Gate; The wrought iron on it was rusted, yet still fancy and still standing strong, although leaning a bit, and which was parted and open slightly. You could barely see the intricate craftsmanship of the artwork upon it anymore, almost full of vines itself; that vehicle came out of the woods and shrubbery, screaming fast, just below the speed limit, and caught a red light on the avenue side, cutting to a halt, idling, as if trying to keep up with the lightning reflexes of its rider. Whomever it was, sure seemed to be in a humongous hurry to get out of where they had just been. The vehicle had a certain sound modifier on it, so it wasn’t the usual loud, obnoxious sound you’d think to hear from a motorbike. It had a lulling signature to it to not gain any attention. It just seemed annoyingly loud and alarming for Tony wasn’t accustomed to anyone being in this area at all, or exiting that property except him.

Tony’s eyes blew up, glared in total stunned revelation, and opened wide as he laid sight upon what was an artesian, eclectic, purely home-hand-made, invented, and amazing riding contraption. It was not just a motorbike or scooter; it was a real intricate stunner, a custom-made steampunk cycle, uniquely vintage and mechanically gleaming, with olden spare parts from who knew which and where but truly an inspired triumph for those who enjoyed such.

It might have been some kind of Vespa but he wasn’t entirely sure because it was too big, and kind of a two-seater, maybe a Hayabusa, hybrid half electric or partly one, even had strong attached double pedals to convert it to manual cycling, and those as well were vintage themed, so there was a triad of ways to ride it, gorgeously decorated and labored on, couldn’t figure out just what it was due to all the modifications the owner had made upon it; a montage of gleaming wonder.

He had never seen anything like it in this town, ever, only online show events, and he instantly admired the painstaking workmanship and inherent genius it must have taken to create such a workable vehicle from so many different parts, and right off coveted it, and truly wished it honestly... was his. He knew how to ride a cycle, a motorbike, and many other vehicles and had frequently. He just did not have his own cycle. He had a vintage 1973 stingray red Corvette, nothing to sneeze at.

The driver of the contraption, he then noticed, with his eagle eye vision was an older teen male as he was? Or possibly older? Maybe late teens but seemed mature, very athletic as Tony, more like early to mid-twenties, yet appearing somewhat shaken, confused for some reason, and clearly distraught as if he had gone through some kind of revelation ordeal.

The driver paused at the light and seemed as if he was silently crying with utter joy and fear simultaneously, for his chest seemed to be heaving with his breath that way, bowing his head which was covered by a helmet. He removed some old-styled golden goggles from his face, wiping his eyes, and placed them atop the grey English newsboy cap brim on his head, which was jutting out from underneath the hard, retro vintage Moto rider helmet, seemingly encased outside in leather or pleather. It seemed very old but in perfect condition, possibly German in style with a lower face guard for filtered breathing, but the driver also pulled that down as well, taking a deep, slow breath of fresh air to calm himself down.

As soon as Tony caught sight of the driver’s rather immaculate and pristine face, he as well sucked his breath in, growing rigid with shock upon staring at it, and his eyes grew even more bonkers with stupefaction, for he and only he had seen it somewhere before, had etched it to his memory to make sure he knew it, every single dashing, debonair peculiarity of it so he’d be able to act fast, and couldn’t ever forget it, that face;

It was him. It was. It was the last person if he was alive he’d ever want to physically lay sight on, let alone deal with, ever, if it ever came to be, and it just did. And he thought it all a horrid daydream, some disastrous mirage, but it wasn’t. He felt the wind on his face and still heard the cycle running, and the driver was still in front of him with that face. It was truly HIM... and as he stared stupefied at the utmost impossible, at this young man’s tortured, distressed, eye-catching, handsome face he deftly scrutinized it, glaring in disbelief with his big brown and gold-flecked teal about the pupil of his eyes, he, this marked individual, honestly was REAL, alive and living. He was alive. Flesh and blood. And, oh my God, the way his shining, shocking, riveting ocean blue eyes glared, and he saw they were that vibrant blue from way over from which he stood because they eerily glowed, they had so much color in them, the same color as that-face had, and he then realized this honestly alive young man somehow also knew what he did. He knew now, as much as he himself did, maybe, even more... because he had been there, and he had seen it too.

Oh, God and he immediately thought of Eirloom; he just knew that one day, and this was the day this individual would somehow, someway, with phantasmic audacity show up somehow and he just honestly did and he knew he’d have to secretly deal with it all and do everything, everything in his power that he could to stop it because of Heirloom; anything and everything, always, for Eirloom. This, his worst titanic nightmare had now come true.

The stoplight blinked green and the emotive young driver pushed his golden goggles back into place along with his face guard with his still-trembling, gracefully gloved hands, flicked the switch to ride, pressing his booted foot to the pedal and revved it, and once again with a big breath of a jumbled sigh of odd dread and euphoria, sped down the street and out of sight, back towards town, his neck scarf and masterful grey vintage cloak flapping in the wind behind him, seeming to have driven out of a frozen in time, hundred or two-year-old wormhole...

Tony vainly tried to contain his enraged, stunned emotions, even making a mad, violent dash towards the moving, exiting motorbike. The fine, old gold chain holding a Christian cross around his neck banged his sternum with his gigantic, forceful strides, but he then stopped short, out of breath, twitching tempered lip and all, because it was of absolutely no use. He wanted to stampede down the street after him and stop him cold, but it wouldn’t have made any difference... he’d never catch up.

He cursed as vilest as anyone possibly could, blazing, fingered the cross, then zipped up his black leather biker jacket, walking stiffly and arrogantly back to where he had run from and with gritted teeth continued to furiously kick the dirt and fallen leaves away. He intensely started up his secret, strong, driving crooning once more to bate his breath, though he knew nothing would do that for him now. His fury was unleashed and had consumed him. And he sang it, the song under his breath to himself all the way home, and he mused, imagined he and his delinquent gang of schoolmates, all about eight to ten of them, joining him, singing with him behind him as their leader and then all the county’s school kids in a huge crowd as well, then having it spill into the hallways of the High school as they entered it, all in his mind singing loudly, the students singing as well as all the faculty, all making a huge big broadway ensemble number of it. It was the song Facade, once again from Jekyll and Hyde the Broadway Musical, because his truth for him was in those lyrics, that is how with his heaving, darkened heart he honestly, brokenly felt about everything...except Heirloom. She for him was always the only genuinely real, relatable human in his life, only she had that unknown even to her stature and reserve with him, secretly, almost untouchable to him now. But would she in her purity and lovelorn, outcasted strength ever even look his way, or even bother to talk to him again? He would have to risk it all for it, and her. It was his deepest, most secret wish of all time...

Would Tony and his brooding darkness be able to look behind the Facade? Of what he now knew, of it all, and most of all...himself? And would that one person he longed for see through it? You might find out if you read on;

Go ahead.

You’ve already gone this far...

Chapter 1

FRIENDSHIP OFTEN ENDS IN LOVE, BUT LOVE IN FRIENDSHIP, NEVER~ CHARLES COLTON

Peering through the frosty, smudged, glass window and crack in the schoolroom door, I heard the flaming, flickering commotion inside as it unfolded. It even halted my unimportant, unannounced entrance into the room, creating harrowing hesitation on my part. Yet I had no immediate choice but to drudgingly continue in, the entrance door with embarrassment noisily squeaking in contempt, and I in timidity clutching my schoolbooks tightly, tensely.

I had felt a bit off, odd today, especially this morning in some fancy-fermented fog, even odder than the usual if that could be possible, (and for me it was) as if something fearfully foreboding was within the air hanging about, and longingly lurking, starting to densely descend all about me as if its saturated flood of time had finally egressed. I couldn’t shake it off. I had no idea why, and I shivered at the damp, dreaded thought. I had even mistakenly left my only, just washed, home-sewn, velvet violet with vintage satin black roses book satchel/convert to backpack at home because of it;

I was also overly describing my thoughts with ridiculous adjectives to the point of excessive forlorn morbidity; leaving my satchel home was something I had never, ever done, I was out of sorts without it. I just grabbed my books and flew out the door, it was still damp and I felt so despondent by my strained mistake for all to glaringly see and make derogatory lynching gossip about as usual, which I knew was to happen, due to it. I was only just giving them all more fuel to fire at me; My awful fault as usual. Then I admonished myself for thinking all those ridiculous alliterations within one thought paragraph which I just couldn’t help. My intellect was on overtime, a jumble of jargon, and always was. It was a quirky habit of mine, just to pass the time, for I had plenty of it, all to myself.  My mind was on overdrive and had to let it out somehow, even if in alliterations of mind. I lifted my suffered, stoic eyes, which today felt like heavy musket balls of lead, or stoned spheres to see as well as hear what lay before me. 

There, up in front of the classroom and standing near the dirty, un-wiped dry-erase marker board and behind his disarrayed, disheveled desk stood the formidable, fleering form of Mr. Raze, my Senior English Literature teacher. Once again, I couldn’t stop myself from alliterating. He was booming his audacious wrath, bellowing at the top of his lungs upon this new to-the-class young man, a now well-known only here for about a month or two green newbie student, who had just transferred to this class not more than two and a half weeks or could be just a bit more or so ago? I wasn’t sure, I had not seen him during the years I had been here; he was just in about all of my classes that amount of time, before that others but now all AP Advanced Placement ones. This student was whom I was to be soon seated next to, and I sighed brokenly, for my Teacher, Razes’ tirades did not even stop as I was timidly trying to take my seat silently; they seemed even to increase in volume and venom. I didn’t know what to do. I had to sit down, but it was almost impossible to do just that without becoming noticeably part of it.

Mean and bilious atrocities spewed forth from Raze’s flapping crimson-gummed lips, and my body shivered with dread and morose for the unmoving, silent young man. When Mr. Raze screams, which is often, it is quite dismaying and degrading, for he would use your entire name or variations of it to make sure everyone knew whom he was berating, leave the door wide open for all to hear, and throw in some lewd and offensive remarks always regarding your race, name, or nationality if he could figure out what that would be; not politically correct, which he usually always did figure out. He would then continue to do it to our disdain and woebegone trepidation throughout class time until he had exhausted his reserve of battering insults for the day. Since Raze was so smartly well versed in the English language and variant others that would stand to be... a while, or until one of the other impatient and sighing teachers on the floor slammed their doors shut to muffle the sound, clue him to end it, or Razes’ targeted, ridiculed, in the stocks, flayed broken on the wheel student would with futility ultimately just give up, slink away and just flatly leave the room in disgrace to go to the office to get detention or otherwise.     

Not one of them who had ever been on the end of his wrath ever challenged him, ever reported him, at all. Except...that for this time, something struck me as discerningly odd, being quite different between the relationships of the two involved. This young man who was being rudely, abusively confronted stood so very silent, mute, even immune to Mr. Razes’ barbs and lashes. He did not even answer Mr. Raze as all of the others did, begging for mercy. He accepted all of Raze's malignant, scathing, vile words and accusations without a sound, whisper, nor the bat of an eye, almost as if he was used to such repulsive, disgusting behavior.

This had made Mr. Raze even more irately flustered, this response of non-response, and his mouth spit out a few more acidic flames, some atrociously awful cut downs about the young man’s groomed attire, which I didn’t and others as well would or could see any issue with, he was well-kept and over-dressed from the usual standards of school wear for we had no uniform code;

It was casually soft steampunk vintage-spiffy; Raze was a snappy dresser and seemed to envy the fact that this student also dressed well and neatly and was gaining notoriety for it as well. It irked him. He then snorted and snarled before he turned around to use a marker on the dry-erase board, steaming, for nothing he said seemed to ruffle this new student at all.

"Fouled silence, eh? That’s all I get from this green coward! I’m rather disappointed considering your stellar, shining heraldic all of a sudden reputation here, Mr. ‘oh so gallant' Highbrow "Imre," newly Knight of the Garter inductee, now fusspot put on a pedestal purist of the school; who said that life has to be that way, the way YOU decide to see things and perceive everything, all rosy colored and savior sappy? Did you bite your tainted tongue way too hard not to answer me yet? Who but YOU would even think of asking such dastardly deep, caring, inquisitive questions towards everyone in this school, a ruse, of course, to what you’re inappropriately after, for I know; and to approach me, all the teachers as if you are the absolute high and mighty, noble Mr. Phi Beta Kappa par excellence, flinging profound feigned values of yesteryear; who even bothers to think upon them in this day and age, Imre?"

Raze snarled his lip and pointed starkly with insinuation to the new student rudely.

"Just you; only you; and I know it’s all a put-on facade! No one but YOU struts about, swooping around all flagrantly like some superhero chevalier, wearing whatever that is, dusty dregs, far-out fashion way past prime, and behaving like some innocently sexy holy than thou Jesus icon and then infamously gets away with it and everything else! Where is your sparkling white horse? Is it parked outside? You’re gonna get a ticket for it and all the buzzing biting sordid flies, a fabulous health hazard! You disgust me! You’re just some goddamn self-glorifying, ‘genteel’ gnarly genius, an attention-seeking, spotlight-stealing spurious putrid skanky manure-heaped full ‘o it minus the S-H- yes... stinker. That’s ALL you ARE! Well, guess who’s gonna crucify you? Send your steed to the dog food slaughterhouse. Expose your little scandalous scheme? You know who!"

Raze then paused, muttering incoherently, glaring once again at his bull’s eye student, Imre, then strangely, awkwardly flicking his manic eyes... over to me, with such a strained, envious glare, shaking his head and glaring distastefully. I silently, so cautiously after Raze’s pause of repulsion finally sat down next to Imre in my assigned seat, noiseless, right up front near Razes’ messy desk. That very new student, Imre, I knew, he honestly had no choice but to sit next to my seat, for no one else would, and it was the only free not given seat in the entire classroom, except for one lone, forgotten one way in back no one bothered with. The one joined to mine had remained empty, up until he came along. Truly I even thought it could be of my cursed influence that this horrid ordeal he was forced to forbear was because of having to sit near me, the exile of the school, the one nobody would ever dare sit near. I in shame hoped my extradited status was not the cause of it, of this incident for him, for Raze’s infuriated glance towards me made me believe so, and I was dreadfully guilt-ridden all at once, and horrified for it. No one deserved that because of me.

"Class is starting, regardless of this silent nefarious newbie stooge, so get ready!" Raze boomed, then cackled in the most off-beat, wild laughter. That was something new, that psychopathic, tingling chuckle. It sent a chill through me, sliced me. It wasn’t the way a teacher should be reacting, at all. But Raze, he wasn’t just any teacher, to our repugnance, and his altered behavior had been becoming more and more bizarre with every year I had been in his class, three now beginning four years so far. No one said anything of it, though, ever. It was as if he was excused, allowed to behave in any way imaginable. Maybe it was due to fear of the faculty, or his tenure? I could never figure it out.

Raze started writing on the dry-erase board, extremely agitated. I quickly took out my class binder, as Imre, I noticed, also dignifiedly then sat down quietly, with no sound or a peep at all, as he during this entire bombardment was standing, as if at attention like a trained cadet, and with a silent air of what seemed as unknown, mysterious royalty encasing him. I had never seen or been in contact with such manners or respect, something far gone from this day and age, and also within a public school, where everything here was very casual and laissez-faire, rules bent and forgotten most of the time, and how he could still keep and give to Raze such respect and reverence after that was astounding, giving me insight to his character.

It certainly intrigued me, regardless that Raze had just announced that class had started my wayward senses had disregarded his command, a first for me, and I delved further for some peculiar reason all of a sudden, watching his, this new student and his persona, his mannerisms from the corner of my eye, something I had never done in class or ever...I started to study him.

He unfastened the long, grey flowing outer cloak/cape he wore and hung it on the back of his chair. It was the kind of fashion a gentleman would have worn at the very early turn of the century, over a hundred years ago, maybe two, and it unusually fit him properly and his mystique persona masterfully, as if he had gotten lost in a time warp and wound up here and was stuck. It was parallel to that costume cloak and long, shoulder-tiered Cape the Actor of Yesteryear Tyrone Power wore in the old black and white movie Marie Antoinette; he played the role of Count Axel Ferson, dressed to the nines in amazing period wear; this Cape he, this new male student had been wearing was a gorgeous tailored piece and substantial-high quality. It was truly unlike what Raze was word-twisting, warping his eclectic, unique attire style into. Where he had found such a lovely intact garment in such preserved condition around here I would have loved to find out. I would have raided the consignment or antique shop, a rare find, or a made-to-order for an occasion. Or maybe it was of his own family’s sentimental, rare pieces kept in perfect condition for generations and he had taken a fancy to and to use. In any sense, it fit his enigmatic portraiture.

He seemed to realize the bygone fashionable attire he had picked out and mixed in with the modern dressage most likely not by purpose had wound up making an endearing statement, just creatively, for it and his dashing, too-kind personality as all had mentioned and blabbed of loudly in my earshot within the school halls these weeks since he had arrived had made him the most sought after and popular student in this entire school...

...In a matter of only oh, maybe a month? I was not sure if that was the amount, for he had now been in my classes for only two or more weeks that long, maybe less. I was always wrapped up within my studies and the class, and my stigmatized plagued reputation had shut me out of it all, out of any social interactions that I hadn’t picked up on or noticed or focused in his presence. I was nothing of the In Crowd. I was the forbidden untouchable of the school. I never socialized nor even glanced about the classroom, forced to keep to myself, eyes to the lessons, or be shunned or mocked. I had not known of him or seen him, this student before then. Yet everyone now knew who he was, everyone around the school and most likely soon the county. He was that impressionable; even I, from the school hallway gossipmongers, talking so loud within earshot I couldn’t NOT hear about him.

He sat down, I also sat down, and so did everyone else after him, as if he now had a domino effect on the entire class’s behavior. He didn’t yet know it, but he was now becoming the designated new school’s yet uncrowned student and county school leader. It was a daunting title. And I, disbelievingly, was now in error sitting right next to him.

Then I shifted and shuddered. I bit my lip nervously, feeling a growing compassion well up so terribly for him because of Raze’s barbaric venomous lashing, even if he didn’t react to it everyone else had, and the sting of my teeth on my flesh made me start for I had bit down that hard due to my nervousness of the situation. Yet even with my silent agape, my quiet, unknown charity towards him, he continued to seemingly be rather blankly steadfast and stoic, unaltered by Raze’s abused,  prolific, caustic terrorizing insults still, and it caught me as unusually strange for someone not to react and return such rash cruelness. He merely deflected them with his forbearing demeanor.

Imre, the newcomer, remained stone noiseless, without a sound, and unaffected. From my corner vision, as I was still observing him, I saw him open his overly precociously neat notebook binder, adorned with a textile material outside, and seemingly it was hand made covered, thick, velvety. It was a dark midnight blue and black paisley tapestry print, glued down upon the outside, a vintage fabric piece, it seemed like it could have been part of a Victorian Runner for a table or excess from a curtain at one point. It was lovely. He must have decorated it himself, and it had other metallic gizmos and decor upon it, upon the corners were covered by brassy or copper-coated metal corner protectors, and from what I deciphered steampunk paraphernalia and musical staff items, notes, symbols or designs, all of types of decorous metal, hand soldered or glued upon it.

That I found very interesting, he must be an artist or musician right down to his workbooks as well, bless his soul, and that he took the time to create a one-of-a-kind binder. It was a lovely unique touch to do such to your everyday school usage binder.

I hadn’t seen anyone so far who would take so much time to do that. We had many art students here who would create projects out of their school accessories, mostly graffiti and graphic art styles, but I hadn’t seen this style before. The fabric swath also seemed antique, unlike anything the modern-day that our students would use.

He then, this student Imre, turned to a clean sheet of paper,  of a light blue tint, a beautiful soft golden blue, and smoothed it down. Noting again that he used colored paper to write intrigued me. I used some that were parchment-themed when I had time and created it myself. He silently reached into his grey linen, waterproofed with some form of waxlike substance, steampunk-decorated backpack alike his binder. It was now apparent to me from my minute observation he was into a vein of steampunk style, not the harsh kind, but into it, was partial to the fashion, and pulled out what seemed to be...really? Was it? It was... it honestly was an antique golden and wood fountain pen, modified to fit cartridges. It was centuries old and he fingered it disquietly, the only clue to his true feelings.

That pen. Was I seeing things? How it seemed to be an extremely close variety, the same specimen of pen as mine? No, now wait a minute; I tried to examine it more closely from my side vision and then quickly flicked my gaze down to the one sitting in my fingers, confused, then baffled. Yes, it ventured to be the same actual style, the very same kind. I never thought I would ever see someone in my school, or anyone here for that matter who-no, that was impossible. I must be seeing things, distressed by it all.  It couldn’t be.

Mine, the writing instrument that I had in my hand was as old as...it was an heirloom I had found up in our house attic trunks, in the side secret doors of my old converted attic bedroom years and years ago. No one but me in any of my classes used such an archaic dated contraption. I even had it converted to use cartridges. All the students used forms of plastic, and the upgraded modern liquid ink pens were easier to handle and dispensable after they ran out, so unlike the old, wooden wet fountain pen that flowed like a paintbrush, able to create your unique, distinctly wonderful masterpiece full of emotion, not unnatural. Just another unconventional habit of mine that I had.

His, Imre, the student’s pen also wasn’t a modern fountain pen, I could tell that right off for it resembled my own. Oh, I knew it wasn’t practical anymore, most likely even a nuisance to use and they had much more updated pens that substituted even better than the real deal but just to me, it could never compare to the original, and it made me feel comfortable to use it, this particular one and I always had, for years, very carefully. It was a pet peeve of mine, an odd habit. Once in a while, I’d get smudges from using it but I was used to it and loved to use it daily, and found waterproof ink to use.

This young man, Imre, uncapped his fountain pen and stared down at the blank sheet of blue glowing paper before him, running his fingers over it slowly. The movement made me notice and discern that he had very strong, large hands, and I, with scrutiny and dare once more forced myself to take a moment of my awareness to then study him...

... Truly study him closely, intricately, curiously, though I knew it would be for me something I had again never done, allowing myself an intrusion on someone’s outward physical privacy but I thought... I would be quick, he surely deserved that, this new, perplexing, cryptic soul who captured everyone’s heart and fancy. He seemed to draw me in, just like he did to everyone, and somehow stick like glue to your thoughts, like some internal mystic magnetic force, intriguing me. And that feeling, now roused had never occurred to me before, so I ventured to explore it, again breaking my outstanding protocol.

Anyone who could stand up to Razes’ profuse, trenchant tirades without backing down was worth more than just an honorable glance for respect and support. I was always so afraid to look at anyone so, discerningly but with him, strangely, there was... no fear. It was as if the gate to his innermost soul was left wide open for me, swinging so broadly to do so and I felt strangely akin to him for no apparent reason at all, as if he was beckoning me to do it; me, the forlorn fault of  Grand Canyon despair and eternal depose of the school and county. And, I did not want to feel it,  this new, open-armed, non-judgmental soul sitting beside me emanating just that towards me, but with him, it seemed magnetic, the tie, the innate, organic pull to him, as if nothing mattered except what was right there right now present and between us which wasn’t much but a few inches or foot of space, and I did not want to allow myself to feel...as if it was somehow taboo to do so, but the vibrations he gave out touched one and all, it was... of no fear at all towards Raze...

My breath caught silently, and I swallowed, speechless in timeless wonder as I eased my eyes up to his profile of face. Goodness he was indeed what everyone in the school was raving about,  mostly of his countenance, structure, and physicality, and even more;

Mostly the ladies’ extravagant and grandiose blabbing, gabbing and pining, obsessive crush galore lovelorn explanations of him which were quite extensively graphic, and bordering on teen slang pornographic, what he looked like that I had caught and heard while in the halls, and I closed my eyes at the mere sight, wishing now I had never laid eyes on him.

Then I sighed and even chuckled to myself silently, firmly regaining my bearings. I had to. No, Eir, no fear; he, this young man, this student right here has now shown you no fear, purposely, for all those who dearly needed to see it, and you know you did. This time, open your eyes and look, closely, very closely. Look at him. Forget the reasoning why. Throw it away. It is all right, this time. Why, I could not say, yet it was. Maybe, he could, and would teach you, show you something you desperately needed to know about it all, how to publicly react properly, how to function to gain back whatever little smidgen of hope and starlight you can in your shunned state and turn it into a supernova;

His shining, apparent bravery that you are so devoid of, or unable to find to use, hidden in the cosmic specks of dust of your black hole, and about why you always felt within your soul this way, so fearful and trapped, so abandoned, neglected, for you have been, and how you could possibly change it, change that, morph it, gain it to help yourself, for you dearly needed it.

Face it, you needed to learn that and acquire that trait, for no matter who he was, or what he looked like, it mattered not; it was blatant he had what you somehow lacked...and was attempting, willing to show it to you, and everyone else.

I never would have believed someone like him, and sitting so close to me; I drew my breath in brokenly, not out of fear but of once again wonder, true wonder, and I once again studied and described in detail his outward persona to myself silently, then admonishing myself for it. Why did I-he was blessed with gleaming, straight, slight wave, bodily glorious light golden blonde hair, thickened locks of it, like the color of light, softened natural flax fiber, with a few, natural antique brass,  light reddish highlights streaked within; It was so very shiny, and cut ever so stylishly over his ears, and longer in the front; It was a versatile longer cut, he could slick it back and make himself to be very gallant, sophisticated if so wished, not a buzz cut or crude. It was a beautiful mane of hair. It was not a dated style nor modern; it was classic, but the way it was cut emphasized every absolutely noble and aristocratic feature of his glamorous, eye-catching face.

And, such large, clear, expressive Bermuda blue hued eyes, so deeply enriched with color and opulence, they seemed as though they were aglow,  cyan-saturated with an excelsior amount of tint, or maybe too much for they were hyper-hypnotic in essence but for him, it was just right for it to be that way. The powers that be had splashed in every drop to be enjoyed by all. He was to have that feature just for that purpose. Some blue eyes are cold; icy, but these were indeed not. They radiated heat, the warmth of character, and were enlaced by such unusually double thick, black lashes any lady or man would die for. 

They were such beautiful, beautiful eyes, heaven-sent, as I have never encountered before,  entrancing and captivating and, quite sure I’d never see such ever again, and arched above them were the perfect strong eyebrows to match and accentuate them. I felt my heart grow warm, and my spirit was stirred oddly. Oh, how strange... because no matter how breathtaking those eyes of his were, and indeed they surely were, anyone could see such, something innately horrible lurked behind them, a most painful, contorted horrible, shaking my soul inside out, cringing me in physicality due to the observance. I let the shocked shudder encompass me, and then pass away. My secret, hidden sensitivities picked up something clandestine within that I had no control over, and forcibly continued my study once more.

He, my observation Imre, was tall in stature, might be at six feet or just a bit over, not too tall, and with a most exquisite, attractive, hyper-athletic, manly, overtly handsomely well-built frame, quite perfectly, so perfectly proportioned you could tell even through his clothing, as a male athlete or art model could be, as the girls continually babbled on about and even some guys, for he must have been or was one, a model, or very well could be, should be if he wished, and the epitome of virile masculinity; an adonis; I had overheard recently some of the students joking that he, Imre was going to be the new art study for the David statue by Michelangelo or Rodin’s The Thinker or The Kiss, GQ’s next go-to magazine cover, Roman or Italian statues of Gods, or athletes divine yet far gone, overhearing the art majors asking him in jest when he’d be posing buff nude for them;

Yet he said absolutely nothing of it. He even seemed rather blushed by them talking of it and of him that way, of his bodily form and it surely showed that he had worked and vigorously trained on this frame laboriously, though it was clear he was born with the structure, he certainly knew how to enhance it even at this young age and must have started to even earlier on.

He also appeared, looked older, much more mature than a senior in high school would, at least physically, and was able to or could already grow a full blonde beard or mustache if he wished but he was whistle clean shaven always as I could remember spotting him, and not overly hairy anywhere else as I could see. He had worked hard to attain that muscular tone. His nose was straight and dignified, noble and true, his mouth and lips just as exquisite, generous, even quite full and sensuous, ears just so, exact for his profile, not large or misinformed, straight to his head, and the jawline was prominent, very strong and well lined. He was a walking image of a princely dream, you might say, ogled and stared upon in his ripened athletic youth and genetic blessings, and his manners were just as well clipped and impeccable, seemingly soft-spoken as they said and rumored as if he were a century old dandy, an aristocratic, altruistic kind, a well-bred high-end gentleman from a long ago lost time, overly honorable, chivalric, seemingly taught well and polite to utmost perfection of an ideal...

His dress and clothes so far as I had glanced and seen were just as impeccably neat, even if eclectic, and talked of now as legendary, and yes, he even smelled good, like clean, fresh laundry and a hint of lush, musky, sensual dark vanilla-mint wafting over, and that made me silently chuckle, realizing now how desirable he was even to sniff him to his ongoing growing pack of wooers and admirers, now flocks of them tailing him. He wore a mix of turn-of-the-century vintage clothing with his modern attire and everyone now raved to love it, starting a new trend, students within the week dusting off their parent’s and grandparent’s old clothes still workable, bringing them and wearing them to school, stirring up curiosity on him and a new style to copy and formulate, some fun. My own vintage attire was now starting to trend upward, just not... myself in them. That was now a lost cause.

He was so admirably blessed with what seemed across the pond Upper class, polite English manners, and attributes of bodily old, fair, fairy-tale traditional, royal-themed Northern German nobility features, quite a combination. Dashingly, destiny and genetics had done him well. He might even be a transfer student from another country, his family here on business, only passing through for a few months. I honestly did not know at all, but I did catch him all of a sudden flick his majestic-hued gaze over to me, quickly, as I was studying him, and his countenance changed, as if alarmed and bashful at the same time, and not at all glorified or egotistical in finding that out, that I had been honestly intricately looking at him, as I the same even blushed, for I had now been caught with my subliminal scrutiny. He quickly shifted his eyes back down to his adorned notebook, not saying a single word about it, and I to mine...

Mr. Raze cut the fat and haze and forcibly pounded upon the scribbled erase board with his clenched, hot, hairy fist, the communication he so often used to tell the class to Shut up! and gain their attention if anyone was brave enough to utter a sound, and, that immediately and quickly ended my intricate, privy, encompassing persona study of the new imminent student leader Imre which never should have occurred, and which I secretly enjoyed, then mindfully chastised myself for it, and instantly the smallest minute classroom chatter grew silent, and the sound of paper curling and pens uncapping and clicking filled the air. The next plan of action Raze would usually begin after his daily demented pounding incident... would be to yell up for the last night’s homework.

"Enough of this ludicrous stalling interference! Pass up the homework!" Raze growled in singsong, as he whirled back to face the class.

Right on cue...

His eyes, now glassy, jittered, squinted and narrowed once again towards Imre, who as everyone else, passed up last night’s homework, reaching behind him, taking the stack of papers from those who passed it up to him as I did, handing my stack to Imre abashedly without even looking at him, just his hands...which once again I noticed were large, strong, and for a brief second I spotted upon them there seemed to have some odd, old scars about his wrists peeking out of his long-sleeved, mandarin-collared cream shirt, expertly ironed and steamed.

You wouldn’t notice them unless you stared readily. Imre then very lightly placed the pile of homework papers on Raze’s dirty, slipshod desk. Raze always insisted we hand in paper copies along with the online digital work if there were any. And, there was plenty. Raze was prolific in that.

"No excuses for missing or late work here! Raze scathingly reprimanded. You all know it unless you have some signed parental emergency signature note, or a genuine hospital or doctor's letterhead!" Raze paused, oddly, sickly, leaning closer, scrunching his shoulders up with his arms and hands, curling his fingers like claws upon the rim of his mess of a desk. His eyes were still planted right where they had settled before, on him, Imre, who had just placed the stack of homework papers given to him onto Raze’s desk without a sound. "Now what's the rub, Imre? Why so silent still? Whatsoever is the matter? I know you’re just aching, wallowing in a retort. Could it be that I’ve won this round, silenced the valorous vainglory vagabond? The pure-hearted princely Pinocchio Knight has been culled?"

I flicked my trembled, alerted gaze quickly over at Imre, fidgeting. He just silently stared up at Mr. Raze, saying nothing, absolutely nothing, deep in thought, his eyes so hypnotic, aglow. He without a blink just stared up at Raze, then lowered his eyes with those dark, lush, long lashes as if he hadn’t even said anything to him and looked back to his notes.

The class started to nervously murmur, and quiver, for the very worst thing to do to Raze was to... ignore him. No one had ever-

Razes’ finely tuned radar detected his strongly passive, fearless defiance.

Raze then exploded once more, boiling, infuriated.

"Don’t just sit there, almighty silent Kingly Imre. Answer me! ALL of us know you are quite smart enough; if you’re the known should-be in the top-honor roll incredibly annoying exasperating genius as everyone is blabbing about, you can answer me! You seem to know the answers to everything! I just asked you a question! ANSWER IT! Answer me! It’s agonizingly unbelievable how you can be so famously elevated and eloquent and then so strangely, effectively polite mute on point purpose. I asked you what was the matter. Oh, wait a minute did I actually make a mistake? Is it that you’re possibly praying? Is that it? On class time you decide to hold your own created holy services? The smexy savior of the school is having his last supper! Gather round! Grab the stale bread and sour wine! Take a sip from his tarnished